January 25, 2018:

In the first rush of adjustment it left me wired, somewhat brittle, like turning the clock back decades to a state I recognized easily: the way I'd felt before my breakdown.

Ironically amusing 'cos when it first came on I was trapped in an egregious all-day meeting run by one of the most offensively incompetent narcissists you'll ever encounter. I was impatient, curt with him, dismissive of the roomful of sycophants. "Gee, we're so fortunate to have your expertise assisting us with this project," said the worst of the brown noses to the bigheaded git. "Dude, shut the fuck up," I texted him. It was the spirit of bupropion speaking. Also it was exactly the right thing to say.

My libido returned. I dated, a lot. There was frequent sex, with a variety of partners. I'm avoiding saying I was a slut, but, I was. A bupropion slut.

I also drank. More alcohol in six months than the previous thirty years combined. The meds returned me to my gregarious self. Being around people was enjoyable, after decades of isolation. I was willing to be the center of attention in a way I hadn't since college.

For a short time somewhere in the second or third week I'd experience uncontrollable bursts of energy that seemed to bubble from my bones. My limbs ached like they were full of electricity, which, they probably were. I wanted to run, wear myself out, get high on endorphin. It was an instantly recognizable sensation: the old me. Me from Before.

Then it settled down and I felt "normal", whatever that exactly is. Not wired, not doomed to isolation, able to be gregarious without being manic. I know I'm nowhere near "whole" but to me the feeling was more organic, I want to say organized, than perhaps any time in my life.

God bless Big Pharma.