My Year On Antidepressants
What I discovered about myself while traversing the hazy landscape of prescription antidepressants.
Disclaimer: The information shared in this essay is based on my personal experiences with depression. It is not intended to serve as medical advice. If you’re experiencing symptoms of depression, anxiety, or suicidal ideation, please seek help from a qualified healthcare provider immediately. Your mental health is important.
“I had wanted life not to bother me too much, and had succeeded—and how pitiful that was.”
— Julian Barnes, The Sense of an Ending
In June, the fog in Southern California sets in while the rest of the country is fighting unbearable heat waves. Locals call it "June gloom," and it’s not what visitors expect at all in “sunny California.” The fog is especially thick near the ocean where it creates a wall of atmosphere that makes you feel like you’re floating in the clouds—a hauntingly cinematic scene.
Despite its foreboding name, I find a strange allure in the fog and mist. The gloomy June mornings draw me to the coast, where the boundary between land and sea becomes indistinct. The misty veil seems to whisper of other worlds, of escape from the mundane, stirring both dangerous and beautiful thoughts.
It was on a particularly foggy early June morning while I drove carefully through the contours of the Pacific Coast Highway when a disturbing yet familiar thought crept into my mind: what if I were to veer my car off this road and drive it straight into the icy cold Pacific Ocean? A romantic way to die which called to mind Virginia Woolf and her pockets full of stone wading into the River Ouse. It was a morbid fantasy, both terrifying and oddly comforting. I shook off the idea and focused instead on the intrepid cyclists on the side of the road who seemed to have their own death wish.
I wondered if everyone flirted with the thought of ending it all. What if this was just the normal experience of every adult with a painfully mundane and unfulfilling corporate job? It seems almost a rite of passage, albeit a grim one. For me, the thought of suicide always felt melodramatic, something to be physically shaken off like an unwelcome chill. But at that point, the bouts of suicidal ideation had come with alarming frequency and the chill had settled into my bones, resistant to any amount of shaking. I knew I finally had to do something about it.
A couple of weeks later, I found myself gnawing at my nails as I waited for Dr. Tammy Duong to sign on to the sterile, pixelated confines of Zoom. Going to the doctor is already a bit embarrassing, but signing on digitally somehow amplifies the feeling. It signaled a certain defeat—that things had gotten so bad that I couldn’t even muster the effort to put on real clothes and drive the two miles to her office.
“So, what’s going on,” Dr. Duong asked with measured patience as I stared back woefully.
Before the lump in my throat could fully settle, I replied, "I haven’t been doing well, mentally, and I—I want to get on antidepressants." I decided to cut to the chase; there was no point in beating around the bush, considering the state I was in.
As I recounted my recent morbid ruminations to the concerned face on my screen, I was struck by the absurdity of my situation. I had spent the better part of a decade diligently attending therapy and painstakingly excavating layers of trauma. So, how then did I arrive at this point? Sure the journey from trauma to healing isn’t supposed to be linear, but all those hours spent in psychoanalysis seemed to have led me not to enlightenment, but to a sort of purgatory. It's as if by exposing my wounds to the light, I've only succeeded in making them more raw, more painful.
My words, a stream of consciousness, felt cathartic, but I could see the lines of concern etching their way through Dr. Duong’s face. I paused to hear her thoughts and her suggestion caught me off guard.
"Have you considered taking a leave of absence from work?" she asked gently.
The idea sent a fresh wave of panic through me. To step away, to admit publicly that I can't "keep it together," seemed a fate worse than the quiet desperation I was enduring at that moment.
"I... I don't think that's necessary," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt.
Instead, I vehemently suggested we stick to the antidepressants and I nodded along to her recommendation of a course of Prozac, agreeing to report back on my progress.
As I closed my laptop at the end of the call, I was left with a sense of hollow victory. I had taken a step, however small, towards addressing the yawning ravine within me, but I couldn’t help but wonder if this would be enough to keep me on the road, or was I still driving towards that precipice?
The six weeks I was on Prozac felt like being submerged in a fog. I struggled to keep my eyes open during the day as a less cognizant version of myself had taken the reins of my consciousness. Conversations became labored; I could barely string words together, my thoughts coalescing at the speed of continental drift. I smiled mechanically through important meetings, forcing myself through the motions as though pushing a boulder uphill. I couldn’t have been more thankful for the slow summer workdays when things weren’t as demanding as usual, but even then, I felt like life was slipping away from me. My apartment became my cave — curtains drawn and lights set to a low dim. The color had drained from my skin, the result of days spent indoors, shielded from the sun.
Ironically, as my alertness dulled, my driving took on a reckless edge. The anxiety that once gripped me at the intersections of the busy Los Angeles streets evaporated, replaced by a cavalier attitude on the road. I found myself making last-minute left turns as lights flashed from yellow to red, my newfound audacity a stark contrast to my otherwise muted existence.
But the drug’s sedative pull was relentless. Days blurred into one another, a haze of sleep that became unbearable. The breaking point came after I slept for 16 uninterrupted hours during a workday, waking in a panic to missed calls and slacks. I realized then I could no longer afford to be so zonked out and still maintain my responsibilities. I returned to Dr. Duong and asked for something that would do more than just sedate me.
At our next appointment, I laid it out plainly: “I feel like I want to die, so sleeping all day is only barely stopping me. I need something that actually makes me want to live.”
After some deliberation, we settled on Wellbutrin, which is affectionately dubbed the "skinny, happy, sexy” drug in certain online circles. The effects were immediate. Within weeks, I sprang out of bed with newfound energy, sleeping only a few hours each night, which I welcomed gladly after nearly two months as sleeping beauty.
Wellbutrin silenced the cacophony of thoughts in my mind, but it also muted everything else with it. The emotional pain that had once been sharp and persistent was now a dull throb, blunted along with my other emotions. My once quick wit now idled like a computer caught in an endless buffering cycle. I found myself increasingly irritated by everything around me as though the sadness had been swapped out for anger and frustration.
I was trapped in what I could only describe as "the big dumb." Complex thoughts eluded me, sentences that once flowed easily now required long stretches of time to compose. I would sit at my desk, staring at the screen, trying to figure out how to construct emails and memos that might pass for the work of a competent professional. It felt as though I had traded my depression for a kind of mental stagnation.
After confiding to colleagues and friends, I found some solace in knowing I wasn’t the only one surviving work through a chemically altered state. I found out that almost everyone I knew was on some cocktail of SSRIs, SNRIs, and ADHD meds. We traded tips on how to survive insomnia and slowed cognition. My friend Hallie, who had cycled through a few meds herself before settling on one that aided her own nagging depression, suggested I might add Lexapro into the mix to help with sleep and my occasional bouts of anxiety. I opted instead for 10 mg of melatonin and I downloaded a to-do list app that sent a steady stream of reminders on my phone and computer to help me keep on track with my tasks.
The slowed cognition was one thing, but the most troubling and nagging aspect of my new chemically altered reality was my inability to cry. I was the type of person who cried at even the slightest whiff of sentimentality. Those heartwarming stories on reality competition shows where contestants would share their desire to buy their mother a house or get their family out of debt would always leave me misty-eyed. Doom-scrolling on TikTok in bed, I’d find myself muttering, “Why am I crying?!” as I watched videos of elderly people doing just about anything. Now, though, I view shows and movies with a newfound stoicism. I could still sense the stirrings of emotion, but my eyes would always turn up dry.
In a desperate bid to reconnect with my emotions, I channeled my inner Annie Dillard and embarked on a solo trip to Washington State in September, hoping that nature might stir something within me. I rented a small wooden cabin tucked between the evergreens of Skagit Valley, where I could confront my numbed feelings head-on. The cabin was austere, just one large room with a sizable window offering a view of the surrounding wilderness, and a bed that dominated the space. There was no television, no internet—just me and my thoughts. I sat in the center of the bed, trying to will the tears to come, but barely managed a single drop. I scribbled in my journal, paced the tiny quarters, and did whatever I could to conjure up something besides what felt like emotional static. Before the trip, I’d carefully curated a playlist of every sad song I could think of—from Lana Del Rey to Sade—and blasted it at full volume in the cabin. Nothing seemed to work.
Frustrated, I took to the road, driving for hours from Skagit Valley to Mount Rainier. I wound through mist-shrouded forests and along precipitous mountain roads, hoping that somewhere along those lonely miles, I might stumble upon the key to unlock my frozen emotions. During those long drives, I even entertained the idea of stopping my antidepressants, but then I would remember the nagging depression that lingered in the background, fuzzier now but still there, a constant presence.
I realized that antidepressants didn’t really eliminate the emotional pain; they merely dulled it, making it hard to grasp. It’s like viewing the world through the wrong prescription glasses—everything is still there, but blurred, indistinct. The reasons for how I felt remained lodged deep inside me, just beyond reach.
In the months following my short trip to the Pacific Northwest, I surrendered to the quietude that Wellbutrin imbued within me. My bouts of anger and irritability had gradually drummed to a placid calm. My reports to Dr. Duong were filled with cautious optimism, and we maintained my modest 150 mg dose.
I began to embrace the routine, dutifully applying the workarounds for insomnia and slowed cognition that I had gleaned from my friends, becoming one with the rhythms of my medicated existence. As days melted into weeks, the memory of my pre-medicated mental state began to fade. Rereading my journal entries from the height of my depression, I found myself cringing at what now seemed like melodramatic excess, my former self a stranger penning gothic novellas for God knows who.
While I reveled in this newfound stability, I chose to ignore the root of my depression, which lingered like a phantom limb. Instead, I directed my stoicism towards navigating the treacherous waters of office politics, seeking a larger bonus and a raise. The prospect, which once might have spiraled me into a typhoon of self-doubt, now barely registered on my emotional radar. I meticulously drafted an email outlining the year’s accomplishments—achievements I had not even fully acknowledged to myself. My role had expanded to encompass duties once handled by multiple people. I had hoped that securing a raise and bonus would alleviate the burnout, a significant contributor to the depression for which I was now medicated. Yet, when the pay bump and bonus were finally awarded, I was met with a disquieting void. The anticipated relief failed to materialize, leaving me emotionally unmoved.
It wasn't until a particularly grueling month at work—replete with setbacks that seemed to worry nobody but me—that I experienced what could only be described as an epiphany, albeit tinged with a surrealist blur. For roughly six months, I had been laboring over what I was told was a seminal project only to have the proverbial plug pulled without so much as an explanation. In the past, this sort of thing would’ve sent me reeling, but this time I was blessed with a moment of clarity. Despite the weight of the project, no one had asked me to work as hard as I did. I had been the one to erode my own boundaries by spending sleepless nights on something that nobody else seemed to worry about so much. The words used to describe the work didn’t actually match the real urgency of it. It was me who filled in the blanks with obligation — pressuring myself to meet an unspoken standard.
My relationship with work mirrored my relationship with everything else. In my foolishness, I believed everyone else had everything figured out except me. I assumed I was the one falling behind when in reality, I was doing more than was asked of me at almost every turn. The realization seemed so obvious. All this time, I was suffocating not because of the weight of living, but because of the weight of my own expectations and assumptions. I had eroded myself until I was gossamer-thin and then wondered why my body was revolting, drawn to the cold, weighty call of the ocean's depths.
While therapy had unearthed the roots of my trauma, it hadn't equipped me with the tools to move forward. I had naively hoped that understanding the reasons behind my dysfunction would magically cure my self-sabotage. Instead, I found myself erecting even more barriers, sinking deeper into a pit of my own making until I lost sight of what had initially brought me there. My sense of inadequacy had become so all-consuming that it left little room for anything else.
The stumbling block at work served as a stark reminder that most people prioritize their own comfort, especially when faced with challenges. I had gotten it all backward, and despite my newfound awareness, years of ingrained habits made even the thought of putting myself first feel like a betrayal. The realization was both profound and mortifying. I couldn’t believe how much time I had wasted and the damage I had done to my physical and mental well-being.
In the week following this realization, I experienced a profound shift in perspective. The upcoming vacation I had booked months earlier—one I had been dreading due to its inconvenient timing during a particularly hectic season—now filled me with an unexpected sense of delight and opportunity. The weight of corporate expectations, which had once threatened to crush my spirit, seemed to lift, however temporary this feeling, I welcomed it with open arms. I saw this break not just as a respite, but as a chance to truly decompress and reset. Eager to share this newfound clarity, I reached out to my friend Hallie, who was my usual sounding board for work and life’s dramas.
"I'm actually going to fully log off for once. I might not even bring my laptop," I joked, amused by the sheer thought.
“I love this for you! Now, when are you finally going to leave that place?” Hallie shot back.
Her question hit a nerve, but not in the way it once would have. Instead of my usual defensiveness, I felt a flicker of determination. "I have a date in mind!" I replied, though, in truth, I didn't—but I thought if I spoke it into existence, it might become real.
"An actual date? What! I'm honestly so proud of you. Not even joking," Hallie teased encouragingly.
Buoyed by this newfound resolve, I scheduled another appointment with Dr. Duong. I was eager to share how the quiet provided by the antidepressants had allowed me to confront the real root of my issues. I was proud of my progress, but I knew my body needed further assistance, and I wanted to revisit the conversation we had almost a year prior when I could barely muster the strength to make an appointment. The prospect of a leave of absence, which I had previously dismissed, now seemed like a potential lifeline. I began to see it not as an admission of defeat, but as a bold reclamation of my time and mental health. I could tell by the sense of relief that Dr. Duong displayed on our call that I was on the right track and she couldn’t be more happy to support me along my journey.
While the specific circumstances that eventually liberated me from my corporate entanglement remain confidential, I can say with certainty that the realization that I was the architect of my own suffering was the catalyst. It set in motion a series of events and decisions that would ultimately lead towards living a more authentic life.
Antidepressants, it turns out, are not the panacea they're often purported to be. Rather, they serve as a bridge—a temporary respite that allows one to reevaluate the sources of one's suffering. I needed to quiet my mind to really hear what my body had been trying to tell me for years. “What about me?” It was screaming this whole time. My aches and pains, my anxiety, my lethargy, my feeling of doom and gloom, were all cries for attention it was sending me.
While I plan to taper off my meds soon, hoping my personality will reemerge from the fog. I anticipate seeing my flaws and quirks with a fresh, objective perspective. I’ve come to realize that the life I built—complete with its trappings of success and stability—was more of a facade, a carefully crafted image that barely scratched the surface of what I truly needed.
The idea of reinvention is both exhilarating and daunting. It’s like being on the brink of something new, a mix of vulnerability and potential. The path ahead is uncertain, and I’m under no illusions about the challenges that await. There will be days when the weight of responsibility feels overwhelming—when the comfort of old habits and the numbness it brings will be tempting. But with a clearer sense of self and renewed purpose, I feel better prepared to tackle these obstacles.
Ultimately, this journey from emotional stagnation to self-realization isn’t about reaching some idealized state of happiness or success. It’s about embracing the full spectrum of human experience and finding meaning in the struggle itself.
So, with a blend of trepidation and excitement, I move forward. The monotony of depression and unfulfilled potential has given way to the prospect of genuine living and given way to a wide-open landscape of possibility. As I step into this new chapter, I’m filled with gratitude—for the journey that brought me here, for the clarity that now guides me, and for the endless possibilities that lie ahead.
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❤️❤️❤️ thanks for sharing it.