Mornings now he pulled whatever soiled rag came to hand from the tangled ball in the corner of the bedroom. He drank thick sweet dietary supplements while doing water shits. He couldn't tell any more what was making him feel this dread foreboding, see jagged neon at the periphery of his vision, experience the hand-tremor and knock-knee, feel the locked jaw and sore throat, suffer the swollen face and wiener fingers. Was it the Seroxat, the Carbamazepine or the Zopiclone.
Before the final bludgeon of the day hammered Dave into teary unconsciousness, he would uncrumple the patient information leaflets that lay balled on the carpet and read them over. As his tired eyes limped along the parlous print Dave found it impossible to divine whether his *dry mouth, upset stomach, diarrheoa, constipation, vomiting, sweating, drowsiness, weakness, insomnia, loss of appetite, rash, itching, swelling, dizziness, faintness, muscle spasms and sudden mood changes* were the symptoms of his depression, the effects of the medication or its side-effects. The drugs had become collaborators with the disease, and together they had carved up [his] mind into zones of delusory influence.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Meds and Depression
I thought some people might find interest in these paragraph's from Will Self's novel, The Book of Dave. (pp 263-264)