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

By Belinda Luscombe

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.

In fact, being on Ritalin was like landing in Manhattan and assimilating in fast-forward. First you feel confusion, then a little exhilaration and then, after a few days and a few more milligrams than is recommended, all-out aggression. As I walked down the streets, I didn't even see the tourists. I just saw the line I had to pick through them to get where I had to go. I stepped out in front of cars that were shooting through the lights, threw myself on to subways and cursed gratuitously. I had to apologize to one poor lunch companion, a journalist from out of town who wanted advice on working in the city and whose chances of success I outlined a little too graphically. I told him I had just started taking Ritalin. He told me he took it instead of a disco nap to go clubbing. Wait. We're putting what percentage of the nation's kids on this drug?

But if I was becoming a New Yorker squared on Ritalin, I was doing it without any big-city jadedness or ennui. Nothing seemed too hard. All my deadlines were invigorating, and all the work I had to get done to meet them lay like a playground before me. It was going to be a hoot. I didn't get the work done any faster, but I never felt intimidated or overwhelmed by it.

On the other hand, I didn't get it done any better either. I think I might have done it worse. There was an engine driving me and no moment of rest. Watching TV was almost impossible. I couldn't sit still, could not even derive pleasure from our household's favorite pastime, mocking David Caruso's cadences on CSI: Miami: "Where's [long pause] your vault?" I kept wishing Deadwood were on. Now that's a Ritalin-friendly show.

I definitely got more done, but it was at the cost of those moments when, while doing nothing, you have a great idea or find a solution or arrive at the perfect headline. I had no great ideas on Ritalin. I had some really bad ones, like chasing the pills with two vodka gimlets--my teeth felt itchy for hours--but it was all movement, no color. My life became like a bad soccer game in which there were lots of goals but no thrilling play on the field.

By the way, that's the kind of incisive sports analysis that lands you on TV. And I'm keeping a few extra pills handy, just in case.