If you ask a kid on Ritalin if he's better off on the drug, he will invariably say yes. The boy won't act up in school, he'll concentrate and work on his studies, he won't demand that everyone's attention be on him all the time. This means that he doesn't get in trouble as much and he can do what everyone wants him to do: be a good little boy who doesn't cause any problems.

The reason kids get on Ritalin, for the most part, is because they are not being the nice little kids advertised on the pamphlet. The reasons they might be "acting out" are wide ranging. The way to fix it is easy. Give them a pill. Treat the symptom rather than the problem. The problem becomes internalized and the lesson becomes "a pill will make you better."

I do believe that there are many kids who would never get better no matter what adults do to fix them. The pill is the only way (without extremely drastic measures) to keep the kid from sliding down some deep dark hole nice little kids are not supposed to get into. But for the most part, we are medicating kids (and teaching them that this medication is a good and healthy way to fix their problems) so they aren't a problem for us.

This weekend brought on a crash of self-medication. Starting with a few drinks after work on Friday, I convinced myself that it would be a great idea to get really smashed and try to work on some writing I started back late December, but had left neglected for a couple of months. I drank a couple cups of coffee (on top of the margaritas and beer), finished off the Jameson's (there was only a shot left) and then proceeded to dust off another six pack.

Aside from a few small fixes, I didn't really work on my writing as much as I re-read the whole thing. But later on Saturday, because I'd read the entire story (about 50 pages single spaced), I began to figure out things I needed to fix and work on. Sometimes there is a lag between desire and productivity.

There was something in the air on Friday night because I heard stories from most of my friends about their nights of drinking. One started after work and didn't get home until 3 in the morning. Another drank until there was nothing left in the fridge. And even yet another pulled a binge on Friday, slept for a few hours, got up, went to work and was continuing to push through Saturday night.

I'm getting older. I can't do this all the time. It hurts. I lose sleep, feel like hell and then am mostly averse to doing it again (at least this weekend). When I was younger I could pull these things night after night. While I'd feel a little bad in the morning, it wasn't enough to stop me. But these days I just get so tired and worn down.

I meet people who love their Prozac, Zoloft and Valium. They testify like these are the wonder drugs of the new century. And all I can say is that pot seems to do the same thing, is cheaper and fun.

I don't have an answer this week, I'm just wondering--are we hiding from something here? Are we pushing ourselves to forget bad things or continually doing things that make us feel bad, so we need something else to cover up that guilt? Is drinking until four in the morning (oh wait, it's five because we're in daylight savings time) better than taking that little pill?

And if we're working for the weekend and this is what we do on the weekend (a great cover for accomplishing not much of anything except continually generating interesting small talk), then what are we living for?

Isn't there supposed to be some great survival of the fittest contest going on? Aren't we supposed to advance the species and figure out how to get off this planet so we can ruin a whole new one somewhere else? And if I ever finish this writing project I'm working on, and all these nights of getting blitzed and buzzed and blown actually add up to something, what should I learn from that?

All of this is good? All is well? Everything is fine?

If everything is fine and good, what are we trying to fix with all this self-medication? Or is that we just don't want to figure out what is actually wrong, we just want to forget about it all and feel good?

Matt Worley doesn't have the key to happiness hidden inside a little bottle.