5 Guilt-Filled Days on the Big R, for Ritalin

Sunday, Jan. 08, 2006 By BELINDA LUSCOMBE

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It wasn't until I was in the limo being whisked to the studio that it occurred to me that it was probably a bad idea to go on live TV under the influence of mind-altering drugs. When I got the call asking me to talk about a TIME story on that night's late news, I was playing host to a 5-year-old's birthday party, with attendees who included Ella, Ella, Stella, Ale (pronounced Ellay), Elee (same) and Belle, the princess I had rented. I don't know if my suggestibility was caused by a surfeit of medication—in this case, Ritalin—or of liquid consonants, but I agreed to do it.

The Ritalin was supposed to make me sharper and prevent this kind of distraction. My pharmacological experience is rather shallow—I had a nasty SweeTarts addiction a while back that scared me off the harder stuff—but I knew that millions of kids with attention-deficit problems were on methylphenidates, as Ritalin and its cousins are known. I too have attention problems. I too am still maturing. Why shouldn't it work for me?

Lots of adults have started taking Ritalin, hoping it will give them mastery over their oversubscribed lives. Could I get my work done more efficiently? Could I make decisions more quickly? Could I just maybe tidy my desk? I wanted to see what it would be like to have focus, clarity, direction. So I found a friendly psychiatrist, whom I'm going to call Mark although that's only half his name. After giving me a long lecture on the risks of taking it, most of which I was too busy answering e-mail to hear, he sent me a prescription.

The TV appearance was at the end of my very first day on the big R, as we users call it. I have no clear memory of what I said, probably because I woke up three times that night, with a start, as if someone had hit me with a wet sock. At 3:10 a.m., I remembered I owed my mother money. At 4:12 a.m., I felt guilty about something I said to my son. At 5:14 a.m., I deeply regretted a headline I had written. Dr. Mark hadn't warned me about this: Ritalin is basically a drug that wakes you up to remind you of what a loser you are.

At work the next day, however, the TV bookers showered me in praise. The word adorable was used several times. The word funny was used. The words better than Diane Sawyer were not used, but I got the picture. Ritalin plus Ernie Anastos (a local-TV newscaster). It's a winning combo.

But it wasn't all sweetness and klieg lights. I was always thirsty. I was often hungry. When I walked down the street I would involuntarily clench and unclench my fists, as if I were the Thing. I woke in the wee hours so often I no longer bothered to wake my husband to tell him about it. And Ritalin made my toes hurt. O.K., technically it was the wall I was kicking that made my toes hurt. I was trying to get my kids downstairs to school, and they were moving with the speed of treacle on asphalt. This is their standard speed, but I don't usually take my frustrations out on the wall. My children, being New York City kids, simply shrugged. They've seen worse.