The Loss of Sadness

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The Loss of Sadness: What a uniquely poignant phrase. A new book with that title examines ‘How psychiatry transformed normal sorrow into depressive disorder.’

Normal sorrow seems like a hard thing to quantify. Remember how Freud hoped to transform hysterical misery into common unhappiness? Things have changed. Now, our society has little tolerance for common unhappiness. Being unhappy is both a personal shortcoming and a huge source of concern to the World Health Organization, which now projects that by 2020 depression will be the second leading cause of disability for people in midlife and women of all ages.

The DMS-IV doesn’t allow for factors such as stress, hardship or socioeconomic class in its checklist for depression. Maybe the DMS-V (due in 2012) will de-pathologize some instances of depression, but that seems doubtful. There was a time when shyness wasn’t considered a treatable illness, but that’s over. Social Anxiety is another pox, defined as such in a brilliant and wide-reaching publicity campaign launched in 2002 by GlaxoSmithKline, makers of Paxil.

I am a product of Big Pharma’s influence on our culture, specifically, Wyeth Pharmaceuticals. Effexor has transformed me from an introverted self-loathing misanthrope into an outgoing people-person. Once, I writhed in an agony of self-consciousness in any social gathering. Now, I have to be dragged away from all the new ‘friends’ I’ve made. Once, I looked around and saw strangers who seemed boring or repellent. Now, I see potential soul-mates. My social confidence is almost sickening.

What bothers me is that no one knows exactly what happens systemically when you tamper with serotonin. Depressed people and their physicians have been led to think it’s as simple as ‘the brain needs more serotonin to reduce depression.’ Studies showing conclusively that Proxac causes an increase in both suicidal and violent behavior have been brushed aside until recently. Getting off antidepressants is a well-documented nightmare. So much for the innocent non-addictive medications we thought we were taking. “No Free Lunch” comes to mind. Also, “Shit, what if Wyeth goes out of business?”

I would like to hear what Freud would say now. Probably something about his mother or his penis. Maybe we need more philosophers who are physicians, or vice versa.

A society that promotes changing one’s personality to achieve a very limited standard of normal is kind of depressing, but my meds keep me from despairing about it. If the ideal character type is now a cheerful extrovert, fine, but our inability to be reserved or reflective or despondent is bound to have a profound effect on every aspect of our culture. Maybe reality shows are an early warning sign.

Those of us on antidepressants who have traded our libidos and intestinal functioning for a sunnier disposition would not likely join the argument that depression fuels creativity. But I believe it does involve a certain pessimistic clarity that we forfeit as part of the deal. Studies suggest that optimists are actually less able to perceive things realistically than pessimists. For many of us, though, the clarity is unbearable. One psychiatrist I met compared it to an allergy; reality was the pollen.

Among my friends and loved ones are people with difficulties they haven’t chosen to medicate…yet. For the most part, I salute them for being able to stand themselves. And for holding out when they could be calmer, perkier, or more even-tempered. Perhaps they just aren’t sad enough to seek relief. The best way I can communicate my own process on Effexor is this: I still feel kind of hopeless, but I just don’t care that I do.

The pharmaceutical   companies are probably working around the clock to perfect a drug that creates a sense of detachment, at the same time producing an insatiable urge for consumer goods. (As I type this, I realize that I’ve just described TV!) Okay, then maybe we need a drug that allows the perfect interface for sadness, allowing us to cry at “Forrest Gump” and funerals and stories about abused dogs, but filtering out any deeper sense of existential discomfort.

What I’d like is to alleviate my worry that I’ve become the person I used to hate at cocktail parties.

  

6 Responses to “The Loss of Sadness”

  1. qzconnect » Blog Archiv » The Loss of Sadness Says:

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  2. sonja Says:

    wow. that’s some food for thought.

  3. Suebob Says:

    My sis died this year. I am not only depressed but angry and frustrated and deeply grieving. My doc offered me antidepressants. I said no and she said “Well, if it gets bad, let me know and I will fix you up.”

    My feeling is that, when your sister (who happens to be your best friend) dies at an early age, it is entirely correct to be depressed and angry. If I didn’t feel that way, I think I would be a monster. One of these days, I will come out of it, but in the interim, I think my grief is appropriate and necessary.

  4. Max Says:

    RE: >

    I’m glad to see that you can track these comments… in German.

    Long live weltschmerz!

  5. Sister Wolf Says:

    Suebob, I am so very sorry for your loss. Of course your grief is a natural and sane response. My thoughts and blessings are with you. xxooxxooxxoo

  6. Eelainee Says:

    Shit, you been goin’ through this too ! I hope you’re out of it by now.

    Talk about the “well-documented nightmare of getting off antidepressants” !

    It wasn’t well documented at all in fucking France in 2006, the year I send 9 years of pointless psychoanalysis, a psychiatrist and Rivotril to fuck themeselves altogether. Rivotril, my last drug, apricot flavored dirty shit… ‘took me two long years to come out of what ?, 15 years of legal drug-addiction.

    You know what a “pusher” is ? They pushed me : scientists, family doctor, family, tv, books into this. I wanted to be free and happy, they gave me 15 years of prison instead. All my youth.

    The doctors keep saying here to this day that “There’s no way you could get hooked on those medicines. No way”. 2 fucking years like a legume, patiently and painfully climbing the walls of the pit. I’m allergic to doctors, I would truly appreciate to kill them with a fork.

    I also know for a fact now, that not one of my doctors was an accomplished adult, all of them where motherfucking morons with problems far greater than mine… And a sick taste for money and a narcissistic taste for prestige.

    Effexor : could never remember its name, always called it Ferox. Why is it we never know what we’re saying, when we’re saying it ? (Freud doesn’t have the answer to this).

    Now, I don’t do drugs anymore (‘xcept pot, and it has to be real good or no, thanks),
    I don’t smoke cigs anymore (used to smoke 40 a day),
    I don’t put makeup on (used to Dietrich, at the end),
    don’t pluck my eyebrows (they’re nice, why did I ever bother ? Oh, yeah… Those Madonna days.. :-)
    stopped popping my pimples (obviously related to the self hatred and nervousness from addiction),
    don’t straighten my hair (what a waste of time…),
    don’t color my white hair (if we can’t resist to that, we can resist to nothing and we’re dead !),
    don’t wear bras (a study proves that they make the boobs fall tragically and the reverse too),
    I wear Iron Maiden T shirts (gad, their music sux),
    I do sebum only (I may wash my hair 2 or 3 times a year with shampoo),
    and I’d kill anyone unpolite to me – Psychokiller like a David Byrne (I used to be a carpet, you could clean your shoes on me, I would make a cancer, but I wouldn’t say a word : thanks to Prozac, Effexor, Lithium, Xanax, Lexomil, etc, etc, etc).

    Now I’m abnormal allright – I hate society of course -, and I’m so glad to be myself at last, I don’t have to work on me anymore and wait for the big day. Abnormality brings also abnormal friends, what a relief !

    I hope all the people who have lived what I’ve lived have survived and will hit back, for everyone’s sake.

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