I tried the antidepressant Mirtazapine and was soon trapped in a relentless dream about the Smurfs.

Dear FDA,

The loony psychiatrist gave me a drug to sample that he said, if taken even in a small dose, would take care of my occasional insomnia and also perk up my spirits a bit. It is called Mirtazipine  Mirtazipone Mirtazapine (aka Remeron), and it messed my head up so badly I can no longer spell and now write love sonnets to Gargamel, the evil wizard from the Smurfs, in my spare time.

Write down "Mirtazapine" so that you NEVER TAKE IT, FDA officer! Is your name Gladys, or Bob? I would like to make this as personal as possible.

This drug is the most vile and evil poison since the invention of "roofies," "mickeys," and other potions favored by date rapists. I took 1/4 of a 15 mg pill Thursday night before bed. Within minutes, I was out colder than a whacked haddock and had started to dream about the fucking Smurfs. I was hanging out with Gargamel and his horrible cat Azriel. I wasn't even on the side of good! Gargamel's eyebrows sit on top of his misshapen skull like two fat black caterpillars. His hair is extremely oily.

Do you think I liked looking at this, Bob? Gladys? No! I did not.

"Jazz hands" would have looked a little less sinister, Gargamel. Just sayin'.

Note I say 1/4 of one pill. If I had taken the whole pill, I would probably have been swept into the Smurf Vortex FOREVER and Smurfette would be my best pal, and we would be texting each other some shit all the time, like about this Smurf and that Smurf, and how—oh God, this is all really horrible to contemplate.

I warn you, FDA officer, that this drug is bad news. At one point I woke up because one of my sons was crying, right in my ear. He was crying so hard he was blowing bubbles of snot. He gets growing pains in his legs and sometimes, at night, he wants them rubbed. I heard my husband groan: "Not again! I was up with him an hour ago."

I couldn't remember how to sit up. When I finally figured it out, I couldn't remember how to stand up. My legs looked like stuffed scarecrow legs, and I stared down at them stupidly. I tried to speak but all that came out was "wuh-no-no-no-no." I slumped back into the bed.

This time I had dreams in which I read entire books of 17th-century poetry, ate buttered toast from a giant toasting rack, and was allowed to visit the Smurf village and consort merrily with the Smurfs in fields of daisies. They seemed to accept me and forgave the fact I had so recently spent time with the wicked Gargamel (whom I missed, as he had been something of a father figure to me).

After sleeping and sleeping like the dead through noises of all kinds, and perhaps even a fire (who knows?), I finally awoke to a blistering headache and a hideous hungover feeling, as if I'd been up all night doing shots of Jagermeister. I spent all day feeling like hot, groggy poo, and nearly walking into walls. Plus I feel like the Smurfs may have stolen some of my IQ and are using it to brew new potions to tempt unwary depressives and anxiety sufferers.

I hate medications. 

Into the garbage with ye, Mirtazapine! Badbadbad poison. Smurf go 'way. Make a note of it, Gladys!