David's Inferno (5 page)

At the end of both sessions—and for hours afterwards—my mind was quiet, my heart was open, and my body was completely relaxed. It felt like a whole lot of thought patterns had been shattered and visceral memories unleashed … ancient prison doors of the psyche swung wide open … the inmates, free at last, running every which way.

I've often wondered whether those two rolfing treatments helped trigger the inevitable series of synaptic disconnects that culminated in what I call my “breakdown.” The idea of seeing the guy again still makes my
psoas
tremble. But at least that pain was fleeting.

I also had a couple of appointments with my acupuncturist. I recorded the first session on August 28
^th
. It suggests that my condition was already a little more fragile than I remember:

Everyone has totems and talismans. Seashells, pieces of jewelry, ancient carved figures. Autographed baseballs, tickets to rock concerts, and mementos of all kinds. My totems not only speak
to
me, they tend to speak
for
me; as if representing perspectives I don't have time to represent myself—or, if you want to get neurotic about it, that I'm not quite willing to fully “own.”

In mid-September I lost one of my long-term traveling companions, a small stuffed cat named Ferguson, on a trip to Washington, DC. Probably on a bench outside the National Museum of African Art. Ferguson was blessed with far more wisdom than those tiresome “bobble-heads,” and as much compassion as the ubiquitous statues of the Buddha (my generation's version of plastic lawn
ornaments). He was intensely curious about everything and assumed, with an uncommon degree of wisdom and guilelessness, that people were always well-intentioned … although perhaps occasionally a bit misguided.

Lest you think this too childish a subject for such a serious book, you should know that Ferguson's presence and insights were held in high esteem not just by me, but by all who knew him—and his fans were legion.

In the clutches of hypomania, being two minutes late for a meeting simply causes heart palpitations. Hearing a strange sound from the back of your car triggers thought patterns resembling those of a squirrel in a blizzard trying to remember where the hell he put that last acorn. Losing something irreplaceable adds an obsession that blocks out everything,
everything
else.

When I realized Ferguson was gone, I wrote to the Washington Convention Center, Smithsonian, Southwest Airlines, Manchester airport, and anyplace else I could think of. In these emails, I implied that this “toy” had belonged to a small child—to their credit, most people took my request very seriously.

In retrospect, the fact that, at the age of 53, I was sending emails
complete with pictures
to the Smithsonian Museum (your tax dollars at work) seems bizarre even to me.

They say that psychosis is losing your mind. When I lost Ferguson I lost a small, innocent, and stable part of mine.

On Sunday, October 2nd, 2005
, I managed to get up and speak briefly at a memorial service for my aunt … even though doing so felt like trying to single-handedly pull back a 20 foot–high curtain on the stage of a one-man show. There was no longer any question I needed to start taking Celexa again. But, the next day I was flying out west for a writing workshop, and didn't think it would be a good idea to wrestle with potential side effects while 2,000 miles from home—several hours of which would be at 35,000 feet.

On Sunday, October 9th, 2005
, John Lennon would have been 65. (Imagine that.) I was 53 years, four months, and one day. I woke up early in the morning and got on a plane in Montana for the trip home, arriving in Vermont just before dinner—early enough to take a walk up the road, and dose myself with a little reassuring fall foliage.

The week that followed would prove to be one of the most devastating and transformative weeks of my life. But, at the time, I just wanted to have dinner, catch up with Wendy, go to bed early, get up early, start taking my meds, and get back to my writing.

On Monday morning, October 10th
, I cut that half of a 40 mg tablet, swallowed, and went to work.

I did the same the next morning and went to the dentist. One cavity. I made another appointment for two weeks later to have it filled.

By Wednesday, October 12th
, I was already getting a little edgy from the meds. That's a common side effect when starting up. Fortunately, I had already made an appointment with my acupuncturist, and figured a treatment and some Chinese herbs would help me stay calm as the Celexa kicked in. After the session, she warned me to be careful.

On Thursday, October 13th
, I decided to up my dose of Celexa a little. This isn't as reckless as it sounds. Finding the right dosage is a matter of trial and error and often, as long as those side effects aren't too bad, increasing the dose can help get you past them and reach a therapeutic level. Since I wasn't feeling much except minor edginess from the 20 mg, I decided to ramp it up a bit. Fortunately, in spite of my increasing urgency to feel better (and legendary addictive personality), I simply took another 10 mg instead of a fistful, bringing my total daily dosage to 30 mg—just half of what I had been taking the previous spring.

By Friday, October 14th
, I was beginning to suspect that things were not quite right. I knew that Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors (SSRIs) like Celexa can cause some weird flutters in your stomach, but I didn't realize it could feel like the string section of the New York Philharmonic was tuning up in your gut. So I went back down to 20 mg and double-checked the insert to make sure that my side effects were common, if a bit extreme. Unfortunately, I didn't have a lot of time to get past these “minor” symptoms because I was about to get on another plane—a business trip with my partner to California. And the idea of taking off while jumping out of my skin was somewhat troubling.

Figuring I probably couldn't reach my psychiatrist on a Friday afternoon, I called my regular doctor and, in my most matter-of-fact voice, asked if I might have some Valium to get me through the plane trips. He was kind enough to give me a prescription for a few 5 mg tablets.

On Saturday, October 15th
, I called my partner and said I
might
not be able to join him on the trip to California.

By Sunday, October 16th
, things had gotten totally out of hand. Even armed with my precautionary stash of Valium—most of which I'd already taken—I knew I couldn't go. It wasn't fear of flying. It was fear of
being
. On the way to the airport, my partner and his wife—two of my oldest friends—stopped by to see how I was doing.

A few years later, I asked her what she saw that day: