Anxiety: We worry. A gallery of contributors count the ways.

This is the sixth installment of Going Off, a series of Anxiety posts chronicling the author’s attempt to wean off the medications she takes for depression, anxiety and insomnia.

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I joined Tinder. I did not plan to date while tapering off antidepressants, benzos and sleeping pills. But nor did I plan to go through a breakup.

I am going through a breakup. Now I’m in two kinds of withdrawal.

I know it’s too soon to start dating. At least, I know I’m not at my most datable (“Nice to meet you! I’m trying to get off my psych meds and over my ex!”). But Tinder feels good. Tinder, with its festive sound effects, floods my brain’s reward center, just like bupropion.

I swipe left on three men who share a name with my brother, on five who share a name with my ex-boyfriend. I swipe right on someone whose name is Okay.

On Tinder, men claim heights well over six feet. They scale mountains and cannonball into pools. They play hard and don’t take life seriously and want a partner in crime. In New York City, I never meet towering optimist-adventurers. They exist only on dating apps.

In another sense, Tinder simulates reality quite well: All that swiping is like standing in a crowd, scanning 50 people in a minute, thinking, that face could make me happy and that one might be able to and that one could if it didn’t remind me of a person I know who annoys me and that one — no. That one could not. Swiping right on someone’s profile means, “You could make me happy.” To swipe left is to say, “I don’t believe you could.”



I left-swipe a profile that reads, “Normal seeking normal.” In one profile picture, a guy in a tuxedo makes out with his bride. I swipe left. I swipe left on three men who share a name with my brother, on five who share a name with my ex-boyfriend. I swipe right on someone whose name is Okay. One man aims a pistol at the camera. I swipe left, afraid. Another man, back-dropped by palm trees, smiles with his eyes closed. I swipe right. He looks so peaceful.



Photo

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Years ago, I accidentally drove into the side of a house. Flustered, I backed up and drove into it again. Is that what I’m doing on Tinder? Backing up from one painful relationship, promptly accelerating into another? In 20-plus years, I’ve never been without a boyfriend for more than a couple of months. I’m the woman whose friends are always telling her, “Why don’t you try being single for a while?” Why don’t you try backing up from the wall, applying the brakes, assessing the damage?

There is shame in serial monogamy. I’m not supposed to need a man. I’m not supposed to chain-smoke relationships. There is shame in medication, too. They say there isn’t, but there is. I can feel people flinch when I mention my meds; I feel them pause and recalibrate. We’re not supposed to rely on outside sources. We’re not supposed to medicate our moods — with pills or romance or tequila or sex. We’re supposed to validate ourselves from the inside. We’re supposed to be enough for ourselves.

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I was planning to cut my benzo again, but I’ve decided to wait until I feel stronger. Right now, I want to cling to the little bits of medication I have left—150 milligrams of bupropion, .5 milligrams of Lorazepam, 25 milligrams of Trazodone. I want to circumvent my grief. I want every quick fix. I want to fix myself. I want to fix all broken things. I wanted to fix my relationship, but that proved unfixable. On Tinder, I want to fix strangers. I want to tell them, Ask someone you trust if you look good in a baseball cap. If you removed those mirrored sunglasses, you’d get more matches. May I correct the spelling in your profile description? I get a message from a guy I think my friend Sarah would like. I ask him if I can set him up with her and he agrees. I am thrilled.

Instead of ignoring one guy’s vulgar message, I tell him, “For future reference, when writing to a woman you’ve never met, if you use the word ‘horny,’ you’ll scare her off.”

“Thanks for the tip,” he responds.

I feel good about that exchange, about the honest communication, about the feeling that I contributed something to the world. Or at least to the women of Tinder.

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Depression and heartbreak are blood sisters; they bleed into each other, become each other. My skin aches. I sleep fitfully. My chest hurts. Midafternoon will come and I’ll remember that I haven’t yet eaten. The tapering was wretched enough without stirring a breakup into the mix.

My friend Suzie tells me to open my mouth. She squeezes two drops of something called gem essence onto my tongue. “So you’ll have more compassion for yourself,” she says. My friend Shelly tells me to talk to myself the way I talk to my 8-year-old niece.

Related More From Going Off Read previous contributions to this series.

If my 8-year-old niece were an adult, if she were trying to taper off her psych meds, if she were suffering a broken heart, I would tell her to come over and hang out on my couch. I would wrap her in a blanket. I would hug her and kiss her. I would say, “Enjoy Tinder if it makes you feel good, but the second it makes you feel bad, stop.” I would say, “You’re stronger than you think.” I would say, “I know you love him. He loves you, too.” I would say, “Forgive yourself.” I would say, “There’s nothing wrong with you.” I would tell her to get a good night’s sleep. I would help her find a therapist.

I call a therapist (not my psychiatrist) and make an appointment and feel some relief. I’ve been withdrawing from my meds without talk therapy, but I know how much I can handle alone; I cannot handle this.

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There are a lot of D.J.s on Tinder. A disproportionate number of men with puppies. A plethora of sleeve tattoos. A man inside a garbage can. Another standing naked by the sea, addressing the camera with his butt. Some pictures (a guy who appears to be traveling alone, another who appears to be dining alone, and one whose smile looks labored) make me feel so lonely, my tears drip onto my phone screen.

I swipe right on all the puppies.

I like Tinder. Is it O.K. to say I’m grateful for Tinder? But I’d rather have a Tinder party and invite every member, someplace dim and cozy where we can laugh about how we pretend and posture, how we use camera filters, how we hide our scars, how we’re all just trying to get through the day.

Read the entire Going Off series here.

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Diana Spechler is the author of the novels “Who by Fire” and “Skinny.” Twitter: @DianaSpechler.