David's Inferno (22 page)

Based on one or more of these in-depth examinations, a homeopath gives you a few tiny sugar-based pills (or an extract) that contain some essence of an animal, vegetable, or mineral substance
that's been diluted so much that scientists often can't find a single molecular trace of it left
. This makes traditional M.D.s throw up their hands in disbelief.

While I'd had some success with homeopathic remedies for various ailments in the past, I never found an effective remedy this time around. Still, I spent a lot of time feeling that there must be
something out there—something to hold, to sit with, to do, that would provide relief. I confess to hugging the occasional tree, usually quaking aspen … you know, the like cures like thing.

Back when I was walking in the Santa Monica hills with my cousin, she suggested I stop by a large homeopathic pharmacy in Santa Monica and see if they had any ideas for me.

There, I had a very serious conversation with a very serious Germanic woman, appropriately named Greta. She listened empathically to my symptoms and asked if I'd tried any flower essences. I knew about flower essences. A German doctor named Edward Bach developed these mild plant-based tinctures back in the 1930s in order to treat emotional and mental imbalances (of which I had plenty to choose from). The most famous one is called Rescue Remedy. Lots of people take Rescue Remedy to chill out. Including my mom, who took it along with her blood pressure and thyroid medications. She even went to an acupuncturist. See what happens when you combine an open mind with a touch of hypochondria? And, she lived to be 90!

I told Greta that I'd indeed tried Rescue Remedy, as well as a more specialized Bach Flower remedy called Aspen (as in
Quaking
Aspen.) She explained that, contrary to my assumption, these remedies don't really work on the homeopathic like-cures-like principle. So, even though Aspen is indeed recommended for “vague unknown fears … that something awful is going to happen even though it is unclear what exactly,” she suggested I would benefit more from Oak because it gives you strong roots. Plus, she recommended White Chestnut for some reason I don't remember—although I hope it wasn't because she thought I was too prickly … or, worse, about to become extinct.

The next morning I wrote:

That particular feeling of well-being lasted only a day or two. So I decided to follow up on Greta's other suggestion … something called gemmotherapy. Even though I'm a walking encyclopedia of counter-cultural cures, I had never heard of this one. She had explained that it's sort of a cross between homeopathy and flower essences. Unfortunately, they didn't have any in stock. Fortunately, I was in LA for that Natural Foods Expo. I figured that if you couldn't find this gemmotherapy stuff there you couldn't find it anywhere. I couldn't find it there.

The best I could do was a long conversation with a beautiful Lebanese homeopath who knew all about gemmotherapy but refused to suggest a remedy unless she and her father (an even more experienced homeopath) were able to perform the official two-hour homeopathic examination of my entire physical, mental, and emotional existence. Unfortunately, I was leaving for Las Vegas the next day. After I begged a little more, she admitted that she had a sense that my remedy might be “neon,” which is a very noble, albeit unstable element. Like cures like! Unfortunately, neon's not the easiest thing to get your hands on—especially the homeopathic kind. A few days after I met her, however, I stepped out on the balcony of my hotel room in Gallup, New Mexico, and found myself a foot away from the hotel's 1950s-style neon sign. Happy to grasp at yet another straw, I sat next to it for almost an hour. Nice color. Nice energy. Nice try, Dave.

Meditation is another way to bring some balance to your fractured body, emotions, mind, and/or spirit. There's no need to limit yourself to traditional forms of “meditation.” As far as I'm concerned, anything that calms any part of you down is a meditation.
If you're too agitated to hold a yoga posture, you can always do some aerobics or take a fast walk in the woods. If you find it a wee bit difficult to open your heart to accept all that is—which is understandable under the circumstances—watching “stupid” TV sitcoms is an excellent alternative. In fact,
anything
that helps you laugh is a meditation.

Most teachers of mind-stilling meditations believe that those techniques can help reduce or eliminate the need for medications. Even the Dalai Lama, who tends to look at all phenomena with phenomenal equanimity, has said, “Those emotions that disturb our peaceful mind must be eliminated. In times of great distress, our best friend is inside the heart … it is our compassion.” While he and others usually make exceptions in the case of severe depression or bipolar, I'm not sure whose criteria they use to decide if you qualify. I
am
sure that words like “must be eliminated” can be
extremely
agitating, especially for someone who has, for many years, put his “faith” in meditation and finds that stillness is currently the last thing from his mind. Several times I've heard of long-term depressed meditators whose teacher and fellow students are convinced that meditation is the “true” way out. Which seems kind of, well, closed-minded for an open-minded practice.

By the way, if you do manage to achieve some stillness from meditation, when you get up from your cushion, look out! Because the demons may just be biding their time. Talk about mixed states!

Sex is also a great meditation—no special technique required. It can give you a sense of balance and help you feel connected to something other than that black cloud swirling inside you. It helps to have a patient and understanding partner—the last thing you need is performance anxiety, on top of everything else. At the risk of seeming
schmaltzy
, a long heartfelt hug can be remarkably soothing. If even
that
feels intimidating, you can always hug a tree. Maybe you can even find someone to hug it with you.

Positive thinking, chanting, and other kinds of affirmations are safe and low-cost treatments for depression. Once in a while, I would repeat the words, “I feel great,” over and over. Just for a minute or two. I took my measure. Any time I vowed to say it for
a lot longer, I risked feeling guilty for forgetting. Maybe if I had more discipline and had kept it as my anchoring mantra, it might have made a more serious dent in my state—or, rather pulled some of the dents out.

As it was, I have no idea whether, over time, it had any effect on my cerebral wiring. But, there was something empowering about doing it. Like I'd at least taken a swing.

When all else fails, or even if it doesn't, there's the popular Coffee-Drinking Meditation. (Make it decaf.) There were days when the refuge of sleep was no longer possible, but the thought of another day brought such a wave of mental anguish—such a nausea of the mind—that I was too exhausted to even get it together to go outside and walk. On those days, if the agitation wasn't too bad, I could occasionally just get up and sit in front of the sun, or even one of those full-spectrum lights, with a cup of coffee. If I managed to wait patiently, after maybe a half hour, a thought or two of some bearable human activity might arise. Nothing too strenuous. Maybe trimming a tree. Raking some leaves.

Obviously, there's nothing wrong with encouraging someone to meditate if they're depressed. Just remember: asking a serious anxiety-riddled depressive to quiet his mind, get over it, and/or not be so attached to his/her state can be like asking someone who's color-blind to see red.

W
E ALL
“
SELF-MEDICATE
.” We started doing so the moment we realized that we felt better after eating a chocolate bar, which affects the action of serotonin, dopamine, endorphins, and opioids. Or that we felt kinda nice and drowsy after having a spoonful or two of cherry-flavored cough syrup, which can
really
do a number on your histamine and serotonin receptors.

Considering that Coke, Mountain Dew, and that sweet, milky, Swee-Touch-Nee tea my aunt used to give me all have plenty of caffeine (which affects dopamine and glutamine) I unwittingly developed a limited but fairly high-powered neurotransmitter pharmacopoeia by the time I was in elementary school. To paraphrase Bob Dylan: I started out on mother's milk, but soon hit the harder stuff.

Between 1969 and 1999, alcohol, caffeine, sugar, cigarettes, and the occasional illegal drug were, for me, part of a well-balanced emotional life. The first three still are. I gave up cigarettes when I was 36. I did all my LSD before age 21. And it's been many years since I've done any other illegal drugs. (Okay, fine, I have developed a fondness for marijuana tincture, but I only do it on very special occasions. Medicinal grade, of course …)

Until I started writing this book, I didn't know that alcohol affects serotonin, dopamine, and GABA. I did know that it could help
me relax and, in the right measure, let my creativity flow a little more easily. I didn't know that cigarettes are powerful regulators of acetylcholine and dopamine. I did know that they picked me up and helped me focus. I didn't know that marijuana increases serotonin levels and activates cannabinoid receptors. I did know that it could turn a relaxing evening into a
really
relaxing
and/or
erotic evening. I didn't know that the LSD molecule bears a remarkably close resemblance to the serotonin molecule. I did know that it took me to the outer limits of mania, depression, and insight.

1969 to 1999. That's thirty years during which I never saw a psychiatrist. Thirty years during which I never took a prescription antidepressant. Thirty years during which I was never hospitalized (for anything!). Thirty years during which I never physically harmed myself or anyone else. Thirty years during which I got married, had a child, and ran a successful business. Thirty years is a long time. At what point is effective long-term “self-medication” as good as a traditional cure?

To give credit where credit is due, I should mention that my dad, like many in his generation, set a great example of successful “self-medication” with alcohol or cigarettes. I don't even like using the term … it was how he lived. I mean at some point, if your “steady state” is having a couple of drinks every night, where's the harm? In your liver, perhaps. But given the choice of relentless depression and a challenged liver, I'd take the latter. He never took antidepressants until the last months of his life when his doctor prescribed a tiny dose of Prozac with his morning orange juice to ward off any morbid melancholy. While my dad did enjoy listening to Wendy read him Wordsworth “Intimations of Immortality” during his last days (and was able to recite along from memory) it wasn't the Prozac as much as his well-practiced professorial bemusement that took the edge off any melodramatic angst.

You don't have to read reports by the Surgeon General to know how these substances in excess (an ever-moving target) can cause long-term damage to various parts of your body, other people, and even society at large … at least financially.

You also don't have to read lurid memoirs to know that addiction
sucks. I never did heroin, but cigarette withdrawal was hard enough for my taste. And, although at various times I've gone years without drinking, I still have an emotional reliance on alcohol. Dependency? Depends on your definition.