‘But,’ I said, ‘now that I am well I haven’t written a story or poem in six months. And worse, it doesn’t even bother me that I haven’t. I am only bothered by not being bothered.’
— Prozac Diary by Lauren Slater
It’s great at first – but it has a cost. After a while, you realise that your mental life is oddly depleted. Creative thoughts don’t come to you any more. You are running on the imaginative store you built up before Provigil, and whizzing through it efficiently, but you aren’t inventing anything new. That part of your brain is undernourished. You feel fast and flat.
A car alarm went off in the street and I endured it for a moment or two, but then looked up — waiting, hoping for it to stop, and soon. After a few more seconds it did and I went back to my reading, but as I refocused on the book I saw that I was already on page 237.
I’d only been reading for about twenty minutes.
That last quote is from Alan Glynn’s novel, The Dark Fields.
You better read it before you think about popping any damn pill