Willa Goodfellow - Prozac Monologues: A Voice from the Edge

Copyright 2020, Willa Goodfellow

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published 2020

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1-63152-731-9

ISBN: 978-1-63152-732-6

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020906458

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Some Scripture quotations are from New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright 1989 National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Some Scripture quotations are from Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright 1946, 1952, and 1971 National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Some Scripture quotations are from The ESV Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version), copyright 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

I wrote this for you.

PROZAC MONOLOGUES:
Bizarre: In which I decide to write a book
Sunday, January 23, 2005

A VOICE FROM THE EDGE:
Flight

PROZAC MONOLOGUES:
No Sense of Humor: In which my doctor does not smile
Tuesday, January 25, 2005

A VOICE FROM THE EDGE:
Squirrel!

PROZAC MONOLOGUES:
The Look: In which she saves my life anyway
Wednesday, January 26, 2005

A VOICE FROM THE EDGE:
Pressure

PROZAC MONOLOGUES:
Leaping Lizards: In tribute to John Steinbecks turtle
Thursday, January 27, 2005

A VOICE FROM THE EDGE:
Jump!

A VOICE FROM THE EDGE:
Making the Call

PROZAC MONOLOGUES:
The Fourth Step: In which I turn around
Friday, January 28, 2005

A VOICE FROM THE EDGE:
Three

PROZAC MONOLOGUES:
Slack: In which I give myself room to maneuver
Sunday, January 30, 2005

A VOICE FROM THE EDGE:
Chemistry Experiment

PROZAC MONOLOGUES:
Metaphor: My search for meaning and how the pharmaceutical companies try to help
April 2007

PROZAC MONOLOGUES:
Limp: On top of everything else, my hip hurts
Thursday, February 10, 2005

A VOICE FROM THE EDGE:
Balancing ActThe Science Chapter

A VOICE FROM THE EDGE:
Wait, wait! Theres More

PROZAC MONOLOGUES:
Shedding: In which I consider my options
Saturday, February 12, 2005

PROZAC MONOLOGUES:
Pura Vida: In which I choose life
Tuesday, February 15, 2005

A VOICE FROM THE EDGE:
Recovery

A VOICE FROM THE EDGE:
Keep GoingResources

I pressed the point of my nail file into my thumb. Unmindful of the garage attendant as I passed him, unmindful of the cars in the circular drive in front of my doctors office, unmindful of the ice under my feet, I wondered, could I take a nail file with me on the plane to Costa Rica?

January 4, 2005, the TSA was starting to loosen the rules. Yes, you could carry a nail file, but it would be confiscated if they changed their minds next week. And youd probably not find out until you were at the airport.

Honestly, could a nail file do any damage? For now, I pressed it into my thumb, intending to do my nails while I waited for the doctor, something to channel my fidgeting. I was fidgeting lately.

The automatic doors slid open to receive me, and my brain slid open to receive a thought.

I grab my doctor from behind and press the point of the nail file into her neck.

This was no ordinary thought. I didnt have this thought. It had me. It was more like a dream and I was inside it. I saw it happen inside my head.

Did anybody else see me do that?

Suddenly the reception area was hostile territory. Well, the receptionist was notoriously hostile. But now the doors were too. Theyd opened to receive me, but would they release me if they knew about this thought?

Did they know about this thought?

I didnt do my nails. I hid the file. I wouldnt pull it on my doctor anyway. There was a big church meeting coming up in ten days, and I had to be there. I was the priest.

Most clergy wish we didnt have so many meetings to attend. But we usually manage to show up for the ones we are supposed to lead. At this point I was still one of those clergy.

I recited my tale of woe to the doctor. After two months worth of Prozac to treat a long-term major depression, yes, I was less sad. But now I wasnt sleeping, couldnt concentrate, couldnt work, felt agitated and irritated. I didnt used to feel irritated. I didnt mention the nail file. I wanted those doors to open again and let me out. She figured, and I figured, we needed to increase the dose. Which we did.

A week later I was driving to my congregation, eighty miles south from Iowa City to Fort Madison, through farm fields covered in snow, a rare winter blue sky that day. Again I wondered, could my nail file do any damage? I pressed it into my own throat to find out.

I searched for my jugular with my right hand while sticking the point with my left. I steered with my knees.

Wait a minute. This isnt safe driving. If I puncture my throat, Ill end up in the ditch. I need to try this at home.

I wasnt laughing yet. But I would.

If you have been treated for recurrent major depression, you might see the runaway train approaching. I was a lamb in January 2005, a little lamb led to Prozac slaughter, soon to be followed by Celexa slaughter, Remeron slaughter, nortriptyline, Cymbalta, and Effexor (God help me) slaughter. I didnt know what a mistake they all would be. My doctor, a family physician, didnt know. But, following standard protocol (swing twice, then refer), she would soon bail and send me on to my first psychiatrist, lets call her The Newbie, to be followed by a series of psychiatrists who also didnt know but thought they did. They thought their pills held more magic than the family physicians pills (same pills) because they are, after all, psychiatrists.