One of the positive benefits of life's momentous tragedies is the kick up the arse they give you. On the day my ex-wife, and now extremely good friend, gave me the sack, I sat down and began to write a novel - the fact that it has yet to meet a printing press is neither here nor there. Without the rug being pulled from beneath my size nines, I'd never have got round to it. Likewise, the untimely toe up-turning of my dear brother-in-law has given me something else to think about. Perhaps you already detect a certain befuddlement of sentence construction, syntactical vagueness or clumsiness of idea-imparting. Fact is, I've decided to go cold turkey from the anti-depressants I've been taking for the past seven years. It's time to rediscover my inner arsehole.
I have been taking a magical little potion called Effexor Venlafaxine, designed to keep me on an even keel - which to a certain extent it has done. Unfortunately, it has also eroded all track of time. I can't blame these magic little pills in any way shape or form for my complete lack of success, drive or ambition during this time - I was always a lazy bastard and have never required help in this department. However, having faced the mortality of another, and considered their unfulfilled destiny, I have decided to kick the medication into touch and see what happens.
Not being entirely ignorant of hard drugs, I had been expecting some unpleasantness, and so far I have not been disappointed. Nausea, dizziness and strange electrical sensations behind the eyes, which sound like a sword cutting the mark of Zorro, have occurred for the last two days. I think this might be the little neurological areas deprived of activity by the drugs rebooting themselves.
The Effexor withdrawal websites make for frightening reading - many say it is nigh-on impossible to kick the habit. The cynic in me says: a) These are written by Americans, and all that's required is a stiff upper lip (I just watched a man who never complained about anything - even a tracheotomy without general anaesthetic - die of cancer for God's sake). And b) I bet these posts are by the press department of the drugs company themselves.
I tried to explain to my mother what I was up to: "I'm stripping away all the soft furnishings, taking up the carpet, and intend to get back to the bare boards once again."
She took it literally and thinks I have gone doolally and am destroying my flat: "But you're only renting the place - what will your landlord say?"
Fear not mother, my inner arsehole, the non-drugged, non-tranquilized, awful little fella of old will soon be returning to the fold. Mop out a stable and see who turns up.
