Yankee Pot Roast


My Anti-Depressant Diary

Ken Krimstein

Happiness comes in many flavors. Read, and learn:


As soon as I got my prescription, I headed straight to my local diner and kicked back one of the tiny tabs with a cup of decaf. “Piece of cheesecake?” asked Demetrios. “Nah, not today,” I said, knowing I didn’t need the cheesecake to make me happy anymore. After three sips, an uncontrollable urge overtook me. I grabbed Demetrios by his grease-stained apron, kissed him on both nubby cheeks and yelled at the top of my lungs, “Why do I dance? You might as well ask why do I live? Why do I breathe?” The next thing I remember is waking up the following morning with a splitting headache and my wife saying to me, “You better call Dr. Kavanaugh and have her change your prescription.”


All I have to say is they should have called it Zo-Crash.


After three weeks, this one turned me into a strange combination of Bob Saget and Harry Belafonte but they sued me so I had to quit.

Lexapro™, Wellbutrin XL™, Effexor« XR, Celexa«:

I lump these together because for some reason they all made me speak Mandarin, and since I don’t understand any Mandarin, I don’t know what I was thinking for two months. One positive byproduct, though: I am a master with chopsticks and that’s a skill you never lose.


“Well, this is the last one we’ve got in our cupboard,” Dr. Kavanaugh said.

“Do we know of any side effects?” I asked.

“Nausea, dry mouth, constipation, erectile dysfunction and irritable-bowel syndrome.”

“We’ll pass on it,” I said, walking out of her office singing “The Banana Boat Song” while knitting a scarf with a pair of jade chopsticks. Day-O. Daaaaaay-O.