Antidepressants That Make Me Feel Like Myself Again
Past Sofia Bodo
CN: Antidepressants, depression,
feet
I had done it all: self-care, counselling, CBT.
Friends had rallied around and and then disappeared as the yr turned; I had adult coping strategies which promptly failed; I would feel better, and then sink back downwardly again like a rock. The cramps of angst and sadness in my heed kept their excruciating rhythm.
I was xviii years old. I was in my last year of school, and about to jet off to the Big Wide Globe of University. I was nigh to allow my passion for literature to go wild, and make friends for life, and take unforgettable experiences.
And yet I wasn't happy.
I didn't desire to grow up; not however. Academy was always a afar target – and and then suddenly there it was, right in front of me, and I was hurtling towards its smirking, gaping jaws with nil to stop me. I wanted to cling to my old life and go back to being a half dozen-twelvemonth-old in primary schoolhouse, when my but worry was when my colouring failed to stay inside the lines. I wanted to construct academia and adulthood from Lego bricks and then, when I was tired, to dismantle it all back into its box and erase it from existence. I didn't want it to be real. Not yet.
"I couldn't solve the problem myself. Talking couldn't solve the problem either. So what was left?"
My fear led to eventual conversations with my Caput of Year, and my English and History teachers. Their advice and support is something I will never, ever forget, and I endeavour to laissez passer it on, as best I can, to others who may need information technology; but the roots of my worries and sadness sadly yet remained. I spoke to my doctor, to mental health professionals, to people at school – and nil inverse. I couldn't solve the problem myself. Talking couldn't solve the problem either. And then what was left?
What was left was the unspoken; the shocking and forbidden powdery fruit that hung from the boughs of reluctant prescription trees in the darkest corners of the local pharmacy. One 24-hour interval in spring, I walked to my doctor and told him everything. I explained my depression and anxiety were not getting any better, and I was worried near my time to come, and I had already tried everything except the fruit just he had a licence to option. I remember the hesitancy in his fingers as he typed the prescription; each letter of the alphabet a break that lingered a niggling too long, equally if he was giving me the hazard to halt the proceedings, terrible every bit they were.
When the pharmacist presented me with the small box in a perverse proposal, I could almost hear the falsetto giggles of the collection of tablets as they passed from her hand to mine. I couldn't believe information technology had actually come to this. I was actually going to accept medication for my mind.
I put off taking them until the afternoon, only in case. I wondered if, at present that I and so close to actually taking medication, my depression and anxiety would realise the game was upwardly and give up. I imagined them raising their arms in defeat, halting their gruesome troops from inflicting any more than impairment, and and then quickly fleeing from my mind forever, as if they finally accepted they weren't going to win this battle, and there was no reason for a continued struggle on their part.
But they didn't. My sadness connected. My panic once more reared its repulsive head.
And so I reached for the tablets.
I opened the parcel, and there they were; row upon row of petite white impressions, lined upwardly like gravestones in the cemetery of unmedicated, unregulated emotion. And they were minor! Too small, I thought, to actually change annihilation. I doubted whether something and then minuscule would ever exist able to conquer the vast troops of darkness which raged eternally inside my head. It was impossible. They would just make things worse, wouldn't they? They might cause me to become fully mad, or physically sick, or confront even more extreme sluggishness. They could atomic number 82 to my globe being utterly dismantled.
"They were minor. Too small, I thought, to really change anything."
My heed raced with such poisonous possibilities, all encapsulated inside the tiny pearl-white oval I gently held between my fingers. I could feel the lettering on one side; the smooth void on the other. Should I; shouldn't I? The age-old question of doubtfulness rang most my ears like tinnitus every bit I poured a glass of water.
I permit the tablet lie on my natural language for a brief, peaceful moment; felt the sweet glaze deliquesce into tastebuds until only a kernel of nausea remained. I was and then violently scared.
'In that location'due south time to become back', I told myself. 'It'due south time to terminate this nonsense – yous're not really depressed, you're but pretending; you don't demand meds, y'all're merely going to make yourself ill! Why don't you abound a backb-"
I swallowed, and waited.
I am quite open, at present, about taking my tablets; if people tell me that they have been unhappy for a while and counselling doesn't work for them, I will happily reel off all the many positives of taking anti-depressants. Perhaps I am just trying to persuade myself that it was the correct thing to do. I know that I am nevertheless hit, sometimes, with a tidal wave of regret; I desire to stop taking them immediately, and become back to normality. Merely actually, in taking these tablets, I've felt far more normal than I ever did earlier.
I was so worried about the negatives that I failed to consider any possibility of a positive affect. And these tablets, these little bursts of Sertraline I accept every morning, accept given me so much positivity; to an extent I idea I would never feel. And even so, I'yard still me, even though I take anti-depressants. I still have the aforementioned feelings and passions and obsessions; merely I feel ameliorate about them. I experience better most my choices. I experience better most me.
And that makes all those trivial worries and panics and moments of sadness nigh my tablets worthwhile.
📘
Header image past uwepost
Second image by frolicsomepl
Source: https://blueprintzine.com/2017/01/25/antidepressants-made-me-feel-like-myself-again/
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