Wish there was a pill to perk up your grumpy hubby? There is... but it comes at a cost By Cosmo Landesman Last Christmas, my girlfriend Jane decided not to get me a new iPod, as I'd requested. She didn't even buy me her usual underwear-and-socks combination gift. Instead, I woke on Christmas morning and unwrapped a small box to find three silver foil packets, each containing 20mg green-and-yellow capsules of fluoxetine, also known by the name Prozac. 'Merry Christmas, darling,' she said. I thought it was a joke at first - but one look at her stern face proved she wasn't laughing. So why was my loving girlfriend of two years giving me Prozac, a drug usually prescribed for depression? What was her problem? Her problem was me. For I have what therapiststerm 'anger issues' - what you and I might call an extremely bad temper. Why was my loving girlfriend of two years giving me Prozac, a drug usually prescribed for depression? When I wasn't shouting, I was silently seething or sulking. Anything could tip me over the edge. But that just made me a classic middle-aged grump, didn't it? Admittedly, I was always anxious - about money, my career, growing old, my appearance. You name it, it made me anxious. My head was filled with gloomy thoughts, and I often felt melancholic. As I turned the pill packet between my fingers, the reality of my situation began to sink in. Here I was, with a beautiful woman whom I had driven so far to the edge that she thought Prozac for Christmas was the only answer. In the early days, I managed to hide my moaning, miserable side from Jane. She thought she was getting a funny, attentive, sweet and loving man. But it wasn't long before my dark side emerged. It was only recently that Jane confessed she had harboured fears that something was seriously wrong with me for almost the entire length of our relationship. Not long after we got together, my father died. Jane kindly offered to drive my mother, brother and me to the funeral. You might imagine a death brings families together. Not mine. We had long been a volatile clan, but tensions between us had grown as the years passed. It was made worse after the collapse of my second marriage in 2009. 'It was then that I looked at Jane's face and saw it: a look of fear and incomprehension, a realisation that the sweet man she was in love with was not all that he seemed' Broken-hearted, I moved in with my parents for what was meant to be a short stay. Then my father, 87, had a heart attack, and I decided to stay on and look after him. But my presence inflamed my mother, and we would have daily rows about everything from me using her kitchen at the 'wrong' time, to hanging out my underwear on her garden balcony to dry. She'd scream at me, I'd scream at her. So, as we drove to the crematorium, Mother and I soon got into a fight. I felt this was a day that should be all about my father. But Mother thought it should be all about her. She called me a 's*** of a son' and I called her a selfish cow. These were the more printable insults. Suddenly, something inside me snapped. I lost it big time. Stop the car! Let me out! I screamed. And then I screamed, again and again and again, each time louder and more hysterical than the last. I shook from head to toe with rage. Jane confessed she had harboured fears that something was seriously wrong with me for almost the entire length of our relationship It was then that I looked at Jane's face and saw it: a look of fear and incomprehension, a realisation that the sweet man she was in love with was not all that he seemed. From the first moment I met Jane at a friend's party, I thought she was the most attractive woman in the universe, and I the luckiest man in the world to have found her. Yet now and then my inner maniac would come out. Romantic evenings would end suddenly with what Jane called 'The Cosmo Flounce'. We'd be having a lovely time until Jane would say something that I took the wrong way. I'd respond with: 'That's it - I'm leaving! We're finished,' and flounce off into the night. Jane put up with this for about a year before giving me an ultimatum: 'If you don't change, we're finished.' And so we tried to change me. I started off on a weekend course in anger management, paid for by Jane. She came along to keep an eye on me. We spent 48 hours hearing a roomful of angry people telling their life stories, confronting the ghosts of their past and bashing pillows while screaming: 'You bastard, you bastard!' or 'Mummy, I hate you!' Then it was my turn. I was asked to summon up the pain of my past and take it out on the pillow. It was ironic that I, who angered so easily, suddenly couldn't let it out. I felt intimidated that people were watching - so I faked an outburst, like a woman faking an orgasm. Therapy didn't last long: 'Here I was spending a fortune on dinner and she was moaning about a card! Nuclear was the only option On the drive home, Jane and I had a row. I felt the whole thing had been a waste of money. After all, it had cost us more than £200 each. We continued our quest. I tried yoga, meditation and chanting. I read books with titles such as How To Stay Calm and Destressing Your Life. Eventually, I sought professional help. Therapy was very useful in understanding the roots of my fury and melancholy. I confronted the source: my relationship with my parents, whose unorthodox lifestyle (they were wild bohemians with an open marriage) had caused me much embarrassment and distress. I would often find their lovers in our house the next morning - and so would my friends, who would give me a look of pity when they saw my parents holding hands with strangers. I realised I could never get them to change their ways, but I did hope I could get them to compromise a bit. On one occasion they were due to appear at my school, a tough working-class comprehensive. It was during the late Sixties and they had entered their hippy phase. I pleaded with my dad to wear a suit and for my mother to wear a bra. 'Please, can't you look normal for just one day?' To the amusement of my classmates they turned up looking like the oldest swingers in town - my dad in black leather trousers and sandals with purple toenails, my mother in an Afghan jacket, miniskirt and 101 bangles. But they could never accept the way I was. Instead of recognising my feelings, my parents casually dismissed them, branding me 'uptight'. And so the seeds of an anger that followed me into adult life were sown. 'While I'm still taking Prozac, I'm only having one every few days' My therapist helped me to confront how I truly felt, and then gave me a series of soothing mental scenarios - for example, sitting in the park with my younger self, soaking up the sunshine - that I could summon up when I felt angry. But was I cured? After six months of treatment I certainly felt different. Jane even called me the perfect man. It didn't last. A few days after finishing therapy, the awful me returned. I had taken Jane to an expensive restaurant for her birthday. Over starters, she teased me about not buying her a card. I felt my neck redden and my hand tighten on my wine glass. Here I was spending a fortune on dinner and she was moaning about a card! Nuclear was the only option. 'I've had it with you,' I screamed. 'We're finished!' and flounced out. Perhaps it's not surprising that Jane turned to Prozac for answers. I didn't like the idea. I know men who have taken such drugs. They'd all told me they found happiness, but lost their libido - one of the side-effects of anti-depressants. I didn't want to end up a smiley robot with no sex drive. But, on the other hand, a healthy sex drive wouldn't be much good to me if Jane ended our relationship. I acquiesced and began taking the medication. After just eight weeks, my rages stopped. Things that once bugged me just didn't seem to matter any more. Prozac had drained me of all my emotional toxicity. Jane was delighted: 'You're so much better to be with. Promise me you'll never stop taking those pills.' My son declared: 'Dad, you've chilled out at last. What's happened?' When the small supply of pills Jane had given me ran out, I went to the doctor, who gave me a prescription. And so, for a whole five months, we didn't have a cross word. My anxiety disappeared. I stopped flouncing, and sulking. I felt like a new man. But as time passed, I noticed some curious side-effects. I became dreamy and would zone out. I'd be at a dinner party and would stare into space for up to 15 minutes. I discovered that Prozac was lowering the volume and volatility of my emotions - and not just the negative ones, like anger, but love as well. Instead of passion, all I could feel was a warm, fuzzy contentment. I missed the rollercoaster ride of love. And, after a time, the effectiveness of the pills seemed to be wearing off. Splinters of irritation were reasserting themselves. 'I'm taking a new course, in cognitive behaviour therapy, where you talk through your feelings to retrain the way you think. But until I manage that, I think for the sake of true love, I'll keep on taking my medication' I realised the bad me had not disappeared, but was merely in a drug-induced sleep. I worried that any minute, he would awaken and ruin everything between Jane and me. These fears had terrible consequences. I'd take one, two or even three Prozac a day. I was afraid to see anyone, even Jane, without popping a pill. At dinner parties, Jane would have to apologise to the hosts for my uninterested dreaminess, and when we got home I would have to apologise to her for my lack of interest in sex. Then, after six months, we had a row. We were clothes shopping and I was narky about the fact she kept wanting me to try on suits. But even though I didn't flounce, raise my voice or do any of my usual wild finger pointing, our argument proved to me there are no instant fixes. I had fallen for the modern myth that you can just pop a pill, alter your personality and solve your problems. So while I'm still taking Prozac, I'm only having one every few days. I think I'm much better on them than off, and so does Jane. But I also now realise that chemistry alone cannot make me the man I want to be; only I can do that. I'm taking a new course, in cognitive behaviour therapy, where you talk through your feelings to retrain the way you think. But until I manage that, I think for the sake of true love, I'll keep on taking my medication.