Abby Normal: or, how do you work this thing?, part II

The article below (not written by me, I'm borrowing it not-for-profit) is a followup to my last post about home brain-zapping devices. This one is a "brain wearable" (I am not kidding you), which is some sort of ultra-sophisticated iphone that you strap to your head. Here it is described as all good, with no risks. It relaxes you, it invigorates you, it helps you think with blinding lucidity and get an advantage over the next guy with all the predatory grace of a Bengal tiger.

But as with taking a martini to relax and de-stress after work, one may be fine, but ten may be fatal. If you use this thing day after week after year, if you do in fact get addicted to it (and people get addicted to everything these days), how will you ever function without it?

What if your battery dies mid-thought?

Will it, in fact, REPLACE thought altogether, and induce a euphoric, highly-desirable, permanent vegetative state?

And (more important than anything!), will it enhance sexual performance? Can it be turned up or down to get just the right degree of stiffness (for no woman in her right mind would ever go near one of these; it's a strictly testosterone-driven trip)? Can it be adjusted for length of performance: one second; ten seconds; THIRTY seconds (to automatically drive your partner to moaning orgasmic heights)?

Think of it. Sex can be dialled up or down now, pre-set, and the gizmo can just take over for you. Call up your girl friend, tell her your problems are solved and you don't need that pesky counselling any more. I can see this taking Silicon Valley by storm.

Myself, I'm more interested in the Donald-Trump-obliterating aspect of the thing. There's a guarantee on this: says so right in the brochure, actually, but the risk to your cerebral cortex is considerable. One thousand frontal brain cells have to die to kill one memory of Trump.

But hey: who needs a cerebral cortex when you have an app that will literally reboot your brain?

Turn that thing up to eleven!

Thync CEO: Merging biology and technology will dominate this century

The story behind the miracle brain-zapping wearable

Wednesday February 18, 2015 By James Stables

Isy Goldwasser risked everything to launch Thync, the mood altering brain wearable that was the talk of CES 2015. When he quit his job at chemical engineering company Symyx in 2010, Goldwasser knew he wanted to create a device that could tap into the inner workings of our brains and emotions; the problem was, he didn't know how.

"It began with a huge risk. We knew there was a way to activate brain cells and pathways, but it was just a case of how. We wanted to give people access to their neural circuits," Goldwasser told Wareable.

The company's CEO is at his office in Silicon Valley. It's 9am and he's already plugged himself into Thync, his neurosignalling wearable for a shot of 'energy' Vibe. On the other side of the Atlantic, the Wareable office is about to go home, where – at some point in 2015 when Thync is released – we will be able sit down to enjoy a similar dose of 'calm' after a long day.

Like a futuristic espresso or a wearable technology whisky on-the-rocks, Thync is designed for those sluggish mornings or winding down after a long day. And Goldwasser's team are using it daily, and see others doing the same.

"I had the belief that we could find those pathways and tap into the delivered benefits. That meant I had to go looking for technology, and a lot of it didn't work," he explained.

"That's not being a smartarse. You go on a journey and try different directions. That's how you get ahead of the whole world."

On that journey Goldwasser met Dr. Jamie Tyler, a professor of Biological and Health Systems Engineering at Arizona State University. His 'U+ technology' made the product a reality, and Thync was born.
Choose your vibe

Thync is a small unit that works by placing small electrodes at the base of the neck. When you wear the device, a low current stimulates the nerves and cells in the brain, controlled by a smartphone app. You use the app to choose a "Vibe" to tune your brain too.

"We as humans aren't wired to call up our biology. But imagine if you could control your decisions when you want to, control your focus when you want to, or your creativity or self control, life would be a lot easier.

"We knew that Dr. Tyler had worked on ways from the outside in to activate nerves and brain cells. And we know that the pathways and networks make us everything we are," Goldwasser explained.

"So at the most basic level it began with the belief that if we have great people, we will find the pathways and network that we will tap into that will lead to benefits, to improve people's lives," he said.

What's more, Goldwasser said that the rise of Apple Health and Google Fit are paving the way for this kind of product.

"The proliferation of apps in healthcare mean that people are excited to do something different. Especially when it's an alternative to having a drink or taking a tablet, when those things are clearly unhealthy."

Whether Thync's indeed healthier isn't the decision of Goldwasser, it's that of the FDA, and the US medical regulatory body has done the company a favour by changing its guidelines over wearable devices.

"We're working with the FDA. It's great because they changed the guidelines last month, which separate what a wellness device is from a medical device. We certainly fit the wellness device category. We're non invasive. So we're in the right place with the FDA."

With FDA regulation off the cards, it means that Thync is on for a 2015 launch, though understandably, Goldwasser couldn't be drawn on the specifics.

Frontier psychiatry

The problem for Goldwasser was that the promise of a device that can put you in charge of your deepest emotions sounds too good to be true, and if it wasn't for his reputation, it may never have got off the ground.

"If it wasn't for my success at Symyx, no-one would have touched Thync. It was way too academic, it was a science experiment.

"I was really attracted to the frontier where biology and technology happen. Technology and biology will merge and react over time. If there's one frontier that will dominate this century, it's this one."

Biology and technology may be the future tech of the century, but here in 2015, there's plenty of it around. From advances in biotechnology, exoskeletons, cancer detecting bands to digital spinal chords, silicon and flash are melding. But unlike the emotion sensors, brainwave detecting gadgets and lucid dreaming wonder wearables, Goldwasser says that Thync is the real deal.

"What we have is unique, and while other companies are exploring the same area, one thing makes us different: we're not sensing. Sensing doesn't work. We activate what's already there."

It makes perfect sense, yet once the barriers of biology and tech have been broken down, could we go beyond energy and relaxation? Is it possible to go beyond emotions, and start helping people become better at sport or academically superior?

Goldwasser says that "the focus of Thync isn't on changing people, it's about giving them access to what they already have." However, that doesn't mean it's not possible to use the same techniques to unlock 'superhuman' powers.

"Theoretically, we could start making someone better. We're not going there, but people will."

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How do you work this thing?: Electroshock in the home

No kidding, the things I find. Now people are shocking their brain. They're buying these things on Craigslist or eBay, possibly used or faulty, and sticking electrodes on themselves because they heard somewhere that it "might help" with Parkinson's, depression, and whatever-else you want to get rid of.

The problem? There are no instructions! If there are instructions, they're probably badly-translated, like the How To Stop The Smoking thing I just posted. Unintelligible. So you have to guess at what you're supposed to be doing, or else go on one of those online forums. You know the ones I mean. A ragbag assortment of ill-informed opinions flavoured with paranoia about mainstream medicine.

This all seems about as safe as doing surgery on yourself, but in this era of home medicine, anything is possible and almost everything is unregulated. I can understand people's reluctance to go to the doctor. If I go to the doctor with a troubling symptom, s/he is likely to give me something to make the symptom go away. End of story. Whether it's pointing to cancer, heart disease or Parkinson's, symptom gone = patient well, or at least not complaining any more.

So I can sort-of understand this, but I'd never buy one, any more than I'd buy a used vibrator. It might short out on me and cause all kinds of trouble.

But if THIS shorts out on you, you might be in the worst sort of trouble.

Experts wary of electrical brain stimulation at home

BY ERIN ELLIS, VANCOUVER SUN MARCH 27, 2016 8:28 PM


Researchers are testing mild electrical stimulation to improve brain function and mental health, but warn do-it-yourselfers to be wary of treating themselves with models available online.

Dr. Fidel Vila-Rodriguez, director of the Non-Invasive Neurostimulation Therapies (NINET) Lab at the University of B.C., is starting to lend devices for home use to people with Parkinson’s disease and depression that will deliver a weak electrical current through electrodes placed on their temples.

The machines in his experiments can’t be adjusted above two milliamps — similar to the power created by two AA batteries. In contrast, some unregulated brain stimulators sold online can deliver about 10 times that amount of current, something he calls “worrisome.” It is an amount of electricity still small enough that users might not notice an immediate effect — or danger.

“You may feel just a tingling sensation, so the perception is of low risk, in part because of that. But the truth is we don’t really know about these unregulated devices,” he says.

Vila-Rodriguez’s research uses machines approved by federal authorities. “We’re using a bonafide medical device licensed by Health Canada.”

In contrast, products sold online with names like Thync and Foc.us are in a grey area, approved by no government body in North America. They are not classified as medical devices by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration or Health Canada. Yet their websites promise better brain performance, relaxation or energizing as desired.

Stanford University law grad and former UBC masters student Roland Nadler has a small collection of them which he doesn’t use on himself, but rather as examples of gaps in government regulations.

“These devices are a bit before their time. Or if they have a future, it’s almost always going to be with a professional intermediary,” says Nadler, currently a fellow at Stanford University’s Centre for Law and the Biosciences in California. “It’s too complex and sophisticated of a technology for most people to do at home.”

There’s an 8,000-member discussion group on the networking website Reddit about transcranial direct current stimulation, or tDCS, filled with home users asking each other how to use the gear, which comes with limited instructions. “What positions of the electrodes are used for depression? It is surprisingly difficult for a me to find a no bull**** guide on accurate placements. Can anyone help?” Or, more alarming, “How can I tell which cable is the anode and which is the cathode? Are the blues one and the whites others?”

Nadler says this sort of chat shows how difficult self-treatment can be. Placing the electrodes is a key step, and some sets make it easy to confuse the cathode, which is positively charged, with the negatively charged anode. Depending on the condition under treatment, the current must flow in a specific direction to a specific area of the brain. Reversing the prescribed flow of electricity could excite the brain when the user sought calming effects — a mistake someone seeking relief from insomnia, for instance, might not want to make.

“Getting the anode and cathode mixed up is serious business,” says the understated Nadler.

But the lure of better living through electricity is compelling for amateurs and professionals alike.

P. S. (or P. B.): yes, I know I just used this image, but it's great, isn't it? She seems like the kind of person who might stick electrodes on her head for a do-it-yourself version of electroconvulsive therapy. 

I wonder now, in this age when people become addicted to absolutely everything, if they might become hooked on these DIY brain-shockers. Or use it as a kinky sex aid, with role-playing: you be Frankenstein, I'll be the mad doctor! You be Bugs Bunny, I'll be the chicken! You be Jack Nicholson, and. . . you get the idea.

If ten volts feels good, could twenty feel even better? How about a hundred: will that erase all memory of Donald Trump?  If all that juice doesn't heal or treat anything, it might obliterate all trace of symptoms so you no longer care whether you're sick or well. Just keep turning up that dial, the one that goes to eleven. . . 

This could catch on.

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Stop the clock (short fiction)

“Marcie! Hey it’s good to see you!”

“Hi, Julie.”

Julie looked her up and down. Up and down, then smiled brightly, her eyes glistening like wet caramels. Then came the single syllable.

“Wow.”

It wasn’t a “wow” like “wow, is that your new car?”. It was a “wow” like, “What happened to your new car?” It had a tiny backlilt, an inflection that was just a little bit “off”.

Marcie knew it wasn’t a good “wow”. It was almost a disappointed “wow”, but strained through a sort of Facebook screen so she could never be pinned down or held responsible.

“Wow yourself.”

“Yeah.!” The “yeah” started off as a high squeal, then sailed down to a whisper.

Julie looked away for just a second with a sort of reflexive hair-flip, like something you’d do in junior high. Marcie half-expected her to start chewing on the end of her braid. Then she brighted herself again.

“So what are you, y’knowwww – “

“Oh, same old thing.”

“Did you ever get – “

“No.”

“So are you self-publishing now? Whatever happened to that novel? You know, the one about the cruise ship and the - ”

“That was quite a while ago.”

“I can see that.” (See what? “That”.)

She hair-flipped again. “So what do you do now exactly, you know? I mean.”

“The same thing you do, Julie.”

“Oh, of course!” She kept looking Marcie up and down, her eyes flipping from head to mid-thigh, though pretending she wasn’t doing it.

“You know, it’s been an awfully long time since we’ve seen each other, Julie.”

“Tell me about it!”, with a well-practiced “oh, yeah!” eye-roll.

It was then that she noticed something funny about Julie. Or at least, she thought it was funny. She had a sort of glaze over her, like something you’d pour over cinnamon buns, or maybe a shell of amber. Glossy. Her smile was glossy too.

Had she done something to herself?

Marcie believed that, as you aged, your face decided to go one way or the other. It either went Captain Kirk or Mr. Spock. William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy looked almost the same in the ‘60s, well, at least both of them had normal faces, and now Shatner was round as a pumpkin and Nimoy looked like a burnt-out old matchstick.

Skinny faces got fat, fat faces got skinny. Gaunt-looking people rounded out and softened, as if their inner selves were working their way out. The healthy-looking ones housing gaunt souls ultimately lost the battle of looking like someone else.

But there was a third possibility, and that was to stop. Stop time, stop the clock ticking. Marcie always thought there was another word for that: “death”, but apparently not, because everywhere she looked these days, she saw people who had decided to stop the clock

Except that there was a cost.

As Julie pretended not to look at Marcie’s burgeoning weight, the little dewlappy thing that hung below her rounded chin, the lizard skin on her arms, Marcie pretended not to look at Julie’s House of Wax immobility, the shellacked quality which was now considered highly desirable, even as she heard the creepy murmur of Vincent Price in the background.

Some even turned the clock back. Ageing backwards, which was really some trick. If they kept on going, they’d be fetal in a few years, or disappearing altogether, their molecules just coming apart: poof!

“So, I guess you have a pretty big one coming up pretty soon.”

“A pretty big one?” For some insane reason Marcie thought “bowel movement”.

“Birthday!” She almost sang it, lilting high on the first syllable.

“Oh, Julie, how did you ever remember that?”

“I did your horoscope, silly, don’t you remember? Look at that.” She plucked a hair off the shoulder of Marcie’s blouse and looked at it.

“It’s a hair.”

“Yes, I know, but it’s - “

“Didn’t your hair used to be -  wait, now what color was it, I mean before?”

“Before what?” Julie was starting to sound defensive. She could dish it out, but she definitely couldn’t take it.

“Before the Jurassic Period,” Marcie wanted to say, but she didn’t. All the nasty things she left unsaid were going to kill her, one of these days, like a great landslide falling down on her.

“You’re still slim,” she said instead. “How do you do it?”

“Oh! I cleanse. Every month. High colonics, they’re awesome! You just purge away all that gunk in your system. All those toxins.”

“I thought you were vegan.”

“Oh, but vegetables have chemicals on them no matter what, because of the water supply.”

“I still eat cows.” She was becoming extremely depressed. How to get rid of her?

“You’re going to kill yourself, Marcie,” Julie murmured, pulling out and using the appropriate facial expression before tucking it away again.

(“Yes, if this conversation goes on any longer.” Another rock in the landslide.)

“My grandmother ate cows.”

“But they were different cows.”

Marcie burst out laughing.  She couldn’t keep the laugh to herself.

“I should say they were.”

“No, you don’t understand, they weren’t GMO cows.” Marcie thought this was something about General Motors or something. Her lack of interest finally must have registered on Julie.

“Listen, sweetie, I have to go now, but I want to give you something" (rummaging in her voluminous shoulder-bag) “- or actually, a few things, they’re freebies from the gym, you know? And the salon and stuff. Take them.” She thrust a wad of things in Marcie’s hands with a tight smile, turned around abruptly and gave a little Liza Minnelli backwards wave over her shoulder before flouncing away.

Marcie stood in the street shuffling through her treasures. A coupon for Turbo-Charge Fat Blaster Weight Loss Supplement, $2.00 off the first 60 capsules. An ad for a 60-ounce mega-capacity twenty-speed macerating Power-Juicer, 90-day trial free of charge! “Look 20 years younger in 20 minutes with Botuline, available NOW from your dentist!” A little packet of shampoo from a trendy salon, something called Blow your Head Off!, to mask “the grey” (grey sounding as ominous as some creepy space alien, and as undesirable). An ad for dental veneers with a woman smiling like a piano, showing every blinding-white tooth in her head.

God, she must think I’m a disgusting mess.

Just plaster things on the outside, and run-run-run. It’ll catch up with you one day. Sooner or later all your molecules will come apart, never to be replaced. When your molecules do come apart, there will literally be nothing left. Is that why you draw back so hard, by trying to minus-out the years you’ve slogged on this earth? Keep hitting the reset button. But what about your mind? Can you erase that too? I suppose you can. It’s done in a slightly different way.

They were friends then, quite good friends, had many excited conversations about this and that, though they often had a barbed quality to them, a putting-down-with-eyeroll. It was necessarily for them to have a mutual enemy or threat in order to really get along. Julie seemed like a super-coper, always on top of every situation, so Marcie was stunned when she suddenly, floridly fell apart. She had always been a little frantic, but this was something else, as if the tiny dancing ballerina on top of the music box had gradually accelerated until it was spinning a million miles an hour. This wasn’t any penny-ante breakdown, it was wholesale craziness, hallucinations, delusions, the works.

That sounds awful, Marcie thought, just heartless! It was pain and suffering, for sure, but it was funny how everyone around Julie seemed to suffer more than she did. And it was her family who decided she needed “shock”, something her sardonic old great-uncle called “Edison’s medicine”.

The shock re-set her for sure, but things weren’t the same after that. It was as if some mute but powerful presence deep in her psyche said: not this way; THAT way, and gave her a huge shove in the direction of artificiality. This was the way to make it. This was survival, solace, and something she could be really good at. As the years passed, her new strategy dovetailed beautifully with what the culture expected of her: the new Julie was popular at last, and because of that, Marcie just faded into the background. Not that Marcie went backwards: Julie just turned and walked away.

Now, it was: Wow. Look at you. All right. I’ve made decisions, more compromises than I ever thought I would have to. I am no prize. For this reason, I have one less friend in the world, though I suspect I lost her a long time ago. Life is inherently lonely, isn’t it? Aren’t the sweet fleeting times the very worst, because of how they always go away?

And why is it that when things are good, I mean, really good – as sweet as they can possibly be - we are always the last ones to know? Better not to recognize such beauty, even in ourselves, lest we cry out to a heedless universe in last-ditch desperation and despair: "Freeze!"

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Why Carrie Fisher scares me

"I had ECT yesterday, & the main thing that I remember about it is (other than hardly anything at all) that when they dragged me on my little gurney to its resting place beside Dr. Kramer and his machine that will electrocute me to adorable wellness………


Dr. Kramer gazed down at me and said, “Let’s see how much glitter you have on today!” But after studying me briefly, he noticed that I was virtually glitter free. “Am I to assume that this is a sign that you’re depressed? Should we shorten the time between treatments?”

The bottom line is that to ascertain whether or not I’m depressed these days, you no longer have to scrutinize my bummed out or beatific expression———just check and see how much glitter I’m sporting on my eye lids and such…………

I still haven’t un packed my bags and bags of glitter……….the glitter I used or didn’t use in New York———because I can’t imagine where I can keep it. So there it is, in bags and boxes, in my bathroom, waiting for me to make up my newly electrocuted mind."

This is a truly-authentic-reallyreallywrittenbyCarrieFisher blog post about her ongoing ECT treatments for depression. Like most people who aren't living in a cave, I found out about this several years ago, but I had no idea she was having treatments every six weeks.

It scares me.

I have to backtrack here. . . It was even more years ago that I saw her on 20/20 doing an interview about her "breakdown" (a term I hate more than washing machines, which it should only be applied to) and subsequent recovery. Carrie, a sort of latent bipolar who had flown under the radar, probably suppressing her symptoms with masses of drugs and alcohol, had exploded out of the container in a supernova of mania that was rather dreadful to behold.

But Carrie seemed to be having a great time talking about it. Her gestures were extravagant, her voice plummy, her eyes like pinwheels. In other words. . . she was still manic. On nine drugs or something, but still. I think people should at least wait to be well before doing these things.

A few years after that, she took the worst of her life's turmoil, funnied it up and put on a one-woman show based on her apparently-harrowing memoir (which I can't bring myself to read yet), Wishful Drinking. On the cover is a passed-out Princess Leia, braided buns perched on each side of her head like Kaiser rolls.

I have a problem here.

I have a problem when human pain is turned inside-out and transformed into a gut-busting ha-ha. Mental illness is NOT a ha-ha, and can't be treated as such without perspective (and perspective equals time plus distance). It can't be treated as a ha-ha until you get some sustained relief, get yourself back, find a true path of recovery and (the most important part) STAY ON IT.

Who am I to say that ECT every six weeks isn't the path? I'm not here to judge or play psychiatric expert. But the statistics I've seen on ECT and permanent brain damage are alarming.

Peter Breggin, a psychiatrist who wrote Talking Back to Prozac in the early '90s when Prozac was the sexy, new, revolutionary drug that would make everyone better (even people who weren't depressed), is dead-set against ECT in any situation. He speaks of subtle but cumulative neurological damage, particularly to short-term memory. Fisher laughs this off, which is an admission that she is indeed suffering from it. She says she can see old movies all over again and they seem like new.

He speaks of the denial of damage as a symptom of damage, which made my hair stand on end. If I was really brain-damaged, would I know it?

I don't know what got me on to all this: I guess it was the Stephen Fry documentary where he travels to Germany to explore his love of Wagner. That got me on to his program about bipolar (which I have only seen in bits on YouTube, because I find it hard and heavy going). He speaks to Carrie Fisher, of course, who in her usual flamboyant, even histrionic way makes her agonizing struggles into a kind of heroic comedy.

At the end of the interview when Fry speaks to the camera, he seems disturbed, his voice tinged with what sounds like pity. The camera did funny things during the interview, zooming in on tight closeups of her hands (I think she was wearing 37 rings or something) and bizarre little gee-gaws all over her house. The music had that disordered, slightly strange quality. It was obvious either Fry or the filmmakers had made up their minds in advance that she was cuckoo.

I don't know what to think about all this. When she began her alarmingly frequent ECT treatments, she gained a huge amount of weight and topped out at 180, so she pulled a Kirstie Alley and signed on with Jenny Craig. Now she's not just a poster girl for drugs; not just a poster girl for drugs and bipolar; not just a poster girl for drugs, bipolar and ECT; but a poster girl for drugs, bipolar, ECT and weight-gained-because-of-ECT. Soon she will be a you-know-what for the miracle of weight loss through the miraculous cult of Jenny.

Carrie Fisher scares me. Whatever hobgoblins are pursuing her, she's running from them, with all sorts of things that seem OK, with humour, with one-woman shows, with books, and with controversial psychiatric treatments that shoot electricity through your brain so you don't remember anything (and don't remember that you don't remember anything). What bothers me most is that there is no way in the world some people WON'T consider (or reconsider) ECT because of what Carrie Fisher has said about it. She is beginning to reduce the fear around it. But should she?

There is a cost to everything, but our culture doesn't want to hear about it. It's hooked on quick fixes. Nobody seems to remember the huge fuss about Prozac in the early '90s: it has all been forgotten. Prozac was the future, and it was going to revolutionize society. No one would be passive any more. We'd all be aggressively confident, extroverted firebrands. None of the pathetic introspection that makes people paint or write poetry.

Not only that, but this was the first antidepressant that was virtually side-effect free! This was proclaimed after the usual few weeks of trials with a very small sample of patients.

The guy who wrote the Bible on Prozac was named Peter Kramer, which just makes me wonder about the name of Carrie's doctor. Just a coincidence? Anyway, when the first few awful side-effects trickled in, they were vehemently denied as atypical or even psychosomatic. According to the trials, only .01% of people had sexual dysfunction from Prozac, something called "delayed orgasm". But eventually, the numbers settled out at something like 40%. (The other 60% were too embarrassed to report it.) And as for that "delayed" thing, it was delayed until sometime next Friday. 

Then came, oops, more problems. It seems a lot of people couldn't sleep on Prozac because they were constantly hyped-up and wired, necessitating adding another drug which kind of rendered the Prozac ineffectual. Eventually a new phenomenon was born called Prozac Poop-out, and it had nothing to do with your bowels.

Meantime, other new drugs were flooding the market, so Prozac was more-or-less swept away in the flood. It's not used at all any more, considered ineffective and far too bothersome in its side effect profile (the very thing that was used to sell it in the '90s).

OK then, what's this near-diatribe really all about? Unfortunately, someone who is in the grip of a psychiatric crisis is generally unable to make wise decisions for themselves about treatment. They are extremely vulnerable and will grasp at anything that seems to make sense, up to and including the advice of a famous, charismatic but very damaged middle-aged actress. So: let the sufferer beware. Most especially, be aware that Carrie Fisher may not be the best role model for mental health. To be honest, I think she's a burnout trying to stay afloat, and it's not funny. I'm scared for her.

And she scares me, too.

 

Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book

    It took me years to write, will you take a look

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Shock and awe

I don't know, I just keep stumbling across things, and they're so interesting. So long as that keeps happening, I guess my brain will be alive, or relatively so.

Bopping around channels trying to find something remotely watchable last night, I fell into a Biography profile of Carrie Fisher. I watched it half-wincing and half-gawking: she has made of her life a sort of public freak show, a dramatic "look at me, world, I'm a courageous survivor," running parallel with a train wreck that is not always in slow motion.

Think of Carrie Fisher and you immediately think of her "iconic" (wince! wince!) role as Princess Leia (or however you spell it) in Star Wars. She was sweet and innocent then, but there was a wild look in her eyes: at times they were glazed, other times spinning like pinwheels.

She was more than an actress, which was probably a good thing during the long dry periods between roles. Her numerous novels, thinly-disguised memoirs with titles like Postcards from the Edge, The Best Awful, and Wishful Drinking, allowed her to write about her distorted life without really committing to the facts. "Oh, that's not really me, so it doesn't bother me," her Mom Debbie Reynolds breezily comments on the Biography show. Meaning, the devastating Shirley MacLaine portrait of her as a shrieking out-of-control drunk in the movie version just bounced right off her.

Oh, and the drugs. This is too complicated to take blow by blow (and I do mean blow). Early in her career she hooked up with Paul Simon, and they did a lot of drugs. Married a man who turned out to be gay. And did a lot of drugs.

And did drugs. And did drugs.

There were blurry allusions to something more murky going on, even between drug binges. I was jolted to see her interviewed on 20-20 some years ago, talking with great gusto and manic, glittering eyes about a massive psychotic episode she'd recently had, requiring hospitalization. She mentioned being on nine kinds of medication.

I have never seen anyone talk about a "breakdown" (a term I despise almost as much as "iconic") with such verve and even excitement. The drama obviously appealed to her. She talked about announcing to her friends that they were all going to have "a race to the end of my personality". It was grandiosity in the farthest extreme. Her eyes were glassy and her gestures almost violent. "I'm mentally ill!" she announced, like someone telling us she'd won the lottery.

But hey, she was well now, it was all OK (because these shows/articles always strain for the happy ending that the public demands). Eventually she popped up again doing a one-woman show which was also a (real, this time?) memoir.

Then, oops. It all got strange again.

In the present-day interviews on Biography, Carrie just looked weird, like a bag lady. She had gained maybe a hundred pounds and was wearing mismatched clothing, florals with garish plaids, and thick glitter on her eyelids. She looked like a drag queen with extremely poor taste.

She talked about having ECT (sometimes called "shock treatments") for an intractible depression, and raved about how well they had worked. I also dug up an article about how she had experienced profound memory loss and hated the way she looked, as if getting back your sanity was a tradeoff in which you lost great chunks of your identity.

Not a happy story, and it ain't over yet. There is still a raging debate over ECT, and those who are against it call it barbaric, a form of brain damage that should have been done away with decades ago along with insulin shock and ice baths.

The other day I posted about Janet Gotkin, a young writer who was ground into hamburger by the state hospital system in the '70s. Janet was subjected to numerous ECT treatments, and at one point personally requested them (which means they must have done some good). The story ends very strangely, with Janet taking a massive overdose of Mellaril which does not quite kill her. Somehow it reboots the computer of her brain and she is "cured", at which point she realizes she has been "fucked over" by the doctors, treated like a cipher and tortured by ineffective therapies. So she devotes the rest of her life to raging against the system.

I couldn't find anything more recent than 20 years ago, but by then Janet was raging again, this time about being an incest survivor, the diagnosis du jour of the early '90s.

I don't know if there's a point to all this. The vibrant but obnoxious and egocentric Carrie Fisher claims she has been "cured" by shock treatment, while at the same time looking and sounding like a badly-distorted version of herself. This isn't just ageing, it's something else.

Her speech is slowed down, and her eyes don't look normal (not that they ever have). Could it be that all the past drug abuse has caught up with her, and her brain has begun to fall in on itself? Why shock treatments, when there are gazillions of drugs out there to treat depression? Was it really depression, or an even more extreme episode of mania (which is always less socially-acceptable, especially for women)?

Carrie seems convinced that this worked for her and gave her her life back. Meanwhile we have the "anti" faction, no less convinced that ECT is a killer. The truth is that nobody really knows how it works. It's supposed to be less violent and intrusive in its present form, but you still wake up with a wet nightie and don't know where you are.

What part of you is humbled or subdued by this process, then: the nuts element, the raging craziness, the wild delusions? To put those down "once and for all", you have to be pretty forceful. One part of you has to be killed so that the rest of you might live. Or so the naysayers think.

Dick Cavett has also gone on the record to say that ECT saved his life. He was diagnosed with severe depression, but at a certain point in mid-life, that changed to bipolar disorder (as if it can take years, even decades, for the ravaging shark to really get hold of you). I don't know how many shock treatments he has had, or if he will need more. The brilliant writer William Styron described depression perhaps better than anyone in his memoir, Darkness Visible. But depression became his career, and he had to revisit the shock wards again and again before he died.

Don't tell me there's no cost to this.

Don't tell me there "might" be "temporary" memory loss.

This treatment has a price, potentially a very steep one. Worth it? I don't know.

Another thing occurs to me. (Oh, what a ragbag my brain is!) I saw an episode of House in which a man's memories had to be erased for some medical reason. So. . . they gave him ECT. Before doing so, there was a sad discussion in which the reluctant staff talked about the "cost" of the lifesaving process. "But his memories will be completely gone. How will that affect his identity?"

Finally they decided, fuck identity, we need to wind up this bummer of a show. They went ahead with the ECT, meanwhile putting out there in the culture yet another myth: that this treatment leaves you an emotional vegetable, your memory slate wiped completely clean.

Shades of Jack Nicholson.