It’s 6 p.m. and I wake up from a 4 hour nap, not even fully tucked in, lying sideways fully clothed in my bed. It’s June 1st, the sun is shining, my dog is next to me. As I come to, I stare at nothing. I feel nothing. I don’t know whether feeling super low would be better or worse, because the nothing feeling exists in a place with no hope. At least with deep sadness, there is some semblance of coming out of it, with the highs feeling extra high. This is not the first day that I have felt this way, I’ve let it go on for months now. Slowly, it has gotten worse, more flat, more hopeless.
For context, I was formally diagnosed with depression when I was about 24 (I’m 32 now). I tried out a couple of different SSRI’s, which helped briefly before sending me spiraling downward. After going on and off Prozac a few times, leaving my brain feeling zapped and my body motionless, I finally found a little bit of stability when I was prescribed Bupropion (also known as Wellbutrin). I’ve never wanted to be on antidepressants. I have always fought the idea of being on them for my whole life, though I haven’t fully understood why that is. Thus started a cycle of going on and off Bupropion. Once I start to feel better, I deemed myself healed without doctor or therapist approval and I quit cold turkey. Yes, I do wonder what that has done to my brain over time.
This last round was mid-pandemic. I was not well, so I talked to my doctor and got back on them. I started seeing a therapist, who was the best therapist I’ve ever had. We had six beautiful months together before I decided to terminate due to being “healed”. I told him I would be in touch when I need a little brain bump, knowing that I wasn’t (nor will ever be) fully healed and that at some point I would need some support. I stopped taking my antidepressants.
Adulthood and being the sole responsible party for myself has meant that I am better about utilizing my circle of helpers and healers, which I am proud of. Because when a slump occurs it is both the most important thing to do, and the hardest- reaching out to people and not isolating. But I still struggle with the idea of taking these meds every day, and I will wait until I am desperate.
Almost six months after terminating with my therapist, I am back in the cycle. Frantically calling the pharmacist to see if I have any refills lying around, sending my therapist an email letting him know I need him right now, scheduling an appointment with my doctor to get more refills. Will this cycle ever end. Why do I do this to myself?
I’m trying to reflect on why I find it so terrifying to take medication for the rest of my life. It’s not the stigma, I am adamant about refusing societal stigma around mental health. I am very open about my struggles with depression and anxiety. It’s not the physical act of taking the pill, I have a pill box that keeps me on track. I am starting to think it might be because right now, I know this will make me feel better. It’s as close to a sure thing that I have. So what if I do stay on it, taking these little pills everyday, and one day I wake up and feel flat? What if I have already gone all the way up in dosage? What if there is no other option? I don’t know if I can live with the idea that there is no more going up, there is no saving grace, I have to be flat for the rest of my life.
For now, I suppose I will pick up that prescription, fill up my weekly pill box, and see my therapist in a couple of days. I will try my best to be grateful for the helpers of the world, for the medications that do exist when I need them, for my friends and family who are my witnesses in this life.
