I’m Taking Antidepressants

Since the end of last year, I’ve been on anti-depressants. Sertraline, to be exact. 50mg every day for at least the next six months. 

To be honest, this is what I wanted when I started therapy back in the summer. But a few years ago my attitude would have been very different. 

I saw them as way to smoother problems rather than dealing with them

When I was younger, I used to be very against the idea of anti-depressants. 

I saw them as a symptom of a culture that was afraid of therapy. A way to smoother problems rather than dealing with them. Sure, if you were someone with clinical anxiety or depression - something literally in your brain chemistry that therapy alone couldn’t help - then they were a good option. Otherwise, I believed it was just the lazy way out. 

It’s interesting the opinions you can have about something that’s never been part of your personal experience. 

This changed when my then-partner went on anti-depressants. As you can imagine, going through an organ transplant is a stressful time, and she was dealing with major anxiety. When she had them recommended to her, I was against it. I was worried about her getting addicted. Or the side-effects being worse than what she was already going through. I believed therapy would be better in the long term. She was suffering, yes, but with her strength and my support, we could get her through it.

But she decided differently. And she made the correct choice. 

I could see the difference in her. Depression and anxiety come on so gradually that when the drugs helped pull her out of it the difference was remarkable. I hadn’t realised how much of her old self the anxiety had masked. 

Would she had managed the same thing without them? Probably, in time. But I saw now that what the anti-depressants had done was help her get her head above water, letting her climb out of her spiral and take control of herself again. 

I missed Me

When I started therapy this summer, I secretly wanted them to suggest I go on anti-depressants. I didn’t want to mention it. I think I didn’t want my therapist to feel I didn’t want to do the work. That I wasn’t that bad, and medication would be overkill. Maybe it was just my old prejudices showing their ugly head again. 

Or maybe I felt weak and didn’t want to have to admit I needed them. 

But I missed Me. Depression changes you. Knowing it’s temporary doesn’t help. I could look at myself, at my attitude and habits and feelings, and knew this wasn’t who I was. I had no energy. My sex drive was non-existent. I couldn’t write or do anything creative. I couldn’t even bring myself to watch new TV, instead spending the summer watching old YouTube videos and Star Trek TNG on Netflix. 

The way my therapist put it was there is only so much “happy” the body can produce to combat the “sad”. After too much “sad” has piled on for too long the body can no longer feel the “happy” it produces. What the medication will (hopefully) do is bring me up to a place where I can get my feet on solid ground and allow my continuing therapy to work with less resistance.

(For the record, these are my own simplified words. My therapist used a much smarter turn of phrase.)

And so, the big question. Am I feeling better?

So how is it going? I’m sure I hear you ask. 

Well, it’s been three weeks now, and I’ve been told it takes between 2 and 4 weeks for your body to properly settle into the course. Playing around with those brain chemicals doesn’t come easy. 

When it comes to side-effects, I’ve been relatively lucky. After carefully reading the leaflet I was a little concerned about some of the common possibilities. As it turns out, I’ve only noticed three of them. 

Fatigue. This has been the big one. For the first week I was taking the pills I was exhausted, barely getting through the day. Even since then I’ve needed a nap at least once a day to feel human. It’s gradually getting better, so hopefully this will fade. 

Muscle spasms. One thing I wasn’t aware of until my girlfriend told me, is apparently I’m very twitchy when I sleep. So that was fun for her. Hopefully by the time we get to see each other again - thanks Lockdown - this will have calmed down a little. 

And let’s just say I’ve had an… iffy stomach. Nothing as bad as the leaflet warned could happen, but enough to remind me that my body is going through something. 

And so, the big question. Am I feeling better? 

I think so. 

I can’t say I’ve noticed a huge difference in my mood, but I can’t deny I’m in a better place than a was. Being creative certainly has come back to me. As you can tell from this post, writing no longer eludes me, and reading has ceased to be something I have to force. 

How much of this improvement is the drugs, how much is the ongoing therapy, and how much is having a break over Christmas, I can’t say. But I’m certainly coming out of the fog that’s been my life for so long. Now it’s a case of finding a routine that will help me through and focusing on myself so I know when I’m doing okay and when I need to pull back on things. 

This is a long term process.