Our Drugs of Choice

For a while, the days and weeks merged together and, caught up in the routine of daily life, I lost myself. And three months after coming off Prozac, I found myself falling, in balletic slow motion, to pieces. Unable to get past the inexplicable tears, sleepless anxiety and squinting headaches, I admitted defeat and went to see the doctor. For it is defeat, really - to confess that I am, at least for now, unable to function adequately without my latest drug of choice: Venlafaxine.

During my last brush with antidepressants, I had the distinct feeling that the drugs were allowing me to be the relaxed, contented person I was always supposed to be. Still, I’m accepting this chemical help reluctantly; if I had a choice, I’d stick to the euphoria of running. My true physical and emotional escape lies in pushing myself to the limit, concentrating on nothing other than a distant point on a winding country road, momentous songs recycling endlessly on my ipod (and the irony of those songs isn’t lost on me: in a past life, I danced to many of them in cavernous clubs, ecstatic on whatever it was we took for kicks back in those days).

For the Small Girl and her Very Small Brother, life is far more simple and life’s pleasures far more bountiful. It was Easter recently, and while the children were distracted playing hide and seek with Uncle Dave (who had come from London to visit), I hid their chocolate eggs in the garden. After giving them both a basket in which to collect their sweet spoils, we turned them loose, screeching with delight (for chocolate is most definitely their drug of choice) into the garden for an egg-hunt.

The Very Small Boy, dispensing with his basket, opted to put all his eggs straight into his mouth, cramming them in with alarming vigour and still managing to cry “more!” in between mouthfulls.

The Small Girl, upon discovering a life-size Easter Bunny, came screeching over to me, and cried:
“Mummy, you tell me you bet I can’t eat all this Easter Bunny!”
“OK darling” I acquiesced, “that’s an enormous Easter Bunny… I bet you can’t eat all of it!”

She gave me a mischievous look, bit off the Easter Bunny’s ear, and through a chocolately mouthful, declared “Mummy, watch and learn!”

Back inside again, the Very Small Boy climbed up onto the sofa with his haul of chocolate, where he sat happily amongst his Easter eggs.

“He’s lost his appeal!” announced Uncle Dave. I looked from Uncle Dave to the Very Small Boy and for a moment was lost for words.
“That chap in Dubai”, he elaborated, nodding towards the radio, “he’s lost his court appeal”.

“Oh!” I cried, relieved. “I thought you meant Baby Pie!”, and I looked at my baby, wide brown eyes filled with delight as he licked his chubby, chocolatey fingers. He still looked very appealing to me. But then again, perhaps I am biased.