I had no medication, no therapy, no diagnoses, and no clue that anything was wrong with me. I was a writer. Before that, I was a composer. It was 2007. Medication was a death sentence to the creative mind. The nurses had me fill out a questionnaire and I answered every question honestly. One of the questions asked about violence and suicide. I confessed that, in both instances of my children"s birth, I had vivid fantasies about stabbing Anne, Daniel, and Tribble.
I returned home with Lynn and a prescription for Zoloft®.
“Do not stop taking this cold turkey,” the doctor said as she scribbled the script. “You must be weaned off it.”
“I understand.”
“When you think you are ready to come off it, speak to us first. Schedule an appointment. You will need to be weaned off of it. One month dow
