Paxil Free

Sunday, July 30th, 2000. A journal entry:

I was looking out a window this morning. It’s been off-and-on raining for the past two days, a welcomed break from the heat we’ve been having. Everything was still green and alive but things would have begun to die and dry up if the rain hadn’t come when it did. So it was a pleasant rain, a rain that had it’s place. Grey skies but not cold and depressing grey skies. And as Tom Waits would say, with so many other things that can kill us in this life, a little rain never hurt no one.

The window I’m looking out happens to be under a high porch — the back deck of our house. There wasn’t any rain falling, but there was moisture in the air; everything was wet, and water was dripping off the deck, being blown by the wind. As I’m looking out the window — at first being fooled that it was raining outside until I noticed that it was the wind blowing the rain off the deck — I see a weed growing out of the wet grass near one of the deck posts. It’s blowing back and forth like a small tree. It has just one or two big leaves growing near the top of it. The leaves are constantly collecting dew. Every time the wind blows I can see large droplets of water pouring off the pointed ends of the leaves.

And in that moment, looking at the green wet leaf of that weed, a living thing, I realized an appreciation for it. I thought of how most people hate mosquitos, but if you look at the mosquito for what it is, I hate to say it, there’s something beautiful about it. As I’m looking at this green wet leaf, I appreciate it for what it is, not for what I want it to be. And in that moment I was happy.

There’s a lot to be said about trusting these feelings. It wasn’t the thoughts that brought me to the moment; the thoughts were propelled by feelings. I didn’t know what it was, I didn’t know what I would find, but I could feel that it was good. And in that moment, being there, it brought me to a good place.

Walt Whitman wrote a book called Leaves of Grass all about this kind of thing. Trusting our feelings. Embracing what is good, what is real. And knowing that what is alive, anything living, is beautiful in itself.

I hope this is just the beginning.

Tuesday, September 25th, 2000.

Well, today it my 20th day of weaning of Paxil. I am now down to 10mg, alternating with 15mg for three days (today happens to be a 10mg day), and for whatever reason, I’m feeling okay. I occasionally have a mild tension around my head, but no headaches, no feeling like the brain zaps are just around the corner, hardly anything.

Easily for the past three days I’ve been walking around holding on to the walls, grabbing onto something every time I stood up, not making any sudden movements (especially with my eyes), avoiding loud noises, being extremely careful walking up and down stairs, and absolutely not driving the car.

Then around 10 o’clock last night as I’m watching the Olympics, I start getting tired, and as I do my head clears up and I don’t have any symptoms for the rest of the night.

Then when I woke up this morning, my head was still clear — but seeing how everything usually kicks in about an hour after I get up, I wasn’t very hopeful.

But, to my surprise, I’ve been okay all day. I was not expecting to feel like this today. I picked up a Xanax prescription from my doctor today to help “take the edge off” if the withdrawal got any worse — and worse is definitely what I was expecting — but so far so good.

Tomorrow may be completely different, but what I’m experiencing now is definitely a surprise. I’m still moving slowly and cautiously, but I almost feel like I don’t really need to.

Go figure. Who’d expect to have a good day when they get down to 10mg? Not me.

Sunday, October 8th, 2000.

Today’s my 32nd day of weaning. Still levelled off at 10mg.

Two days ago I was feeling like a zombie. But since then, things have been different. The next day, just before I went to bed, I began to feel better. And all day today I’ve been feeling almost normal. (It feels almost abnormal to feel normal again. Weird.)

About an hour ago I began to feel a bit of a headache, and that’s the only possible symptom of withdrawal I’ve experienced today. I haven’t felt dizzy or off balance or any of the usual things. I think the withdrawal is still happening, but it’s amazing how when you’ve experienced the worst of it (i.e., cold turkey withdrawal), the degree of the withdrawal can be measured down to the slightest fraction. Anyone notice that? If cold turkey withdrawal (namely the brain zaps) is a 10 in severity, then what I’ve experienced today is a 1, maybe a 2. It’s what we who have lived through this junk call a Good Day.

In terms of my diet and exercise and the usual things I do to keep the electrical surges at bay, I haven’t done anything different in the past two days. Perhaps it was just my body and brain finally adjusting to the 10mg level.

But I have another theory. It’s more of a curiosity, I suppose. Not much of a theory, but it’s something I’ve noticed a few times since I began the weaning process. Until now I just didn’t think it was plausible. But who knows. This is what happened:
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Monday, October 30th, 2000. A journal entry:

I’m feeling better today. I was going to say much better, but that’s probably pushing it. I got up at 7:30 this morning to help a friend move some things into a new office. I haven’t been sleeping lately, so I was expecting to be tired, grumpy and out of sorts when I got up, and I was. Never too hungry that early in the morning, I had a slice of toast with honey, my usual handful of vitamin supplements, a bottle of water and off I went — hit the road in the pickup truck (someone else driving).

I immediately got dizzy and off balance lifting things and walking up and down the stairs. I wasn’t long popping my first Xanax (electrical sensations were beginning to stir behind my eyes). It took a couple hours to do the work, then I had soup and a bun from doughnut shop. By the time I got home about an hour or so later, I felt good. Not nearly as lousy as I’ve been feeling for the past few weeks, on-and-off suicidal and all that.

This wanting to live stuff is tricky business.

Tuesday, October 31st, 2000. A journal entry:

I woke up this morning around 4:00am with a clarity of mind that I would describe as unusual. I’d fallen asleep in the living room/rec room while watching a TV show I had on tape. I picked myself up and walked to my bedroom. I didn’t go back to sleep right away though; it wasn’t in me.

I lay there wrapped in the blankets thinking. My body didn’t feel wide awake, but my mind was going on a ride. One thing would lead to another, and then another, and I’d say this went on for at least two or three hours.

There were so many thoughts — some to do with my own philosophy of things, arguing my way through it so I could clearly stand behind what I was saying. The thoughts were so clear and strong and well worked out that I doubt they will fade from my consciousness any time soon. I was able to find some peace in all of it. A peace of mind, and of heart and soul, that is hard to come by in the condition I’m in.

I’m down to about 2.5mg of Paxil a day, with at least 0.5mg of Xanax to take the edge off. I don’t know how I’m going to feel once I’m completely off the stuff.

Today is Tuesday. By this weekend I’m hoping to be off it completely. That won’t mean the end of the withdrawal. But that’ll be it for the pills.

Monday, November 27th, 2000 (27th day off Paxil).

I just got back from my seeing my doctor. Today is my 82nd day of weaning off the Paxil. I don’t know how long I’ve been down to zero; two or three weeks, I suppose. I’ve been seeing this psychiatrist because I needed someone who supposedly knew what they were doing to supervise my weaning off of the Paxil. So far he’s done a good enough job. But as far as therapy is concerned, my sessions with him have never been a catharsis of healing. Occasionally, though, I manage to have a conversation with him, like I did today, that does provides some insight, or maybe it’s hope. In the midst of all this, hope can go a long way. So anyhoo…

I mentioned to him today how my libido went through the roof a few weeks ago and stayed that way for about two weeks, but how that peak period of vitality has since come and gone. This was around the period in the weaning when I was almost off the Paxil completely. It might have kicked in during the last few days I was on 5mg. That peak period lasted about two weeks after that and now it’s gone.
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Tuesday, December 19th, 2000 (49th day off Paxil).

Scott said:

“I was driving into work through the most beautiful countryside this morning and remembering something someone said about how the colours are so much more vibrant when you are off the Paxil, and I was thinking about the fact that nothing has really touched me since I went on the Paxil, and that I don’t feel like I’ve really experienced things deeply — colours or smells or joy or excitement.”

This is something I can relate to. It’s something I’ve noticed even more since I began weaning myself off the Paxil, which completely messed with my normal capacity to appreciate the world around me. Over the years I’ve developed an appreciation and a connection to simple things, uncomplicated things. Things which are diminished by words: sunshine, gut-driven laughter, a compassionate touch, a genuine smile, a cool breeze that can lift you out of the weight of your days, poetry. All that good stuff.

I can remember the last time I had a moment like this. It was somewhere between the hell of my cold turkey withdrawal and the beginning of my weaning off the Paxil. I was on shaky ground, but I remember taking a walk behind our house in the woods with my father’s dog. I was walking past a crab apple tree in our backyard just at the edge of the woods when I heard a thump. It didn’t make me jump ten feet in the air like it would later on in the withdrawal.

I turned slowly and looked around, trying to figure out what had made the sound. I was standing there looking at this crab apple tree, a crab apple tree that was weighed down with these huge red and yellow apples. Then I knew it: One of those big apples had fallen out of the tree and thumped against the ground. That was the sound. And just as I was thinking that, another apple fell free, and I smiled.

It was one of those moments that wouldn’t have happened had I been three footsteps further down the path when the first apple fell. The whole thing probably took less than a minute to be over and done with, but I can still remember the joy of being able to appreciate that moment, the calm and the quiet of it all. Reading this you may not have any idea what I’m talking about it. But it was a moment of deep of appreciation, of being glad to be alive.

That sort of appreciation requires a certain kind of willingness, a certain kind of calm that allows a moment like that to happen in the first place. And since I’ve been living in Paxil Hell, I haven’t lived a single second like that. Believe me, I have wanted to die.

But there is a happy ending to this (I think). But I’ll tell you about that in a day or two. I’m not ready yet.

Friday, December 22nd, 2000 (52nd day off Paxil).

The update of how I’m doing is kind of melodramatic. It’s not as good as I’d like it to be, or as good as I thought it first was, but here it is.

Anyone who has read my previous postings knows that I’ve been off Paxil for over a month now, but many of the withdrawal effects were still lingering, namely the electric-shock sensations that seemed aggravated by fast eye movements, bright lights — all that crap. I was getting really, really sick it. Really close to the end of my rope.

Then about 10 or 11 days ago I decided to do one those cleansing fasts where one doesn’t eat anything for two or three days, only water and fruit juices. None of my usual vitamin supplements, nothing; just water and pure fruit juices.

Well… it worked. Like many of the things we do to make ourselves better, it wasn’t much fun while it was happening, but within a day or two after I finished the fast (which lasted about 2 and a half days), I began to feel better. But more importantly…

I woke up last Saturday (6 days ago), and the electrical sensations were gone. There’s no other way to describe it except to say they were gone. I immediately returned to my fully alive, animated self, ready to jump up and down and hit a home run. I could feel it in my eyes that it was gone. I still had a painful sensitivity to bright light, and sudden loud noises still made me jump about ten feet in the air, but the electrical sensations behind my eyes, in my head, everywhere, were gone.
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Monday, January 1st, 2001 (62nd day off Paxil). A journal entry:

Occasionally everything falls into place. Even a broken clock tells the correct time twice a day. Whoever was the first to say that has earned my admiration. The poem falls into the right hands at the right moment, and it works perfectly.

I just read a poem by a friend of mine who is a well-known writer. On another day this poem would have meant nothing to me. I wouldn’t have felt it — that is, it wouldn’t have been as real to me as it is right now.

It’s a poem about him and his son walking through a graveyard where some famous writers are buried. His son has “passed beyond boredom into resignation” and would rather be doing anything else. The groundskeeper, who acts as their informal guide and happens to be French and doesn’t speak a word of English — he “would as soon being doing this as something else.” The son in the poem speaks fluent French and acts as the translator. Listening to his son and the guard speaking, recognizing a word here and there but unable to grasp anything that’s being said, “It’s as if he and the guard are old friends now, and I’m there to be humoured.”

Like I said. Perfect. Perfect because I know the feeling.

Or maybe you had to be there.

Tuesday, January 2nd, 2001 (63rd day off Paxil). A message about my Paxil progress:

I think it’s been about two months since I took my last tiny sliver of Paxil, and I think it may be over soon.

I don’t have any of the electric-shock sensations shooting through my head and my eyes anymore. What I’m experiencing now is still somewhat severe, but it’s gradually becoming less severe, and I think it may be the last of the withdrawal effects.

Mostly all I have now is an extreme sensitivity to light and sound, which is similar to a hangover sensitivity, except it’s there all the time, not just in the morning. (Note: These are still debilitating withdrawal effects, but I think they’re the last of them.)

The other thing I have, probably related to the painful sensitivity to light, is bad headaches, like the kind of headaches that come from caffeine withdrawal; all the Tylenol in the world won’t make them go away. It’s an ache that reaches every part of my body, not just my head (my bones are aching). It’s a constant drag on my energy — but a walk in the park next to the electrical sensations. Sometimes the headaches get so bad that I become a little dizzy or disoriented, but that doesn’t happen often.

From everything I know about withdrawal (Paxil withdrawal, Valium withdrawal, heroin withdrawal, etc.), this is probably the end of the line — mainly because I’ve experienced every other withdrawal symptom anyone could have. There’s just nothing left to go through.

I think this may be progress. If things continue to go the way they are, except for the psychological scars, which are significant, I should be able to return to the land of living within a few weeks. I hope.

If the promised land really is in sight, if that’s really what I’m looking at right now, I probably won’t be around for awhile once I get back on my feet, mainly because I just want to live and make up for all the months that were stolen from me while I was going through withdrawal (which began last July; that’s how much of my life this junk has taken from me).

If I finally am getting better, one thing I will do before I take on the world again is set up a website which will contain all the significant post I have made to paxilprogress.org, and all the informative responses that I received from them. Looking back over these messages, I find that they capture the history of this experience better than any story I have the energy to write. I have detailed records of my experience from the first day of withdrawal up to the present day, and I think it may provide an excellent picture of what the experience is really like. Most people probably won’t have as hard of a time as I have had, but that’s what makes it valuable. It’s an accurate history of just about everything that could happen to someone.

This experience has completely consumed six months of my life. The end is in sight.

First response:

As I read your post, I started to cry. I’ve been off Paxil almost two weeks now after starting the long withdrawal process this past September, and what a ride it has been. I think I’ve been so busy with Christmas/New Year’s holidays that it hasn’t sunk in that I’m off the Paxil. I still have a half of a bottle of liquid Paxil in the medicine cabinet. I threw away any pills I had left a while ago. Maybe I’ll have some sort of ceremony in the bathroom while flushing the last of the Paxil down the toilet, farewell, good riddens.

Paxil has no hold on me now and it’s nice, but it’s sad to have had to go through all of that. Maybe I need to grieve for the “lost time” in my life due to this medicine, and then get on with life and vow to never get myself in such a mess again.

Good luck. I’m so glad the worst is over for you too.

Postscript – February 27th, 2001: In this post, I said: “If the promised land really is in sight, if that’s really what I’m looking at right now, I probably won’t be around for awhile once I get back on my feet, mainly because I just want to live and make up for all the months that were stolen from me while I was going through withdrawal…” A month and a half later: Yes, it was the promised land, but getting right back on the horse again wasn’t possible. I wasn’t, and still am not, able to return to the quality of life I had before Paxil. After seven months of not being able to do anything with my life, I want to jump back into things full force — I want to make up for lost time — and I can’t. (Take note: I hate this.) It’s like having a Ferrari sitting in the garage for the past seven months; the garage door is open now, but I’m not allowed taking it out on the highway. I find myself now fighting against a depression, because as much as I want to take the car out on the highway, I know I’d probably lose control and crash it into a telephone pole the second I got out there. Learning how to take it slow — man, this is something I need lessons in, especially at a time like this. I want to get right back into things. And I can’t. This is a huge lesson for me: As much as I want to get on with my life, I can’t rush it. (Deep sigh.)