Creative Depression and … how ‘bout some drugs?

“We read to know that we are not alone.” C. S. Lewis

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The doctor burst into my room cheering, “So! How ‘bout some antidepressants?”

The year was 2004. I sat on the examination table vulnerable, wrapped in a gown of tissue, frozen in disbelief. I should’ve run for the parking lot when I first spotted the sign at the front desk that read: God, Guns and Glory built this nation. Keep it that way. Or after the receptionist handed me the “required” form to fill out vowing I would never sue this doctor for anything, whatsoever. Or especially after finding out that the doc hailed from Texas. (Okay, okay, there are plenty of good people in Texas … I shouldn’t generalize.   )

“No, I don’t believe so,” I declined. How dare she?  This was my first visit. I didn’t know this woman. She didn’t know me … she hadn’t asked one single question and yet had already decided that I needed a prescription.

“No? Come on … it’ll take the edge off. I promise,” she smiled. “Make you feel good.” Wink.

Edge off of what?

The entire five-minute, $300 cash because I didn’t have insurance visit was like a [paid for?] commercial—on speed dial—about the benefits of antidepressants, Zoloft to be exact. (Remember that cute, but sad little cartoon blob?)

What are you on? I wondered, as she bounced around the room, scribbled out a prescription anyhow, stuffed it in my hand, turned and walked out the door.

Badda-Bing, Badda-Bang, that’s how easy it is to become a drug addict in America, all legal like.

I’d never taken a prescription drug or any drug other than antibiotics in my life. Period. I ripped up the paper, tossed it in the trash on my way out and never returned.

A couple of years later the next doctor wasn’t much better. I had scheduled the appointment because of a chronic pain in my side that he wasn’t the least bit concerned about. (Vague aches and pains + writer = depression?)

“How about an antidepressant,” he offered instead.

“No,” I declined … again. HEAVY sigh.

Really? Do I really have to go through this?

“Well aren’t you sad?” He asked.

Seriously?

“Occasionally,” I replied. “Isn’t everyone sad at times? Happy, sad, disappointment, success—life is a smorgasbord of situations and emotions. I don’t need a pill for real life!”

Disgruntled, he wrote out an order for an ex-ray and when the nurse asked if she should schedule me to return after he received the results, he replied, “No, in six months.”

Yep, he wasn’t interested in anything but prescribing antidepressants. I tore up my order for the ex-ray. I declined to schedule another appointment.

Now this post isn’t about whether people should take antidepressants. I realize there is a need and there’s absolutely no shame in it and no one should ever hesitate to seek help. (Please never hesitate to seek help.) This post is about creativity, about our Brave New pill pushing World and about one reason so many artistic people end up addicts – suppression.

As you probably know, speaking truth about failure and self-doubt of any type is one major social taboo. Perceived as whining and weak, we are never supposed to say out loud that we failed or question success. We aren’t allowed to quit. Air self-doubt in public—like dirty laundry—and you’re certain to end up alone.

It simply isn’t acceptable to share our truth about the creative struggle. The standard public persona is to be Law of Attraction Positive. Personally, I find that trying to maintain a chronic state of optimism is exhausting, unrealistic and unhealthy.

Treating failure and doubt as something to be ashamed of, fragments the spirit. Suppressed. Depressed. Many turn to drugs and/or alcohol. I’ve always been fortunate to have a network of great friends to hash things out with, but I’m also aware that only a couple of them can handle serious conversations about the ‘F’ word. Years ago one friend cut me off with a hateful, “You aren’t the only one with self-doubt!” It’s easy to shut down after receiving a comment like that. Exactly the opening that depression is waiting for … the perfect spot to shove its way in to your life … to set up permanent residence.

I refuse to let it in. I write, I Blog and I talk and talk. Allow me to mull it over, consider what went wrong, say it out loud and I can move on. Sometimes I get bummed. Who doesn’t? But never in a debilitating way because like it or not, I talk it through.

Aware that creativity is an internal and typically isolated endeavor, the original purpose for this Blog was to lend support – to reassure others that they aren’t alone in their struggle. I’ve always tried to be open and honest, to share the truth about what it means to live a creative life, even the trying and failing parts, big and small: to let readers know they are not alone. Obviously this site and my support hasn’t been effective. I haven’t been an effective or popular communicator. (Yes, I said that out loud. It’s okay. )

So I’ve spent the past couple of months rethinking my purpose with this blog, with writing in general and my purpose in life. As you may have noticed, I’ve changed the blog name and tag line again in search of a new direction. I’m in the process of dismantling Desert Muse Publishing. No more self-publishing for me. But I strongly believe that as a society we must find a way to be more supportive of the creative. And as more and more doctors go about pushing pills and more and more talented, artistic people die from drug overdose and depression, it’s imperative that we start thinking outside the pill bottle.