Ten years from now, I will be thirty-one. I picture this future person as someone who clambers out of bed every morning, wearing only boxers. His joints are stiff, and his newly-wedded wife will hear his knees pop as he lumbers into the bathroom and turns on the light. For a moment, the light blinds him. He has to blink several times before he can properly see the man standing in front of the mirror. The man is old, but his hair's in decent shape. He's turning gray in a few spots and it's thinning at the top, but it's nothing compared to his belly. This belly, which has been building for years thanks to a regular intake of red meat, resembles a fleshy boulder sitting on the edge of a cliff. Before leaving the bathroom, this man takes his daily pill: a twenty-milligram capsule of Lexapro.
A few weeks ago, I, a twenty-one-year-old, discovered something miraculous. Through some feat of biochemical engineering, a small circular white pill called Escitalopram made my days and nights a bit more bearable. However, there was a cost. Some things were added and other things were subtracted. Let's first discuss a particularly unfortunate subtraction: how desire is taken away in the most inopportune of times.
Our thirty-one-year-old man feels the full weight of this subtraction on his wedding night. I don't know what his bride looks or acts like, but let's assume she's pretty and kindhearted. She will also probably be on antidepressants herself since like attracts like. Who knows what her dosage will be, but, anyway, let's imagine the scene: our man, clad in a black suit, is sitting on a king-sized bed beside his newly-wedded wife who is wearing a flowing white dress.
The two of them are nervous by nature, but their nervousness is intensified tonight. They both know what is expected of them, yet they also know what will hold them back. An attempt is made: embraces are shared, lips touch, and kisses ensue. All this amorous activity lasts for a grand total of three-and-a-half minutes. Eventually, our man's lips get tired and he pulls away.
"I'm not feeling it tonight," he says.
"Neither am I," she says.
Here, an unspoken agreement is made. They will not pursue this any further. They are tired. After freeing themselves of their expensive clothes, they go to bed. It's only ten o'clock, and, as they fall asleep, neither one of them thinks about how sad this scene really is. They are both terribly accustomed to this lack of desire.
Moving on, there is a certain addition that is quite strange and it can occur whenever our man decides to sleep for the night. Let's set another scene: our man, clad in only boxers again, is laying on a full-sized bed beside his wife who is wearing underwear and a large t-shirt. They are both asleep until, suddenly, the wife is awakened by the sound of a door opening. She raises her head and looks at the bathroom door. It's closed, but the bedroom door is open. Now, she knows what is happening. She rises from her bed and crosses into the kitchen. Sitting on a chair, by the kitchen table, is our man. Moonlight, streaming in from a window, turns him into a fat silhouette. His most prominent shadowy feature is his bare bulbous belly. The wife stands beside him. He doesn't notice her presence. He is staring out the window and is paying her no mind. She places a hand on his shoulder and begins to shake him.
"Sweetie," she says, "sweetie, you need to wake up."
She keeps on shaking his shoulder. He grunts a few times, but, finally, he stands up. Once standing, he puts his hands to his face and rubs his eyes.
"I sleepwalked again, didn't I?" he asks.
"Yeah," she says, "you did."
Here, another unspoken agreement is made. Both of them believe this sleepwalking is terrifying. The wife believes she may be strangled in her sleep while our man believes he may walk out into traffic. Fortunately, this sleepwalking side effect is infrequent.
Lastly, it would be disingenuous of me to not mention the most all-consuming addition: tiredness. Whenever our man eats his breakfast, he is tired. Whenever he walks into the law office, he is tired. Whenever he consults with his clients, he is tired. Whenever he drives home, he is tired. Whenever he kisses his wife on the cheek after stepping through the front door, he is tired. Whenever his eyes are open, he is tired. Whenever he sleeps, he is tired.
I can only assume our man is accustomed to the tiredness and all the other mentioned and unmentioned additions and subtractions. He will survive, and, of course, I will too. However, I cannot help but envy our man. Time has passed and he has learned how to live. For me, this time is still waiting to be experienced. I don't have the luxury of ten years. I'm trapped in the present with my tiredness, sleepwalking, and lack of libido.
The funny thing is that, when I took my first pill, I envisioned a life that was better than the one I was currently living. I pictured myself being saved at sea.
Let's paint one final scene. Our man from the future won't appear in this one: I, clad in only swim trunks, am treading water in a vast ocean while a sailor, who is wearing a yellow rain-jacket and riding in a rickety skiff, approaches me and throws a life-preserver in the shape of a little white pill. I grab it and he pulls me toward his boat.
"You are saved," he cries.
In light of what I now know about Lexapro, the sailor wouldn't actually say this.
Instead, he would look at me strangely and ask: "You are saved, but what has cast such a shadow upon you?"