I want to talk about the common thread which I think is apparent in the experiences of everyone who has been through paroxetine withdrawal; and, in big bold letters, that common thread is THE FEELING OF BEING CUT OFF FROM THE WORLD. Often it’s not just a feeling; it’s a reality. There are plenty of other crappy things I could single out, things others may consider more important issues, but for me, this is the big one because I’m still working on it; it’s the one which I think causes the most damage and requires the most healing.

Oliver Sacks addresses this in his book, Awakenings (1990 edition), when he describes how a disease can consume a person’s life, consume all of their energy and attention for such a long period of time that (from page 240): “they feel, on the one hand, cut-off or withdrawn from the world, on the other hand immersed, or engrossed, in their illness,” a feeling which I’m sure anyone living with paroxetine withdrawal can relate to. Then he goes on to speak about the ‘awakening,’ or the recovery, in which one ceases to feel the presence of the dis-ease, but is instead naturally drawn towards and engaged by the presence of everything in the living world around them.

It’s been just over a year since my initial withdrawal experience and I wish I could say that I no longer feel the presence of this disease, but I can’t. (Paroxetine withdrawal, and post-withdrawal, is a dis-ease. I’d love to meet someone going through withdrawal who’s sitting back at ease with all of it.) It is less present than it used to be for me, but, along with other symptoms which I am too sick and tired of to describe in detail, I have chronic pain (as in all the time) which disrupts the relaxed flow of my thoughts and feelings and kind of takes the fun out of things; it gets to me at times. It is this cognitive disruption, one which seems physiological in origin, that interferes with my fully feeling the presence of the world around me like I used to, of my fully being able to be myself. I’ve been trying to “walk it off” all this time, but I can’t.

Throughout my Paxil Experience I’ve had people full of good intentions pass on to me the age-old advice, “Don’t dwell on what’s happening to you. Just go outside and enjoy the sunshine and the simple things. You’ll feel a whole lot better.” That’s a simple solution that works, and I know it works because I’ve lived by it for many years — but it works for people who have their health, not for someone who feels like they’ve been hit in the head with an aluminum bat from the withdrawal seizures and the constant headaches and body aches. Let’s crack one of these good-intentioned people across the head with a two-by-four and then tell them not to focus on the pain (impossible); tell them to go out for a leisurely walk while their head is pulsing with pain and enjoy the sunshine which will surely make them feel so much better. Maybe then they’ll realize how misplaced and absurd some of that age-old wisdom can be, especially when it comes from people who don’t have the experience to back it up.

Paroxetine withdrawal isn’t a case of someone feeling ‘a little blue.’ You can’t just walk it off by going outside and enjoying the sunshine. It’s an assault on a person’s entire being, not just emotional. The neurological and physiological effects of paroxetine withdrawal are real — as real as if you were to break both of your legs. It’s not as physically apparent, but the injuries are just as real and just as disabling. (“Unless you’re bleeding from a head wound or in a full body cast,” someone recently wrote to me, “nobody seems to get it.”) You wouldn’t tell someone with two broken legs to ‘walk it off.’ But that’s exactly what many people going through withdrawal are told. Because of the general ignorance about paroxetine withdrawal within the medical community, and because it isn’t as blatantly disabling as a physical injury, one is often treated by family, friends, co-workers and doctors as if the whole thing is ‘just in your head,’ and this kind of treatment from others only compounds the feelings of loneliness, isolation, of being cut off from the world.

Something else which adds to this feeling is how we, those of us who are living with paroxetine withdrawal, react to it within the context of our relationships with others. But it’s not just how we react, but how those closest to us react. Specifically I’m talking about the effects of not knowing how to react. People end up over-reacting or not reacting at all — two extremes which can cause a whole lot of hurt and can separate people easier than it can bring them together. That’s the poison of this experience; I can taste it in most of the stories I have heard in the past year from other people withdrawing from paroxetine, in listening closely to what they have shared with me. In the background of all these personal experiences there’s a feeling of sadness, a sadness which I think comes from being deprived of the human relationships that normally ground us, the relationships we trust, the ones that let us know who we are, that allow us to feel connected and involved with the world around us.

Trying to get off paroxetine can push even the most civilized of us to the edge of our sanity, and that in itself can make a person feel like they’re walking through a strange land with no one by their side to comfort them. The physical and emotional strain is beyond anything most of us have ever known. Maintaining the relationships that are the foundation of our lives, whether they are professional, familial or intimate, becomes too much for some people who are battling — by the hour at times — with the effects the paroxetine withdrawal. The result is that this disease can cut a person off from the people who mean the most to them, from the structure of normal relationships that provides one with a sense of reality and a sense of self. Your whole world, everything you breathe, becomes burdened by this disease. Under the strain, professional relationships disintegrate (a person can only take so many sick days before they lose their job), marriages fall apart, friends become acquaintances, those closest to us become strangers, and the people we trusted the most become the people who hurt us the most.

This happens because paroxetine withdrawal is beyond the scope of normal experience for most of us (including our trusted medical professionals), and therefore, not knowing how to react to it, we make mistakes — especially in our relationships with those closest to us. This is where some serious damage is done.

An understanding of this situation, though, doesn’t seem to solve the problem which — from my experience and understanding — is a problem of faith, losing faith and trying to regain it. I’m not talking about Yahweh or Allah or Buddha or Jesus. I’m talking about the human relationships that make us feel secure, that let us know who we are — and the foundation of trust that keeps them alive.

There’s a scene near the end of the 1995 film Smoke, starring William Hurt and Harvey Keitel, where Keitel’s character says to Hurt, “If you can’t share your secrets with your friends, then what kind of friend are you?” Hurt’s character thinks about this for a minute, smiles and finally says, “Exactly. Life just wouldn’t be worth living, would it?”

During my withdrawal, I found out who my friends were. Someone would ask me how I was doing, and I’d tell them the truth. It’s absolutely disheartening how many of my so-called friends never called back after that. Well, I didn’t react too well (or with much kindness) to this. I think it’s fair to say that when I realized how alone I was with this experience — that’s when I began to go insane (having unexplained and terrifying seizures at the same time didn’t really help either). But what really happened is that I lost my faith. From my doctor’s grossly misinformed medical advice (“The great thing about Paxil is that you can stop taking it cold turkey.”) to being left alone with this horrible experience by friends I thought I could count on, my ability to trust people on the most fundamental level — my faith — died. That’s the only word for it. We take for granted the trust and the belief which holds our everyday relationships together. But try facing the day without that trust; it’s like being dead to the world. That was the worst aspect of my withdrawal experience. It still is.

During the seven months of my withdrawal, it was simply impossible to have normal social relationships because of the debilitating effects of the withdrawal. And after the worst of my withdrawal was over, the world didn’t suddenly become a beautiful and wondrous place for me. Besides developing a post-withdrawal condition similar to fibromyalgia, which began as severe headaches, body aches and muscular rigidity, a condition I may have to live with for the rest of my life, the effects of my withdrawal experience are far from over. For instance, there were psychologically disturbing aspects of the experience I dealt with at the time but only in a superficial manner so I could get through that particular day or hour or minute of my withdrawal. Now that I’ve survived it, though, the reality of it comes back to me — such as the reality of the time I nearly killed myself and then wanting to kill myself through countless days of my withdrawal. One doesn’t easily forget this kind of thing. It’s as if I have a knowledge of death that is with me now all the time, I can’t shake it, and I don’t know what to do with it. I haven’t been able to write or talk about most of this because it’s just too much to take. It’s too disturbing. Nevertheless, I’m not ignoring any of it; I’m just pacing myself. It may take me the rest of my life to find all the right words for what has happened here, but maybe that’s what life is all about anyway.

One writes out of one thing only — one’s own experience. Everything depends on how relentlessly one forces from this experience the last drop, sweet or bitter, it can possibly give. This is the only real concern of the artist, to recreate out of the disorder of life that order which is art.

Being able to write has kept me grounded better than anything else I got going for me. Normally I can create some kind order out of the disorder of my life by finding the words that allow me to grasp the experience. This is the first time, though, I’ve come up against something that has stopped me in my tracks — and I find that disturbing as much as anything else. Except for emails and what I occasionally add to this site, I haven’t been able to write for months. I don’t know what keeps me going, but I’m still here. I move much more slowly and cautiously now, but I do move. That’s what’s most important, because not doing anything — not responding — would be the worst thing I could do. It’s the worst thing anyone could do.

“All it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.” (Edmund Burke.) That’s what I’ve learned most intimately from this experience. I mean it. The majority of medical professionals who encounter paroxetine withdrawal in their practice respond with one of the GlaxoSmithKline patented sales pitches ranging from, “You don’t have to wean yourself off this drug,” to, “The withdrawal effects are minimal and don’t last long.” This kind of answer is a non sequitur — it has no relationship at all to the reality of paroxetine withdrawal, it is completely dismissive, and it does nothing to alleviate the suffering of the people who are experiencing withdrawal. By ignoring reality, it only makes things worse.

A word to those of you who have a friend, family member, husband, wife, or someone close to you going through paroxetine withdrawal: Do NOT ignore them. Responsibility is the ability to respond. Even if you have to say to them, “This is too much for me; I don’t think I can deal with this right now,” that’s better than not saying anything at all. At least it’s a response, an acknowledgement of what they’re going through. Some people are so afraid of saying the right thing that they don’t say anything at all. DON’T be one of those people. I understand that kind of fear, but in this case, again, understanding doesn’t make the situation any better. When I turn to someone I trust and they don’t acknowledge me with even the slightest response, it’s not only dismissive of what I’m going through; it’s dismissive of me as a person. It’s bad enough to get this from doctors, but when it also comes from a close or intimate friend, the effect is more personal, and the inherent trust that holds together any kind of meaningful relationship or friendship suffers. Not until it’s gone does one realize how fundamental this belief-in-others is to all of our relationships, to just waking up and facing the day. If you know someone who is going through withdrawal, please don’t be so afraid to say the right thing that you ignore them altogether. That’s the worst thing you could do. Paroxetine withdrawal is lonely and horrible enough on it’s own; treating someone going through withdrawal like they don’t exist will only further beat down their spirit. Any response, even if it turns out to be the wrong one, is always better than no response at all.

Take my word on this. During this kind of dis-ease, the most powerful medicine is friendship; that means being there. There is nothing more nourishing to a person’s body and spirit than the knowledge that they’re not alone. This, I’m sure, is the difference between life and death for some people experiencing paroxetine withdrawal. I’ve mentioned before how I read in Oliver Sacks’s book Awakenings of Parkinsonian patients whose symptoms did not progress in severity as long as they had the support of their family, something to look forward to, secure relationships and experiences of some kind that provided them with a sense of personal fulfilment and meaning. Take away these relationships, take away the feeling of fulfilment, the meaning these experiences provide, and the patient would immediately fall back into severe Parkinsonian tremors. Sacks speaks of the power of a compassionate human touch to bring a patient out of the painful physicality of their disease, and I believe that I have experienced something akin to this during my withdrawal. The best days of my withdrawal, not just mentally but physically as well, were the days in which I felt a connection to someone, usually in a moment of friendship, talking about something, it didn’t matter what; enjoying each other’s company, being touched by another person’s presence. The effect could be so profound that, sometimes for two or three hours even, my withdrawal symptoms would disappear altogether. Again, all I’m talking about is being there. You can never take away anyone’s pain, but you can help make it bearable.

Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art… It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that gives value to survival.

My deepest belief (here it comes) is that we are here to be here for one another. It’s a pretty simple, straightforward belief, but there it is. It’s the fundamental foundation of how I try to live my life (and why I created this web site). It may not be perfect, but when the cold rain is falling, whether it’s on me or someone I care about, this belief is what pulls me through and keeps me breathing most of the time. It’s about the only thing I’ve ever really had faith in, the one thing that has always made sense to me.

After everything I’ve been through this past year, it’s going to be a while before I regain that faith. I feel like I have nothing without it. I don’t have much faith in doctors anymore. I question the depth of all of my old friendships now. The thought of simply trusting anything or anyone is like contemplating climbing Mount Everest. It couldn’t be more daunting. I’m facing life without trust, without faith, and I’m starting from zero. That’s the effect paroxetine withdrawal has had on my life.

The next month or two, returning to what used to be my old life, is going to be a hell of a challenge. I’ve already done what I can to get back on track by writing this blog. If it’s provided comfort or reassurance to anyone going through withdrawal, then it’s been worth the effort. And if I’ve gotten through to anyone else so that they’re not so afraid to care, so that they understand how essential it is to be there, then I’ve hit a home run. Right out of the park.

I hope that’s the truth.

During my withdrawal, I had peaks and valleys of cognitive ability. Except for one brief period, writing anything was a challenge. Around the middle of November, a few weeks before I got down to zero milligrams (my last “official” dose was on November 1st, but I had to take an occasional sliver of Paxil for a couple weeks afterwards), I lost my ability to read and retain more than one paragraph at a time. Nothing seemed to hold my interest, and nothing I read seemed to stay with me. My memory was going right down the toilet. I couldn’t retain or recall anything. It sucked. Conversationally, I’m normally more animated than most people I know, but between November and December, I became the shy guy in the corner who kept to himself (I’m still somewhat affected by this).

Only recently, within the past few weeks, have I been able to read on a fairly consistent basis again and to remember what I was reading. It’s like I’m being re-introduced to the world of thought again. Conversationally, I’m not nearly as lively as I used to be, mainly because the withdrawal threw me so far out of the loop that it had a negative effect on my self-confidence. I’ve had plenty of experiences related to my Paxil withdrawal that have beaten down hard on my faith in humanity, but I expect that that, too, will gradually recover. And my self-confidence will probably recover along with it.

It takes time to return to normal after an experience like this. I try not to let it bother me, but often it does bother me that I’m not as lively as I’m used to being and as people are used to seeing me. But I’ve survived a severe neurological trauma (i.e., the Paxil withdrawal, which stole away almost seven months of my life). After surviving something like this, it’s only natural that our legs are going to feel a little wobbly at first. It takes time to get one’s strength back.

I’ve always been able to deal with the emotional symptoms (e.g., the suicidal feelings) easier than the other symptoms (e.g., the electrical surges). The electrical sensations just about drive me insane. More than any of the other symptoms, they’ve made it impossible to be me and to do what I love to do.

I have felt on-and-off suicidal since my first cold turkey experience in early July. I still haven’t completely shaken the feeling, but I can tell you that it subsides to the point where it’s just a faint echo of what you’re feeling now. You’ll remember it, and in a sense it’ll still be there, but you won’t feel any urge to go through with it.

The only way to get through now it is don’t kill yourself (simple, right?). Your body and your brain are going through one serious motherload of a neurochemical adaptation. You have to give yourself a chance to get through it and to go through it. As you know, there are some sudden benefits to getting off the Paxil — I’d say focus on those right now and enjoy them as much as you can. And the next thing you know, you’ll be feeling crappy, but you won’t be feeling suicidal. And that’s progress. And gradually everything gets better. That’s the only thing I can say with some confidence.

It’s been a long dragged out experience, but a little tiny bit at a time, I’ve gotten better. So don’t kill yourself and you will too. And don’t forget to take plenty of B Complex.

First response:

I am so excited that I can hear from people who are having similar experiences. Five days ago I decided to quit taking 20mg of Paxil. I did minimal weaning, but I had no medical guidance because I have been stealing Paxil from my mother. Anyway, I attend a prestigious university which is very demanding and I cannot, in no way, get any studying done. I’ve only been taking the drug for about four months and after feeling like an emotional zombie, decided I had enough.

However, these tremors and vertigo accompanied with fits of crying is making me nuts. My roommates and supposedly closest friends have no idea how bad this feels. All I wanted was someone to talk to who could relate to my experience at school and they instead turn their heads and go out for a night on the town. They are mad at me for taking the Paxil without a prescription, but where were they a year ago when I sank into my interminable depression? Where were they when they could have stood up for me in my terrible circumstance?

Thus, I’ve come home (thankfully close to school) and I’ve been bedridden for about three days. My parents think I’m lazy and I lash out at them with a newly acquired temper. No one understands! When are the symptoms going to end, and is this paranoia a result of the withdrawal or is there truth in my perceptions? I don’t know. I’m just rambling to pass time during these periods of insomnia.

Second response:

Yes! I remember that the one and only suicidal thought in my life happened after I accidentally went cold turkey off the Paxil. It is right back there as a faint memory but a very unpleasant one. I was at the sink washing some dishes and it felt like my brain was swelling and then the thought that I should get a gun and shoot myself in the head came and it wouldn’t go away, and then I began fighting with myself, wondering what was real and what wasn’t. That is the day I ran to the drugstore and got a refill on my Paxil only because I couldn’t really figure what else it was from.

Anne said: “I have a test Monday evening, and I am having a hard time trying to get into it.”

Since I’ve been weaning off the Paxil, I’ve been bunked out in my parents’ basement, living with them way out in the country, not doing much of anything, not seeing much of anyone. I was about to enter the second year of my graduate programme when, following my doctor’s orders, I tried to get off the Paxil cold turkey in early July, and my life hasn’t been mine since.

The stuff that I study in university takes some heavy duty brain power, and I knew that I’d never be able to perform at the expected level, so I managed to get a leave of absence from my programme for this year. If I hadn’t been granted a leave of absence, by now I would have failed out of the programme, without a doubt.

All I meant to get at here is how amazed I am that anyone can live a normal life while going through Paxil withdrawal and post-Paxil withdrawal. As well as I’ve been able to keep it together, I don’t think I’d be able to do it if my parents weren’t letting me live with them rent-free and if I hadn’t gotten the leave of absence from my programme.

I give a tip of the hat to anyone who has managed to live a relatively normal life while going through all this. I don’t know how you do it.

I don’t think the paresthesia/electrical sensations in my eyes and my head are caused by anxiety and stress. I had plenty of anxiety and stress before I went on and subsequently tried to get off Paxil, and it’s NEVER felt like this. I have had tension headaches in the past, but what I’m experiencing now is something completely different altogether.

The zaps are the cause of the anxiety and stress, not the other way around.

This isn’t an argument to me. It’s a statement of fact. I tried getting off the Paxil and immediately, for the first time in my life, began experiencing the brain zaps. This is the most obvious, simple, straight forward equation. It’s a neurochemical reaction that’s happening in my brain because of this drug. If I’m feeling any anxiety, depression or stress, 95% of it is coming from this experience of trying to get off this drug.

Overall, I have been physically and mentally healthy my whole life. My doctor keeps asking me, referring to the brain zaps and the electrical heaviness in my eyes, “Are you sure you’ve never experienced anything like this before?” I’ve never taken an anti-depressant before Paxil, I’ve never “experimented” with LSD, cocaine or anything stronger than pot, and when I did, I was never a dopehead. I’ve never been an alcoholic. I don’t have a history of this sort of thing. I have no doubt that these electrical sensations in my head are caused by the Paxil.

I wasn’t feeling any stress or anxiety until I tried getting off the Paxil, and what I’m experiencing now is not due to any pre-existing condition that I know of. I may be feeling depressed, and I may be experiencing some anxiety — but my brain goes into an electrical seizure every time I move too suddenly or move my eyes too fast or have any kind of bright light shone in my face. Is not a little stress and anxiety a normal reaction to such a disturbing experience? I’d say it is. (Some people may say to this, “Get over it. ” But I’ll get over it once it stops.)

When my doctor prescribed me the Paxil, he didn’t inform me that anything like this could happen — because he didn’t know. GlaxoSmithKline knew all along but deliberately kept this information from the medical community. They deliberately misinformed everyone. Having experienced this injustice as intimately as anyone could, I find it very disturbing. If I knew someone was clearly getting away with murder, and the murder of a loved one, I might find it just as disturbing. Anyone who doesn’t recognize this as an injustice has got their head up their ass.

Under these circumstances, there’s plenty of reason to feel extreme levels of anger, frustration, depression, anxiety, and so on. The point is: I didn’t start off like this. Paxil did this to me. Paxil has taken away five months of my life (so far). I have been physically and mentally debilitated by this experience — in trying to get off this drug. I know what has happened to me. I’m not just having a string of bad days at work. Unless one genuinely does have a history of this sort of thing, I’d say it’s naïve to think that this is caused by everyday stress. No way, sister.

This is a neurological pathology brought on by Paxil withdrawal. Having electrical surges kicking in from behind my eyes is in no way caused by stress and anxiety. It’s the other way around. Speaking only for myself, I don’t have a single doubt about it.

First response:

Oh, the zaps are definitely Paxil related. I have NO doubt about that. The first time I got them was when I missed a couple of doses. I got “the flu,” but I kept telling people I’ve never had a flu bug like this that made me unable to move my head without — can’t remember what word I used at the time, but — a zap.

I have told friends who know what I am going through that a zap is like touching an electrical fence. Except, that instead of touching it with your hand, it is like the wire is touching your brain. That is where it starts, and then it goes down your back, front and down your arms and fingers. I can have one, or three in a row.

Second response:

I totally agree with you! I have had migraine headaches in the past, but these are different! Sometimes I think it is just another sinus headache, but it feels different. It’s in the eyes and there’s a vertigo feeling. The electrical impulses in the brain are misfiring. It only makes sense if you think about it.

I am still on my miserable 7.5mg a day, but I am beginning to feel (I think). Today while driving home from work I began to feel sad and I started to cry. I was thinking about some unresolved issues that were the impetus to me taking Paxil in the first place. At first I was depressed about feeling depressed, but I began to realize, “Hey… I am feeling again! This is a good sign, not a bad sign!”

Paxil is a mind controlling drug. No better way than to turn us into Zombies by shorting out our brains. Accident?… I wonder!

Thanks! You always make me think, and just at the right time. Keep the information coming. It makes me want to keep fighting! I needed that tonight!

Third response:

I feel the same about the electrical charges. They can be horrible. They make it impossible to concentrate. At times I was afraid to move my head. One day on a weekend I layed on the bed and with my eyes closed all day. Every time I would open my eyes the charges would surge. If you haven’t had them it is difficult to explain to anyone. Concentration was nil, along with moving my head.

When I mentioned this to the doctor he looked dumbfounded — he has been in practice as a psychiatric doctor for years. His reply was that he had heard of people getting them in their legs. I knew I was in trouble then.

I do not know if other SSRIs do this when withdrawing. I would have liked for him to have had experience with SSRIs first hand so he would have had a better understanding of my situation. I told him this in a very nice why. He grinned. Yeah, funny.

Half these doctors need to listen a little more to the patient and forget what the drug representative tells them over a cocktail.

Fourth response:

You’re right. The electrical charges surging through our brains are NOT stress-related. I swore that I was either being electrocuted or having a seizure. And there were times when I swore that my braining was FRYING! Taking Paxil is the worst thing I have ever done in my life. This has been three years of hell. My life will NEVER be the same.

Someone said, “It is the pressure in my head and behind my eyes that gets me down. I feel as if I must force myself to focus.”

I should have had those words stamped to my forehead for the past 80 days since I’ve been weaning off the Paxil.

Because I’ve taken multivitamins up the gazoo, I haven’t experienced the Paxil Flu. But right now I seem to have the body aches, and I’m in a mood. I don’t know what kind of mood, but it’s a mood alright.

Anyway, that’s just me. Trying to walk it off. No major brain zaps anymore, but the pressure behind the eyes is still there. That’s the one constant throughout all of this.

This is a serious impairment on my brain function.

There is not a curse loud and long enough to express my anger and frustration.

P.S. (Sept. 2006): The pressure behind the eyes mentioned in this post is part of the brain zaps or electrical surges that, for me, began in my eyes and then went through my head and the rest of my body. There was always that weird pressure inside my eyes that made it feel like a brain zap was about to hit me any second. I’m sure the hypersensitivity to light was connected this insane electrical pressure in my eyes. (I just added Vision / Eye Problems as a category, though for the most part eye problems will be convered by the categories for the electrical surges and hypersensitivity to light and sound.)

Sarah wrote:

I have been off Paxil for 10 months now, and I still get very upset for no reason. I would assume most people don’t after getting off Paxil, but I do! I had a very, very hard time getting off Paxil, and I never wish to go through that again.

Paxil changed my whole personality when I was taking it, but when I got off Paxil, I found it very hard to find the personality that I once had.

Through reports and research that I have done on Paxil, this seems to be a common factor. They don’t know why or how. But I will tell you, and you probably already know, Glaxo SmithKline has yet to accept any responsibility. Through reading and studying about Paxil, there seems to be many changes in personality that do take place. Read Medscape on the internet for any update information. It is a very informative database.

They have definitely proved that it is addictive, and it is like Dr. Breggins says,”You don’t know what these types of drugs are doing to your brain,” and it does not look very promising.

To this day, I still think Paxil affects me. After I went through withdrawal from Paxil, and I mean the withdrawal from hell, I felt quite good, but as time went on, I starting feeling weird, and different, like the problems associated with Paxil are forever here to stay.

I could say maybe I just need a little bit longer, but to be quite honest, I’m not convinced that Paxil did not do anything to my brain. I do believe it at least partially destroyed the serotonin site of the brain. I really think I lost the ability to release the serotonin I need, which plays a big part in your emotions.

The things I could tell you about Paxil would blow your mind. This drug is not magical. It is really a destructive drug! I would tell everybody not to take it, and of course I have studied so much about it, that now people are starting to ask me about the drug, and what problems it causes.

Paxil can get you to the point that you just can’t think right.

If only I could emphasize how bad it really was, I would do everything in my power to do so.

My doctor now, who took me off Paxil, knew the dangers of Paxil when it first came out, and I think it was 1992. He noticed a pattern among his clients that were taking Paxil, was not pleased with the results, and he stopped prescribing it. He tried to tell doctors, but they thought they knew it all.

Now though, since I came back, I got off Paxil successfully with my doctor’s help. Thank goodness for doctors who pay attention! My doctor has asked me to explain to other doctors, PhDs and counsellors with their Masters, about the dangers of Paxil, and why it should not be prescribed, and you would be amazed at what these so-called educated people don’t know. When I talk to them, I honestly have to explain what I mean, regarding Paxil. I was totally amazed! They have no idea of what Paxil can do.

Well, sorry about the long explanation, but yes, with Paxil, and after Paxil, I can get very angry. I am just not myself anymore.

In response, I wrote:

I can definitely relate to the anger situation. It didn’t kick in for me until I got down to around 5mg, but when it did I felt like I was about to kill anyone who tried to have a conversation with me. This lasted for about a week, and during that week I stayed away from people completely. Though most of that anger has passed, my tolerance for listening to certain opinions seems to be zero. I’m not as patient as I used to be.

I’ve been completely off the Paxil for about two weeks now (approximately two weeks; could be more, could be less; my sense of time is a bit out of whack). The closer I got to being completely off the Paxil, the more positive reactions I had. My sex drive (and endurance) suddenly reappeared — it was like I was in my teens again; intellectually I became more alive, reading and writing and with great bursts of energy; I began to feel more relaxed, more myself. All kinds of good stuff like that. I was still experiencing pretty bad withdrawal, but the moments of clarity were amazing and rejuvenating.

Since I’ve been off the Paxil completely, my withdrawal symptoms have not disappeared (digestive problems, sleeping problems, electrical sensations connected to my eyes, etc.), but they have gradually dissipated. I haven’t had a brain zap for two days now, although I am still a little wary of them.

I’ve heard other people talk about how they return to normal and feel ten times better once they get off the Paxil. I certainly had a few glimpses of that, but right now I wouldn’t say that’s how I’m feeling. Sex drive, intellectual vitality — all that stuff seems to have taken a back seat to what I’m going through now.

The last few weeks have been extremely emotional for me. And now, instead of experiencing some sort of rapture from having gotten through all this, if you asked me what I’m feeling, I would say I’m feeling nothing. The only thing I can think of is that I’m emotionally spent; I’m all used up, and I just don’t have the energy to feel emotional about anything. (Or maybe I’ve got one last motherload of anger and grief to let loose, and I just don’t want to be around for it.)

That, or I’m afraid to let myself feel… relaxed again. Like I can’t believe it’s over. It’s as if I’m afraid to let my guard down, to really let myself say, “It’s over.”

The other conclusion could be that I’m depressed again, but I don’t think so. I think I’ve been through a prolonged traumatic experience in trying to get off the Paxil, and even with the Paxil out of my system, psychologically, it’s left a mark on me. I’d like to say it hasn’t, but it has. I would like to jump up and down with joy, yelling out, “I made it!” But I can’t seem to let myself do that.

I’m not sure about any of this though.

I would like to hear from others who, even if your experience isn’t the same as mine, have gotten through this stage of withdrawal, or post-withdrawal…

Second response:

Boy, I couldn’t agree with you more. I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I will never be the same after taking this drug. Thank you for telling it like it is. The more research I do, the more freaked out I get about what this shit may have done to my brain. Don’t expect GlaxoSmithKline to own up to any of this; after all, they’re the ones who said it was not addictive. I know one person who took Paxil shortly after it came out. She was a zombie while on it, and went completely ballistic trying to get off. Years later, I realized that this person had changed dramatically, and not for the better. Getting off this drug is only half the battle. The other half is reclaiming the lives we had before Paxil.

I began reading J.D. Salinger’s “For Esmé — with Love and Squalor,” from Nine Stories, a night or two ago. If I had to pick between this story and The Catcher in the Rye to keep, I don’t know which one I’d pick.

I’ve been having electrical sensations in my head for at least the past ten days. (Since I lost Internet access and stopped posting to paxilprogress.org a few weeks ago, I haven’t been keeping detailed records.) I find them as disturbing now as I did when I first experienced them in July.

For the past 69 days since I began the weaning process, I’ve been doing everything I could to keep an active mind. I’ve been reading and writing as much as possible. I don’t know about the writing, but the reading has been intellectual stuff — Aristotle’s Ethics, that kind of thing.

But for the past ten days or so I haven’t been able to stick to anything. I’ve barely touched the Aristotle book. I open to where I left off and before I even finish the first paragraph I’m saying, “I can’t read this.” The electrical shocks that take off from behind my eyes (often while I’m reading) and then surge through the inside of my head have left a mark on me. They’re wiping me out.

Right now I don’t know if I’ll be alive by Xmas.

Today was my first full day of not taking any Paxil. I’m still walking around feeling dulled, but at least I’m walking.

It’s going to be wonderful starting from zero again. Unable to think most of the time, I have no plans, only a faint feeling that perhaps I’ll be leaving, moving on, travelling to some place I’ve never been. Does that sound hopeful?

Postscript – February 26th, 2001: This was my first “official” day off Paxil, but because the withdrawal got worse and not better as the weeks went on, I occasionally took an extremely small dose of Paxil purely out of desperation. My last actual dose probably took place somewhere between the 15th and the 20th of November.