Antidepression medication is temperamental. Somewhere around fifty-nine or sixty I noticed the drug Id been taking seemed to have stopped working. This is not unusual. The drugs interact with your body chemistry in different ways over time and often need to be tweaked. After the death of Dr. Myers, my therapist of twenty-five years, Id been seeing a new doctor whom Id been having great success with. Together we decided to stop the medication Id been on for five years and see what would happen... DEATH TO MY HOMETOWN!! I nose-dived like the diving horse at the old Atlantic City steel pier into a sloshing tub of grief and tears the likes of which Id never experienced before. Even when this happens to me, not wanting to look too needy, I can be pretty good at hiding the severity of my feelings from most of the folks around me, even my doctor. I was succeeding well with this for a while except for one strange thing: TEARS! Buckets of em, oceans of em, cold, black tears pouring down my face like tidewater rushing over Niagara during any and all hours of the day. What was this about? It was like somebody opened the floodgates and ran off with the key. There was NO stopping it. 'Bambi' tears... 'Old Yeller' tears... 'Fried Green Tomatoes' tears... rain... tears... sun... tears... I cant find my keys... tears. Every mundane daily event, any bump in the sentimental road, became a cause to let it all hang out. It wouldve been funny except it wasnt.Every meaningless thing became the subject of a world-shattering existential crisis filling me with an awful profound foreboding and sadness. All was lost. All... everything... the future was grim... and the only thing that would lift the burden was one-hundred-plus on two wheels or other distressing things. I would be reckless with myself. Extreme physical exertion was the order of the day and one of the few things that helped. I hit the weights harder than ever and paddleboarded the equivalent of the Atlantic, all for a few moments of respite. I would do anything to get Churchills black dogs teeth out of my ass.Through much of this I wasnt touring. Id taken off the last year and a half of my youngest sons high school years to stay close to family and home. It worked and we became closer than ever. But that meant my trustiest form of self-medication, touring, was not at hand. I remember one September day paddleboarding from Sea Bright to Long Branch and back in choppy Atlantic seas. I called Jon and said, Mr. Landau, book me anywhere, please. I then of course broke down in tears. Whaaaaaaaaaa. Im surprised they didnt hear me in lower Manhattan. A kindly elderly woman walking her dog along the beach on this beautiful fall day saw my distress and came up to see if there was anything she could do. Whaaaaaaaaaa. How kind. I offered her tickets to the show. Id seen this symptom before in my father after he had a stroke. Hed often mist up. The old man was usually as cool as Robert Mitchum his whole life, so his crying was something I loved and welcomed. Hed cry when Id arrive. Hed cry when I left. Hed cry when I mentioned our old dog. I thought, Now its me.I told my doc I could not live like this. I earned my living doing shows, giving interviews and being closely observed. And as soon as someone said Clarence, it was going to be all over. So, wisely, off to the psychopharmacologist he sent me. Patti and I walked in and met a vibrant, white-haired, welcoming but professional gentleman in his sixties or so. I sat down and of course, I broke into tears. I motioned to him with my hand; this is it. This is why Im here. I cant stop crying! He looked at me and said, We can fix this. Three days and a pill later the waterworks stopped, on a dime. Unbelievable. I returned to myself. I no longer needed to paddle, pump, play or challenge fate. I didnt need to tour. I felt normal.