Philadelphia Weekly

Share this Story:

Something is amiss. I'm not sure how to describe it. It reminds me of the first time I understood that mint chocolate-chip ice cream was not really green.

At some point, perhaps when I first left Philadelphia and "jimmies" behind, I discovered earthy ice cream joints that offered my favorite flavor without the coloring. It was as though my world had been turned into a bleak World War II-era newsreel.

Small child is hungry. Small child begs for food. Small child is given food, but food is meager and--cut to child's sad expression of horror--without color!

I like my mint chocolate-chip ice cream green because it simply tastes mintier that way. Without the green, I'd swear it loses its flavor, and I feel I'm in a world that's been purged of its vitality.

This morning, two people asked me if I was okay. "You look pale," said one. "Have you been sleeping?" I imagine I look like I've lost my artificial coloring, and there's a good reason for that: I'm taking less of my medications.

It started a couple weeks ago when I missed a night of Seroquel, an anti-psychotic, which is the drug I depend on most to keep me sane. One night is no big deal. I called my psychiatrist and he said I'd just have trouble sleeping. I did have one sleepless night, which was uncomfortable, then went to work.

That day, it was like everything had been shot through with extra-super-Technicolor, like when The Wizard of Oz goes from black-and-white to purple horses. I was awake--wide-awake--for what seemed like the first time in months.

Because the Seroquel is so effective, I don't have time to stop and ask pesky questions about side effects. It's like being a diabetic and taking insulin, or having asthma and taking an inhaler. With lifesaving medication, all you know and need to know is: This is what's keeping me alive and so this is what I do. End of story.

On The Day Without Seroquel (TDWS), though, I realized I was experiencing what it would be like to live without my illness, without Seroquel's side effects. Seroquel turns you into a zombie. It's utterly sedating. It keeps you from wondering if life could be better because you're too tired to wonder. You go from one task to another with little fanfare and even less panache. You do what needs to be done, then you leave. You are dependable--a worker bee, as they say.

Without such sedation, life seems--at first--like a bright platter. You want to do everything, and all at once. Things are funnier. People seem absolutely charming when before they were merely nice. It's the greenest mint chocolate-chip ice cream you've ever had. To eat a cliche for dinner, you feel alive again.

That was about three weeks ago, and to tell you the truth, I can barely see the words as I type them on the screen right now. As soon as I finish this column, I'm going to have to leave work, go straight to the drugstore for several refills and go right to bed. I am all askew.

After TDWS, I had a suspicion I'd been taking a medication that was dulling me unnecessarily. Now I know this kind of thinking to be folly because without the Seroquel in my system, I tend to have psychotic episodes. The last time I went without Seroquel for any period of time, I left a rehab facility in a robe and slippers, walked about two miles in the snow and wound up on a chapel pew talking to stained-glass windows. Normal.

So it's not as if I don't know better. But TDWS was persuasive in its own Satanic way. It made me keep asking myself, What am I missing out on by being so sedated? Rather than discontinue the medication entirely, though, I decided to simply go down from 200 milligrams to 100, which would surely make it easier for me to wake in the morning and work through the day without having to take a catnap beneath my desk.

For the first week or so, things seemed clearer. And I started to say my stupid, hopeless mantra: "Maybe there's nothing wrong with me anymore." Now I can barely see, my hands are shaking, I can't process thought and my eyes won't stop twitching. Everything has surged to an absolute din in my head, with every little noise taking on horrific, exaggerated proportions.

It's like the worst hangover you've ever had, except I've had it for more than a week now. I keep thinking I'll somehow get used to this--that I have to get used to this--because I don't want to be all drugged again.

But I can't take it anymore, and I wanted to share the last agonizing moments before I gave in. Reporting live from the front lines of insanity, this is Liz Spikol, signing off. I'll be back next week, safely within the bounds of sedation, no twitches or confusion, hallucinations or noise.