backforthmenu Contemplating My Hands. Five weeks into an anti-depressant medication, I find myself at an all-time emotional low. I spent the afternoon cleaning out the garage. In 100 degrees of thick heat I was sucking in all the cobwebs, throwing away old, unused and useless items. Sweeping away the dust of years. I’m trying desperately to hang on until this thing kicks in. And hoping it does. The ends of my fingers look like chewed pencils. It took me years to decide to get help and tonight I lay on the hammock in the dark wondering how much I’ve missed. I’ve never thought that before, never had an inkling that I’d lost anything. I’ve always chalked up my failures to an abstract “fear of success”—a phrase/idea I’d heard somewhere... I never thought to look beyond that. Last week I went to see my doctor again. He wanted to check up on me after prescribing the Prozac. I’d noticed no real changes... other than more teeth grinding. As I sat waiting for him I looked around. There was dust under the examination table, the lid to the cotton swabs was askew and there were finger prints around a picture frame. I examined the poster in the frame, an illustration of San Pedro from the air, done by a “folk” artist. I was convinced no one here had ever really looked at the thing—it was terrible. I heard my doctor talking to someone in the hall—a sales person. I imagine he has been sold loads of drugs from a Huge Pharmaceutical Corporation and has gotten to know this salesman pretty well. The two seemed to small talk about sports so easily, that when the doctor finally came in I regretted not having followed the NBA or NFL... or any sport. He asked how I was doing and suddenly I felt like a young boy. I’d rehearsed my words so many times... I’m anxious. I grind my teeth. I’m having trouble sleeping. I get headaches. I don’t really feel depressed, but I don’t feel right either. It’s as though I’m wearing a loose-fitting wetsuit or someone else’s skin. I want to be able to explain my state of being to you—and my life so far—as though it were a master memoir slammed into your consciousness with one swipe of my hand. I want to give you complete understanding. I need you to understand, but instead I feel like I am another hurdle for you to get over in your day. But when they actually came out of my mouth they were different somehow—it was as though a boy were speaking them. The doctor occasionally looks up at me with his big eyes and scribbles notes in what seems a random order on a page covered with lines. He then, without a second thought, doubled my dosage from 10 to 20mg. I started with 20 four weeks back but it had reduced my body to a dull, bent over mass. He told me that perhaps my system is now ready for the 20 after taking 10 for this long. I imagined my blood coursing, slightly electric with drugs. Not natural. Not my own. Suddenly, I wanted to change the subject and ask about the Lakers, but he turned to leave and I realized he’d finished with me. My words trailed behind his billowing smock, “Thanks doctor...” “You’re welcome.” he said without turning. You Are Welcome. I’m always a little disoriented when leaving his office. I got lost in the maze of rooms, scales, closets. There, at the front counter sat my file—my medical life thus far—the prescription, and a brown paper bag with a month’s free Prozac. “That’s a $10 co-payment today, Mr. Jenkins.” “Oh, right, right.” I recalled that I had no cash and my checkbook was in the car. “Do you take ATM cards?” “Sure.” That somehow surprised me. Waiting for her to ring me up, I took the time to look around. To my right on the wall just before the exit was a clock; on the minute hand, a large green capsule with the words PROZAC and DISTA on it, at the bottom, a slogan of some sort. I grabbed my brown bag, rolled the top tightly and left. 8/16/99