xtcian

gray's anatomy

1/15/04

We were sitting in a biopsychology seminar my junior year at Carolina discussing the various ways of treating depression. This was 1988, about five minutes before Prozac came out, so the methods were still pretty archaic. The professor started out with "tricyclics," drugs that were effective, but had all sorts of bad side effects. If those didn't work, you moved on to "MAO inhibitors," which was another deeply clumsy way to make miserable people feel better.

Of course, tons of patients responded to neither, so the teacher trotted out electro-shock therapy, which had a better success rate than you might think (and, "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" aside, was usually painless and used very little electricity). The bell rang, but the class was enrapt: "what happened if that didn't work?" one of the girls asked. The professor smiled and said "then I guess you're shit out of luck."

That was a big moment for me, the revelation that science couldn't fix everything. I always believed in a safety net underneath the safety net, you know, something that could be put in place in case things got too bad. But in 1988, this was as good as you got.

Then came Prozac, which took two years to gain foothold. Then Paxil and Zoloft and Welbutrin and all of the other drugs based on similar principles. After becoming a numb zombie on Prozac in 1998, I went on Celexa in April 2002 and seem to be doing fine. Even now, the molecular mirror image of Celexa – Lexapro – is becoming the drug of choice for many of my friends. The safety nets have returned, because there's always one more drug to try.

And again, you have to realize this is a lie too. Elliot Smith, who wrote many of my favorite songs, so capable of infinity beauty with a guitar, was filled with anti-depressants when he died; it didn't stop him from plunging a knife into his chest, several times.

And now Spalding Gray, a man with such an eerily delicious command of the language, has seemingly jumped off the Staten Island Ferry. This is man who had a seven-year-old son, an incredible career, a loving wife. But a car accident in Ireland destroyed his hip, and the depression than ran in his blood had only worsened since September 11 (he lived in Soho).

Gray had enough money to get the best doctors, try every painkiller available to modern medicine. He had access to every anti-depressant we've got, most likely took them all at one point or another. And still, he chose the black, frigid depths of the East River. If there's one thing that is hard to accept, it is the Buddhist principle that pain is inevitable, even if suffering is optional. The man who wrote "Swimming to Cambodia" has sunk to the bottom of the deep channels, fathoms below the icy winds on the coldest day of the year.