I keep my meds in a Captain Astro lunchbox purchased recently at the Fremont Sunday Market.
Captain Astro was a comic book space hero from the ’50s. On the cover of my box, he stands under a green moon near his rocket, in a space suit that appears to be made from a rubber tire.
What makes the tableau even more appealing, of course, is the slender siren next to him, similarly suited up.
In one of the box’s side panels, the beautiful lip-sticked space woman, ray gun in hand, brings to a swift close the life of a large grasshopper-like alien.
Altogether quite exciting.
A lunch box I would have chosen at age ten.
A perfect place to stash my bipolar meds.
Welcome to Meds 101, a crash course on living with psychotropic medication.
Today’s outline is simple:
MY MEDS
MY SHRINK
MY MEDS
I realize there is an element of repetition here.
Work with me.
First of all, I’d like to say how much I dislike the word psychotropic… psycho—tropic. It’s hard enough having a mental illness without your meds calling you names.
Picture this.
A beach in Bahia, Brazil, and Eva Longoria from Desperate Housewives wearing next to nothing and holding up a pill bottle. “Are you feeling a little down?” she whispers. “Wouldn’t you like a… psycha-tropical?”
Pan to her cleavage and then to the waves.
In a perfect world.
According to Wikipedia, a psychotropic “acts primarily upon the central nervous system where it alters brain function, resulting in changes in perception, mood, consciousness and behavior.”
We’re talking drugs like Prozac and others, as well as cocaine, pot, and heroin, and surprise, surprise, caffeine, and even catnip.
Yes, kitties go psycha-tropical.
But seriously, today’s lesson is about meds for therapeutic use, though I realize the point could be argued.
George Looney, a man whose unfortunate last name is enlivened by his sense of humor, is a speaker on a DVD about recovery from the National Alliance of Mental Illness (NAMI).
“I take a lot of meds,” he said. “My meds are the mix that makes me me.”
I think of Looney on the nights that for any reason I’m tempted to skip my dose, too tired, too discouraged about a side effect, too depressed—whatever.
The mix that makes me me.
My best chance to thrive.
Best chance of having a decent day.
A good talk with a friend.
A job.
You get the idea.
Last spring, a colleague and I were giving a talk on mental health at Seattle University. A student asked, “How has taking meds changed your life existentially?”
My co-speaker blanched.
I waded in. “Well, prior to my diagnosis, I might take an aspirin or a Tylenol for a headache and sometimes a decongestant for a cold. Now, I take 19 pills a day. That’s a big difference.”
I don’t just take them.
I have to find a way to pay for them.
My current med cocktail, not including the herbal supplements, costs about $750, the cost of a small studio apartment in Ballard.
If I lose my insurance for any reason or have a gap in coverage, I’m in trouble.
I have been extremely lucky so far.
It has helped immensely to have kind, well-informed doctors and staff at my pharmacy.
“Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name, and they’re always glad you came.” Some of you may recognize those lyrics—part of the theme for a show in the ’80s called Cheers.
The bartender always slid a beer down the bar to Norm (played by George Wendt) the minute he walked in.
The regulars would shout, “Norm!”
Okay, no one serves me a brewski when I walk into the pharmacy in the Safeway on top of Queen Anne.
No one slides a bottle of Depakote down the counter.
“Nome!”
I think only one person knows my name.
But I feel comfortable and in safe hands. I highly recommend this caliber of pharmacy. Existentially, if you’re going to be a lifer on meds, you’ll be going to one a lot.
If I was a prof teaching this Captain Astro Meets Medication class, I would now talk about categories of meds, all of which sound like space terminology, including mood stabilizers, MAO inhibitors, anti-cyclics, beta blockers, and SSRI’s.
Let’s just pretend that I did.
Google those terms, especially, the ones that relate to what you’re taking. It’s essential to know what you’re on, what it’s supposed to be doing for you, and what side effects you might have to deal with.
I used to think that was my shrink’s job.
I was right. And wrong.
It’s my job too.
A neat segue into the MY SHRINK part of my outline.
A typical visit in midtown Lake City Way. I sit down on the couch and note that his collection of geodes has been dusted.
As always, nothing appears to have been moved.
I relax.
Everything is as it should be.
He glances through his most recent notes. On the floor is another stack of yellow-lined paper about me that is the size of War and Peace.
Everything is as it should be.
He looks up. “How are you?”
He really wants to know.
If you are as fortunate as me, you also picked the $10 million ticket in the psychiatrist lottery.
Your shrink calls you back within 24 hours, studies constantly so that he or she is aware of the current meds available, and has a heart.
 Your doc has never stopped believing in you or your ability to have a stable, abundant life.
When I was struggling through grad school, he would often preface a statement with, “When you get your Masters...”
He said it with a confidence he could not have faked.
Like Disney’s Dumbo, I held on to that phrase like it was a feather that would allow me to fly.
Until fly I did.
A shrink isn’t supposed to be your friend, but if he or she feels like kind of a distant uncle or aunt on your second cousin’s side of the family who has mentored you since birth, you’ve got it good.
I’m well aware that many don’t.
Finally, the last segment of today’s lecture: MEDS.
The reason I’m repeating this topic is because, as I’m sure all you pill-takers know, taking meds is about repetition. 
Taking something over and over again. 
Each week I refill my a.m. and p.m. pillboxes and hear the little plastic-y sound of capsules hitting the bottom of the containers.
A few things I know for sure.
I am making my life possible with each tiny click.
I am Captain Astro.
No, the hip space chick.
I am unholstering the ray gun that will hopefully keep my symptoms at bay.
ZAP! ZAP! Depression.
ZAP! ZAP! Mania.
With every med I take.