Prozac Nation

I'll admit it--I'm on anti-depressants. And in this day and age, who isn't? I'm surprised they don't dispense them in vending machines along with Coke and M&M's. Or, as my friend T used to say, "they should just put them in the drinking water, and the world would be a happier place."

Yet in spite of how helpful I've found them, I still feel conflicted about their prevalence in our society. Yes, there are millions of people suffering from clinical depression--myself included--that truly need the drugs to regain some sense of control and normalcy. Depression is scary, isolating, sneaky and debilitating. No matter how many times I think I've beaten it, it comes roaring back, stronger than ever and ready to beat me down for another ten rounds.

And yet, the oft-used misnomer, "happy pill," belies both the seriousness of the disease as well as the treatment. Prozac, or your drug of choice, is not 40 mg (or 50 or 100, whatever the dosage may be) of pure bliss, nor is it a panacea for the sadness, loneliness and frustration that are a part of every day living. The fact that these pills are prescribed at an alarming rate--often to those whose woes are temporary and surmountable--also negates the seriousness of real clinical depression and the toll it takes on those it affects.

So, yes, I take my little pill every night, but I'm also doing everything I can--exercise, meditation, writing, therapy--to ensure that I am as healthy and strong as I can be to deal with whatever life throws at me. But one day, I hope that my evening ritual will not include those little pink pills.