By Elizabeth Wurtzel
Elizabeth Wurtzel released her memoir of melancholy, Prozac kingdom, to stunning literary acclaim. A cultural phenomenon via age twenty-six, she had repute, funds, respecteverything she had consistently sought after other than that one, actual factor: happiness. For all of her specialist luck, Wurtzel felt like a failure. She had misplaced acquaintances and fanatics, each journal activity she'd held, and approach an excessive amount of weight. She could not write, and her moment publication used to be overdue. but if her health care provider prescribed Ritalin to assist her focus-and enhance the results of her antidepressants -- Wurtzel used to be spared. The Ritalin labored. And labored. The capsules turned her sugar...the sweetness within the days that experience none. quickly she begun grinding up the Ritalin and snorting it. Then got here the cocaine, then extra Ritalin, then extra cocaine. Then i would like extra. I continuously desire extra. For all of my existence i've got wanted more... extra, Now, back is the brutally sincere, frequently painful account of Wurtzel's descent into drug habit. it's also a love tale: How Wurtzel controlled to wreck freed from her courting with Ritalin and discovered to like existence, and herself, is on the middle of this finally uplifting memoir that no reader will quickly fail to remember.
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Extra info for More, Now, Again: A Memoir of Addiction
I have no sense of how it has multiplied. Granted, occasionally I will chop up two at a time because the more powder I have, the more fun it is. But I don’t see how it has gotten to the point where I have a couple of weeks before I get a new prescription and I’m already out. I assume that perhaps the pharmacist miscounted, maybe he did not give me quite as many pills as he was supposed to. Although I normally fill all my prescriptions at Duane Reade or some other chain, since I’ve been down in Florida, I’ve been getting my Ritalin from some elegant little drugstore on the Upper East Side in New York.
Dogs are in it for the food, but they also need to love and be loved, they like to be scratched behind their ears and massaged on the napes of their necks—and when you cry, they’ll look at you quizzically and lick your lips and cheeks and eyebrows. But me, I’m more like a goldfish: pour the powder in the tank, and let me swim and blow bubbles. “Look, it’s no big deal. I mean I don’t need it or anything,” I say, back to trying to sound really cool. “You know, I cleaned up last summer, I’ve been clean ever since, I’m working really hard, I’m out of touch with everybody, and I just thought it might be fun to do again.
Sometimes, to try to conserve my doses and get maximum use of each pill, I will scrape out the bottom of the cup with a pen knife, I will try to make sure I use up every last bit of available powder. This kind of reminds me of those days of doing cocaine, when I would get to the bottom of the vial long before I was ready to stop. And I would use knives, straws, coffee mixers, stickpins, or needles to try to scrape the last bits from the inside of the cap, from the bottom of the barrel. Eventually, I would just put water into the vial, shake it up and drink it, hoping to get some small, scrawny high.