I never answered that question, but I did get off Prozac after six months and have never needed to take it again. Maybe the whole experience of being something or someone else for a while forged a new appreciation of my old, contrary self — I was less quick to judge it harshly, and hence less likely to become so depressed in the first place. For me it was a curative, like an aspirin that dissolves a headache; I know Prozac can minister to the soul, but I realized I don’t want that — for the most part I want my soul to ache. Escapism via drugs is a luxury not meant for me, but for privileged folks removed enough from the real ravages of drug use to justify their indulgence. That, or escapism via drugs is another brick in the wall of impoverishment. I’m happy to abstain from both. Cozying up to a crack pipe or a dish of peyote is not, in my view, an honest attempt at living.