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Urge
Allison's addiction
A forlorn working girl tries to break the habit.
By Tracy Quan
[08/05/99]

Sisters of seizure
Beliefs fly out the window when crisis walks in the door.
By Michael Alvear
[08/04/99]

Urge
Feel his guns?
Have straight guys finally transcended their queer fear, or is their flirtation just another version of homophobia?
By Greg Nott
[08/03/99]

Long and short of it
The search for the "inner penis" can involve botched surgery, dangling weights and pain.
By Michael Easterbrook
[08/02/99]

Urge
Episode 7: New business?
A call from a mysterious stranger drives her straight to Allison's secret book.
By Tracy Quan
[08/02/99]

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Sex on an SSRI is like copping a feel with an oven mitt. The drugs rob you of the mood, then they rob you of the mode. You start off not wanting to and you end up not being able to. And even when you are willing and able, it still feels deadened, like there was a condom snapped tightly over your brain stem, making sure pleasure didn't leak out.

Involuntary teeth grinding is another common side effect. It wasn't unusual for me to literally bite myself awake. Examining the blisters on the inside of my lower lip, my doctor could only shrug and say it was a small price to pay for the peace I was getting in return.

Luvox also robbed me of the pleasure of getting drunk. High crime or misdemeanor, the light buzz of a glass of cabernet turned into a vague, distasteful fogginess.

Critics are right about one thing -- getting on an antidepressant is easy. What they don't tell you is that staying on it isn't. Nearly half of all people taking SSRIs stop taking them within six months. This is a stunning noncompliance rate. The easy way out is a lot harder than it looks. If the pills are such an easy shortcut, why do people quit taking them?

The high dropout rate speaks to fundamental questions about SSRIs: What are you willing to give up to have a "normal" life? Is it sex? Is it the embarrassment of involuntary hand tremors? Is it a sound sleep? What abnormality are you willing to take on for the hope of normality?

I lasted a little over a year on Luvox. I wanted out. Maybe I wanted sex without the oven mitts, maybe I was tired of the sores in my mouth or maybe I was just in denial -- it had been so long since I'd had an anxiety attack, maybe I thought I was "cured." But mostly, I just couldn't get past the fact I was on "mental medicine."

My doctor tapered me off slowly, reducing the dosage by 25 milligrams every few weeks. I stepped up my meditations, prayers and yoga -- I knew I couldn't just get off the pills and hope for the best. I figured if I had a plan I'd be strong enough to manage without pills.

I was wrong. The sisters of seizure rose slowly, rubbing their eyes from the long sleep. It wasn't long before they brandished their pickaxes again. Everything came back: the chest pains, the feelings of panic and dread, the rapid breathing, the wrenching fear that I was going insane.

But the worst was my obsessive thinking about time. It gathered like a squall. If I were balancing my checkbook, I'd stop in the middle to put away some books, then I'd stop in the middle of that to write a letter, which I'd interrupt to take on something else, all the while worried about what I hadn't completed. I was consumed with the idea that I was running out of time. I would stand in the shower, angry I wasn't soaping up fast enough.

My doctor wrote on his prescription pad and handed it to me. "I don't want to get back on Luvox," I said, ignoring his hand. He pressed the slip of paper on me. "Call him," he said. "He specializes in anxiety disorders, he's got an astonishing success rate and he does it without medication."

Next page | He described every symptom I suffered better than I could