The previous post highlights the eleventh-hour — almost miraculous — help taking specific supplements brought to these last tortured milligrams of the discontinuation process. Step by step I was able to continue slicing down my tablets until, at long last they became too small to slice. At this point I started skipping days: I’d take a sliver on a Monday and not take the next one until Wednesday. I followed through on this rhythm allowing approximately two weeks before skipping another day.
I was taking one sliver every fifth day when, on December 1, I took my last. It had not been my intention to make it my final dose. I simply lost track of the days between. At Day 6 I realized I had forgotten to take the sliver and decided to go another day. At Day 8 I made the decision to keep it going, while closely monitoring myself. I experienced some insomnia that even the L-Tryptophan did not assuage, but it was temporary.
There simply comes a point when you have to step off the plank. The last time I had stopped ingesting SSRIs had been two years prior during my first attempt, which ended badly after eight weeks, when I had to reinstate. In my mind this time, though the symptoms were minimal, I didn’t feel I would be completely free of the meds until I made it past that eight-week crashing stage where it all came apart the first time.
I couldn’t help but carry a hidden dread about the harrowing possibility that my brain my implode at some point. But by this point, I had come so far and had worked so intensively, I imposed upon myself the objective belief that I must proceed in prudent hope, trusting that the miraculous human systems would do their respective parts to keep the ship afloat. The nutrients, the supplements, the vitamins, the health I had forged through exercise; along with the clarity of mind I had fought to regain all spoke to me trusting assurances that they would steer me aright when the waves rolled me around. All the needed pieces had been adequately addressed. The time had come to trust the body to do its proper work — to hold.
The disequilibrium I felt was not any worse than what I felt before, further back, when my body was in the throes of major readjustment. Remember the days of fatigue? Remember the long nights of sleeplessness? Remember the aching? All those barriers had been passed. I knew there may yet be other barriers, but I had gotten the dose down so low, I knew that if they occurred they couldn’t be any worse than what they had been when my doses had been higher.
Being off the meds even after a few weeks I still sometimes would awake in fear. Then the day would break and light would subsume the darkness and the fear would recede. I could function. The difference was, whatever fear reared its head at this point was contested on a level field: there was no false foe twisting my mind. The false fears of dread, sorrow, and hopelessness that had usurped my playing field contended no more there. It was only I now — I, and the hidden forces of my distemper where God himself stepped in and settled and arranged my interior world aright. God himself can contend there now as the drugs no longer hold sway.
I pondered if in time, as my brain heals, the fears would recede altogether and if I would rise from my bed hopeful. If not, I knew that in any case, the battle is now true and no longer fueled by chemicals.
Next post: What happened at the Eight-Week point?