Depression was always something I heard about with others. It was always that thing that would never happen to me, but soon enough, I found myself living in a hollow shell, living in emptiness. I found myself dying to feel any emotions— happiness, anger, sadness, brokenness. Anything. I found myself going through the motions. I found myself living in excessive daily exhaustion; too tired to sleep; too tired to close my eyes; too tired to live. I found myself wanting to die more and more every day. I did not myself depressed… I found myself broken.
Depression was so much more than I had ever realized. I had only known the self-injury, self-loathing, and sadness, but depression has very little to do with sadness and more to do with emptiness. After months, I came to the realization that I felt no passion for anything in my heart. Writing for years, I suddenly lost all motivation and creativity to write. I suddenly lost all my vibrance. I lost that sparkle in my eye. My favorite band on the planet is Paramore; I saw them in concert. Even being 10 feet away from Hayley Williams didn’t stir a single emotion in me. I laid in bed every day, staring at the ceiling, because I was just too tired to get up, even too tired to sleep.
And so, I started anti-depressants. I hated it. Firstly, I was terrified that I’d get addicted. I was afraid to turn into that story. “Well, she was an honor student, really nice, really good, but then she started meds, and it went all downhill from there.” I was afraid to be that girl. Secondly, I was afraid to start a reliance. I was afraid that I could never find the will or strength just from within me just to continue to live.
The process of beginning anti-depressants is an interesting one. You describe your symptoms to your doctor. They prescribe Zoloft. Well, Zoloft makes you lose creativity. So, you start Lexapro. Well, Lexapro makes you gain weight. So, you start Prozac. Well, Prozac makes you tired. So, you start Celexa. Celexa seems to work well. You still feel creative, but you don’t want to kill yourself anymore.
That’s my story. I went through several different medicines before settling on Celexa. One made me gain weight. One made me lose creativity (and I’m pretty sure it re-wired something wrong in my brain). One made me even more tired (which I wasn’t sure was even possible. I took the medicine for a while, until my then-boyfriend continually told me that I was weak for needing medicine. He told me that I was weak because I was depressed. He told me that I shouldn’t take medicine. So, I went off of them. It’s been about a year since I stopped taking them.
It’s been so long. I did so well, but then 2016 was. . . well, 2016 was 2016. My boyfriend left me (really ended up being more of a blessing). My best friend left me. I had no friends at college. My roommate situation wasn’t good. Those feelings returned. I lost motivation to go to class. I lost motivation to do anything. I lost hope. I thought I had lost myself. I really didn’t want to start on medicine again; it had been nearly a year. I was doing so well before. I shouldn’t need to go back on the medicine. I also worried because most of my creative flow was powered by my sadness.
Tonight, I took my first pill again.
So, this is my message: It’s okay if you’re not okay. It’s okay to seek help. It’s okay if that help comes from medicine, exercise, friends, whatever. It’s okay if you’ve been good for a while. It’s okay to relapse. You’re human. You’ll be okay.
The relapse is okay. You’ll survive. You’ll be okay.
