Thirty-some years ago I took a cross-country road trip from Milwaukee to Phoenix. I expected my life to change. And maybe it did. Or maybe it didn’t.
At the time, I was on an antidepressant, Prozac. The drug wasn’t working, so I ditched it, stopped cold turkey, against the advice of my doctor, right before I headed out on a 2,000 mile road trip all by myself. Probably not a good idea but, as it turned out, nothing bad happened. Nothing good happened either, though.
There were expectations on my part… The open road, fantasies of meeting someone, a cowboy maybe, a horse, finding a piece of land, a place I could call home.
How long have I been looking for home?
This coming Friday, I am hitting the road again. This time with my friend, Lisa, who is also seeking definition.
Again to Albuquerque. Sweet and bittersweet.
And once again, I have begun a regimen of anti-depressants, this time Lexapro. I am two weeks in, and there are (manageable, I am adapting) side effects. It’s an SSRI (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor). I kind of know what that means; I have done some cursory research, and serotonin seems like it might be an issue for me, but actually I was thinking I need more, not less.
Should I trust my doctor? Just because my weight was up and I cried for a full 45 minutes after one simple question: “How’s it going?” “Here, take this pill.”
One day after I return from my trip, I have an appointment with a therapist.
What I’m hoping is that I will find myself, somewhere out there on the open road. And then maybe I can quit the meds and cancel the therapist.
Maybe I will come to a place I can call home and maybe I will claim my happiness. Or maybe Albuquerque will finally claim me.
Either way, that’s what I hope.
Wish me luck.