Ranting to /dev/null

On interesting substances

So I'm surfing tonight and I come across a two part series about Ecstasy on Salon. Part one is entitled "X'ed Out", part two, "Monkey Gone to Heaven". It's quite an interesting read, though as each part is decently long, I'd set aside a good half hour or so before embarking. Reading them really got me to thinking about a couple of things that have been going on in my head these past few days, so I thought I'd ruminate for a bit. That and blogging gives me something pseudo-productive to do aside from writing the essay that's due on Monday. Here goes.

The series is about recreational drug use, specifically the use of 3,4-Methylenedioxymethamphetamine (MDMA), more commonly known as "Ecstasy," or simply "X". Now for starters, I should say that my own use of psychoactive or other interesting substances is pretty limited, and that at least as much by choice as circumstance. I've never used any controlled/illegal substance that wasn't prescribed for me. I've had a few drinks in my time, but my few experiences with being actually drunk have been pretty unpleasant, so I exercise moderation there. I don't like the smell of anything burning, so I don't and am not really tempted to smoke, tobacco or otherwise.

Yet those facts notwithstanding, I found myself fascinated by the Salon series, especially accounts like this:

For Nigel, 39, it worked reliably for a number of years. Then it stopped working. "Not abruptly," he explains, "but over a period of a couple of years. I'm not sure if I've done too much, or if the X is too speedy, but often I feel depressed two days afterwards. More than that, while I still have a good -- though not great or mind-blowing -- time, I'm conscious of the fact that I can see through the artifice of the drug. While before I could easily suspend disbelief, nowadays I'm aware -- naggingly conscious -- of the fact that I'm being tricked into thinking I'm happy. My brain tells me: You're happy now. But that's 'cause you're on drugs. Just wait till tomorrow."

This is something I can identify with, though I've never actually used any chemical to achieve the same result. Whether it's a movie, book, conversation, video game (see this for an interesting read), or anything else that I use to essentially distract myself from whatever it is that's bothering me, in the morning it's still there. From here I've got two different trains of thought to pursue, one fairly secular, and the other downright theological, so I'll explore them in that order.

I've long wondered about the benefits and legitimacy of using mood-stabilizing drugs as tools in combating long-term depression/anxiety/etc. Let me clarify what I mean before moving on. I've never had any doubts about some of the no-bullshit anti-psychotics etc. used in cases where people are certifiably, mentally insane, cases where something upstairs is honest-to-goodness, empirically, verifiably broken. Schizophrenia is a really scary thing, and I have no problem recognizing that as a disease in need of correction within the bounds of standard allopathic medicine.

But using drugs to correct emotional problems has always bothered me. Using Fluvoxamine to correct OCD is one thing, but using Prozac to correct depression seems me to be somehow different. I believe that brain chemistry affects emotion, but I also believe that emotion affects brain chemistry, and that neither one appears to me to be ultimately prior. As such, I reject the idea that the ultimate root of extended depression is chemical. To be honest, some of this is due to the fact that I've always wanted to be able to keep my shit together, and somehow using drugs (or alcohol, or people, or anything else) is basically admitting that I can't. But more significantly, using anything toward this end strikes me as essentially a distraction from which you'll eventually wake up, realizing that, "You're happy now. But that's 'cause you're on drugs. Just wait till tomorrow." Evening out your seratonin levels may make you feel better while you've got the chems in your system, but not only does that not do anything about the problem, it won't work forever.

More recently, as events in my own life have hit the fan on numerous occasions, I've had a few moments of sympathy for those who believe drugs are an acceptable answer for things like depression. In recent months, I've had to face a series of events and situations that really got to me, weren't my fault, weren't in my power to affect or correct, and showed no signs of going away (they still don't). I've also gotten a little closer to people who have had to deal with depression for longer periods than I have (though I will maintain that I've experienced depression as intensely as anyone has), and had brief flashes of thought in which their using some kind of medication wouldn't be such a bad idea. But I always got back to the idea that drugs are merely one of a myriad of distractions, be they people, entertainment, or anything else, that we can and do use to take the edge off.

Look back at the Salon article. I was overwhelmed with the impression that these users of X were seeking an escape from their condition, found a chemical that provided a temporary fix, and then either moved on to more healthy (read as "non-physical") substitutes or harder drugs as the effects of X started to wane. The solution to these people's problems is not an increase in the amount of seratonin in the brain. On the contrary, they found that deliberate, artifical imbalancing of the state of their brains was ultimately detrimental to their well-being.

This leads straight into my next, more theological train of thought. In the past week or so I've had opportunity to engage in a pretty careful examination of sin, in both concrete and abstract instantiations. Three different and unrelated series of events contributed to this. First, I've been going through a bit of relational upheaval that's given me an eyeful of some pretty concrete examples of sin in both myself and the other person involved. That's always fun.

Second, I had opportunity to go over the orthodox formulation of the doctrine of original sin with a friend who is trying to talk to some of her friends about Reformed theology. It's always instructive to go back to the basics and remember that we are no different than the people who crossed the Red Sea, saw the fiery mountain, and still saw fit to make a calf of gold.

Third, I've been reading a book for class entitled Not the Way It's Supposed to Be: A Brevary of Sin by one Cornelius Plantinga (yes, related to Alvin). It's an examination into the philosophical and theological definition of sin, and how the concept has fallen out of favor in the modern world.

Sin is awful. There's just no other way of putting it. For a more detailed treatment, see both the Old Testament, and Nick Hornby's How To Be Good, which I have mentioned before in relation to sin. I'm starting to think that maybe what our post-modern world calls depression the Medievals might call good, old-fashioned sense of guilt. If this is the case, and I am increasingly persuaded that it is, then drugs or any other form of distraction are most certainly not the solution. During one of my periodic bouts of anger (the results of which can be seen here), a friend told me that I was engaging in "unhealthy emotional patterns". Perhaps. A better and more truthful way of putting it would be to say that I was sinning in my anger.

The solution to this is not distraction. A quote from part two of the Salon series gets at this: "...if you can't incorporate what you learn from a positive drug experience [or any other form of essentially distracting activity] into the waking life, but rather need to endlessly repeat it searching for that same high, it's a useless experience. There's that and the fact that (to paraphrase Clements' "Dog"), despite all this talk about consciousness-raising, much of our time was spent simply lolling about in a love puddle. One can only loll so long." Drugs aren't a path to higher planes of consciousness any more than pharmeceuticals are a path out of depression. The Medieval practice of the Confessional has its problems. But the idea that confession is good for the soul is not among them. You need fluoxetine hydrochloride and 3,4-Methylenedioxymethamphetamine a lot less than you need absolution and forgiveness:

When I kept silence, my bones waxed old through my roaring all the day long. For day and night thy hand was heavy upon me: my moisture is turned into the drought of summer. I acknowledge my sin unto thee, and mine iniquity have I not hid. I said, I will confess my transgressions unto the LORD; and thou forgavest the iniquity of my sin.

Posted by ryan at October 25, 2003 10:14 PM | TrackBack