My Life in and out of the Rough by John Daly

Author:John Daly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

The medications I was on were making me feel terrible. I had diarrhea all the time. I had headaches all the time. I was bloated all the time. I was jumpy and wired, then sluggish and lazy. I didn’t want to have sex. I’d call them and say, “This ain’t the right one.” And they’d put me on another one. Just as bad. I was feeling like shit all the time.

Then there was the whole “Team Daly” thing. I didn’t know they called themselves that until later, but they were this group of people—a nutritionist, an exercise therapist, a psychologist, a counselor for this, a counselor for that, I don’t even know how many altogether—who kept calling me all the time and having me come in for a conference and telling me what to do. There was no ignoring them either; if they didn’t get a callback, they’d just keep hounding my ass. I guess they figured that I was off on a bender or something. They meant well, and they were smart and decent people, but they were pushing me and poking me all the time to the point I felt like some kind of caged animal, being made to do tricks.

Finally, my doctor put me on lithium. That was the worst. Two days later, I was back in Palm Springs, playing some golf for fun at Indian Wells. I’m throwing up like every five minutes. I’m sick as a dog.

And I called them and I go, “There’s no way y’all are going to keep me on this shit.”

And they go, “Well, just try it. Be patient. You’ve got to stay on it.”

Well, I finally looked in the mirror one day late that summer and said, “Fuck the money. I’m killing myself taking this shit.” I really was. I was trying to stay on medication for the wrong reasons. For money. To keep a contract, so I could make a living.

But I knew I wasn’t going to make a lot of money in the future if I kept going the way I was going. I wasn’t drinking. I wasn’t gambling. I wasn’t playing golf worth a shit. I had split up with my wife. I didn’t have anybody in my life I cared about except my kids and my parents, and I couldn’t stand to have them see me the way I was.

The medications were destroying me. My cheeks were fat and bloated and splotchy. I didn’t know where my moods were going to swing next. None of my clothes fit. I couldn’t stand the way I felt and looked. And my golf game had turned to shit. I was a fat freak who could hit a golf ball a mile. That was it.

And I hated myself.

They say that antidepressants are supposed to level out your emotions. Well, I wasn’t a depressed person until I started taking that shit.

Look, with antidepressants I’d sometimes get headaches and diarrhea, and lose my sex drive, and all kinds of shit like that. But the worst thing is they sometimes made me more depressed.

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