In
a conversation with an old friend, I questioned why she didn't read
fiction anymore. Her reply surprised me, implying that there was
nothing to be gained from reading fiction because it couldn't change
her own tragic circumstances. Her fiancee would still be dead and she
would continue to wake up every morning without him. I wanted to
argue with her, but closed my lips and continued to listen. I didn't
have sufficient evidence to counter her grief based choices. My life
has been untouched by grief. All I can do is listen.
But
this conversation had me pondering what place fiction has had in my
life. Many of my most profound insights come from reading and
reflecting. They come from absorbing other's life experiences. I'm a
voracious reader, from the newspaper every morning to blogs, from
library books to grocery store novels, from magazines in doctor's
waiting rooms to textbooks. Reading is how I come to understand the
world I live in.
I
can be very impatient with the spoken word. My husband and I are in
the process of purchasing a business and it involves very lengthy
sales presentations via the telephone. After 20 minutes I am up and
prowling the room looking for something to read. Once the same fact
or point has been repeated for the third time, I am ready to pull my
hair out. If the information could be condensed into a typed format,
I would be a much happier business owner. I can read much faster than
you can talk, so let's get on with it.
_______
I
draw inspiration from good fiction. The characters may not be real,
but their circumstances often are.
In
cleaning out my son's bedroom, I found a school copy of “To
Kill a Mockingbird”.
Somehow, he ended up with two copies, but only returned one. I
decided to read it before returning it to his old school, not having
read it before.
I
have not seen the movie, and was unsure what the book was going to be
about. I knew it involved the south, and prejudice, and some sort of
gripping court room scene, but that was about it. The book is full of
many colorful characters and lessons, but I was most struck by Mrs.
Dubose, the frightening, ancient neighbor that Jem Finch is required
to read to, while she, as it turns out, is withdrawing from a
morphine addiction.
This
happened to be the week that I decided to beat an addiction of my
own. I've been taking Trazodone for the last ten years, presumably to
prevent migraines. Except, I continued to have migraines, so it
wasn't working for that. I continued to take it to help me sleep
better, so I would be less likely to have migraines. Yes, it would
help me fall asleep, presuming that I was in bed and ready to relax
into the blissful mindlessness it afforded me exactly twenty minutes
after consumption. On the rare occasions when my prescription ran
out, or I left home without it, I would be in for a night of
insomnia. One night was hardly bearable, two nights was unthinkable.
My
most recent prescription ran out the same day I read of Mrs. Dubose
and her determination not to die an addict. I finally have my
migraines under control with the addition of magnesium to my diet and
my continued use of Trazodone was superfluous. It was time to stop.
________
Sunday
night was as expected. I was drowsy and crawled in bed hoping a busy
day full of activity was going to be enough to carry me to
slumberland. It was too much to hope for. I tossed. I turned. I went
to the bathroom and got back in bed. I turned over my pillow to the
cool side. I went to the kitchen and had some toast and cold milk. I
went back to bed. I may have slept a bit, but it was so shallow and
restless, that it wasn't worth much.
Quitting
is important. The last ten years have been a haze of equanimity.
While that may be what many may strive for, I've been thinking
that, for me, doing it through chemistry is cheating. It's a fiction
and while I've been missing out on moments of true despair, I've also
been lacking transcendent joy. The last decade which has seen the
death of my beloved grandmother, aunt, and both my parents, failed to
plunge me into depression. My daughter's wedding, our
twenty-fifth anniversary, other family triumphs have given me a
warm happy glow, but there's no exhilaration. It's time to find out
how I feel without the cloak of chemistry. Am I truly a zen-master or
am I as crazy emotional as the rest of y'all?
The
real side effects of withdrawal started the next day. My skin itched
and felt tight all over. I began to sweat with only light exertion
and then was chilled and achy. I was tired and listless, though maybe
it was just from lack of sleep. Trazodone is sometimes prescribed as
a mild anti-depressant and in those cases withdrawal side effects can
include anxiety and suicidal thoughts. While I am very fortunate not
to be prone to these feelings, I did wonder if I could be overtaken
and questioned my wisdom of quitting cold-turkey.
____________
It
was only when Mrs. Dubose had died in pain but free of the grip of
morphine, did Atticus Finch explain to his children her true
situation:
"I
wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea
that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know
you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it
through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do. Mrs.
Dubose won, all ninety-eight pounds of her. According to her views,
she died beholden to nothing and nobody. She was the bravest person I
ever knew."
It's
only been three nights, and my side-effects are already waning. I
still itch but the sweats and chills are gone. I'm still worrying
about getting a decent night's sleep but I can't pretend that this is
anything like morphine. I've hung onto my empty pill bottle just in
case I “need” to get a refill, but I won't. I won't get a refill
because I read a piece of fiction that spoke to me. Mrs. Dubose
taught me a what it is to be strong in the face of my weakness.
