Brooke Siem - May Cause Side Effects

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2022 by Brooke Siem.

All rights reserved. Published 2022. Printed in the United States of America.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

Publisher: Central Recovery Press

3321 N. Buffalo Drive

Las Vegas, NV 89129

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Siem, Brooke, author.

Title: May cause side effects : a memoir / Brooke Siem.

Identifiers: LCCN 2021055228 (print) | LCCN 2021055229 (ebook) | ISBN 9781949481709 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781949481716 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Siem, Brooke, Mental health. | Depressed persons--Biography. | Antidepressants--Side effects.

Classification: LCC RM332 .S54 2022 (print) | LCC RM332 (ebook) | DDC 616.85/270092 [B]--dc23/eng/20211112

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021055228

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021055229

Photo of Brooke Siem courtesy of David Goddard Photography.

Every attempt has been made to contact copyright holders. If copyright holders have not been properly acknowledged please contact us. Central Recovery Press will be happy to rectify the omission in future printings of this book.

Publishers Note

Our books represent the experiences and opinions of their authors only. The information contained herein is not medical advice. This book is not an alternative to medical advice from your doctor or other professional healthcare provider.

Every effort has been made to ensure that events, institutions, and statistics presented in our books as facts are accurate and up-to-date. To protect their privacy, the names of some of the people, places, and institutions in this book may have been changed.

For Justin.

Primum non nocere.

This book is not a substitute for medical advice, though it may help facilitate an open dialogue with your doctor. Never abruptly stop any psychiatric drug. Going off psychiatric medication should always be done under careful medical supervision. If you feel your health is being mismanaged, do not be afraid to seek out a different qualified professional.

There was a timea long timewhen I didnt believe I could ever be all right, that all right was a concept invented by whole people with whole hearts who could never understand how depression thumped inside me with the regularity of my own pulse. What did they know, anyway? Even the professionals told me I would never truly be all right. It was genetic, they said. Predisposed. A chemical imbalance. Like when a diabetic needs insulin. Take this pill. Come back in six months. Well find a way to manage you.

Its no surprise, in retrospect, that ultimately this management tactic failed. I am not one to be managed, not even by selective serotonin-norepinephrine reuptake inhibitors, better known as prescription SNRI antidepressants. It was inevitable that the chemical tower I built around me would eventually crumble, given that I weaseled my way into the world in the presence of both a condom and a double dose of spermicide. Turns out Ive been trumping pharmaceuticals since before I was a zygote. Its been my story all along.

Much ado is made about when a story begins and that story encodes itself into our bodies, quietly shifting our perception of the world. But the truth is we dont notice the start of our story. It begins when we are young and adjusting by fractions of degrees. The choices seem so free then, devoid of consequences and full of possibility. The choice to study this or that, to take the small job at the big firm or the big job at the small firm. To run. To rest. To love. To leave. It is only when we find ourselves in a psychiatrists office ten, twenty, thirty years later that we realize how far off course weve strayed. At least thats how the story unfolded for me. Nearly a decade and a half after making a decision that seemed so small, so obvious at the timeto go on antidepressants at fifteen years oldI found myself staring at a patch of New York City sidewalk from thirty floors above, contemplating the biggest choice of all.

So this is where we begin.

I have intentionally left out many of the reasons why I found myself at that window, calculating the amount of time it would take to hit the ground. As a good friend once told me, Pain is pain is pain. The details of my brand of emotional distress simply dont matter, because theres no way to compare the depths of my pain to yours. We humans like to rationalize our way out of empathy by ranking emotional pain on a social scale of disturbing experiences (rape and murder at the top, finding out Santa isnt real at the bottom). All that really matters is that the pain existed. Besides, there are hundreds of other memoirs that can scratch the fucked-up-childhood-leads-to-mental-illness itch. This isnt one of them.

The reality is that suffering is not necessarily consistent with the severity of its origins. It is the reaction to the trauma that shapes our lives, not the trauma itself. If rational perspective could help us dig our way out of our own muck, happiness could be found in reveling in the fact that our problems arent as troublesome as someone elses, and we would all be ecstatic. By that logic, even a guy living in a war zone with one leg blown off would be thrilled with his own life when he encountered some poor sap who was missing both legs! But we all know thats not how pain works. Pain is pain is pain. I am no exception.

Time has a way of warping our perception of the past. Throughout these pages, Ive done my best to remain true to the narrative in the way it unfolded at the time. Other than changing a handful of names, the details I divulge are corroborated through journals I kept over the years, along with photos, emails, texts, tape recordings, and other peoples recollections. But as with any human experienceespecially one rooted in the mindmuch of this story takes place in the depths of my psyche, which means youre going to have to take my word for it.

It must also be noted the topography of mental health is wide and full of landmines. There is no way for me to tell my story without running the risk of flipping an explosive switch. I cannot overstress how my story is just thatmine. My experience is but a single set of footprints on the sand, creating one of many paths for curious seekers to explore. I can tell you answers are not waiting at the end, that there is always more work to be done, and that it is only in the agonizing edges of ourselves that we find where our lifes work lives.

It is in this place where true healing begins.

It happens like this:

Its December in New York City. I am at the window Ive stood at so many times before. Only 5.58 seconds keep me from pushing out the rusted screen and bringing my body through. At 5 3 and 125 lbs., with an air resistance of .24 meters per second squared, it would take me 5.58 seconds to fall from the 30th floor to the cement below. I know this because I count everything. Because I am clear in the numbers and clear in nothing else. Quantification brings order to the otherwise disorderly, lets me measure the immeasurable, know the unknowable. How many days until I take my final breath? I cant ever truly know. But I can curate an educated guess. I can take a dozen online life expectancy tests, sourced from retirement and life insurance websites. I can average the results and come up with a final life expectancy: eighty-three years, nine months, and five days for a total of 30,595 days on this planet. I can work a calendar, Leap days considered, and establish my day of death as November 6, 2069. I can schedule the event on my Google calendar at 12 p.m. on a Wednesday: DEAD.