The Life-Changing Magic Of Antidepressants
Five years ago, I would have raised an eyebrow at the idea of using medication to regulate my emotions.
Disclaimer: I’m in no place to recommend medication for every person who battles mental illness; each journey is different. My intention is to help debunk the stigma around mental illness and treatment. Medication is not the only solution, but it’s one of the many ways to overcome mental illness. By exploring all possible — and non-destructive — options, we give ourselves a fair chance at recovery.
Five years ago, I would have raised an eyebrow at the idea of using medication to regulate my emotions.
You see, I grew up in a Christian environment that constantly preached about the joy of God’s presence. People in my community didn’t talk about depression as a valid Christian experience. Someone who experiences depression simply didn’t pray enough or go to church enough. If you found yourself in a dark place, all you had to do was lift yourself up to the Lord.
I didn’t know depression and faith could co-exist. And so I believed antidepressants was not a very Christian way to treat mental illness. The news headlines about drug dependency and overdose added to my reservations about meds.
So. How did a medication skeptic like me become a person who writes about the “life-changing magic” of antidepressants?
It was a matter of seeing loved ones experience the very real effects of anxiety — and ultimately, experiencing depression myself.
In 2018, I grappled with depression for months before I admitted I might have it.
Depression doesn’t hit you in one instance. Rather, it’s a darkness that gradually spreads from within. Sometimes, that darkness manifests as depressive episodes or sudden breakdowns.
My earliest memory with anxiety happened in the wee hours of the morning.
I just came home from an office new year’s party. I entered the gate then took a few steps up the stairs. Mid-climb, I broke down in tears. I came from such a festive occasion, so why was I sobbing at 4 AM?
At face value, nothing bad happened at the party. It was a gathering of charismatic and likeable people from the TV industry. The thing was, their confidence made me hyper-aware of my insecurities. I was a timid Producer who couldn’t speak confidently in front of a crowd to save her life! So when a co-worker put me on the spot and handed me the microphone to share my most memorable experience in the company, I blabbered on about a depressing encounter — visibly killing the mood.
Stupid. I shouldn’t have said that. Did I sound lame? Why can’t I be witty or funny like everyone else at the party?
The moment replayed in my head over and over, long after the moment had passed. My negative self-talk quickly spiraled into self-hate. In the cab ride home, I had taken a deep dive into all the things I hated about myself.
Who obsesses over these small things? Why couldn’t I be as self-assured as everyone else?
I was 24 years old then. But at that moment, I felt like the same awkward 11-year-old that other kids teased and laughed at in grade school.
The next day, I couldn’t get out of bed. I was tired of “making progress” with my insecurities, only to fall back down at any trivial moment.
But days would pass and I would return to some state of normalcy. And I would convince myself that it was all in my head. That my depression wasn’t real.
The depressive episodes became more constant and destructive, especially after my father passed away in 2018.
Every day, I ping-ponged from grief anxiety, anger, and exhaustion. The depression came in unpredictable waves — from explosive fights with my girlfriend to dizzying breakdowns in the office toilet.
I walked around with brain fog that I couldn’t shake, no matter how much I tried to self-medicate with prayer, writing, and talking things out with my loved ones. It was a never-ending cycle of grief and depression and lashing out at people I loved.
I knew I had hit rock bottom when I found myself alone with my dark thoughts in a dingy hotel room.
I prayed and prayed for my depression to go away, but my body wouldn’t oblige.
So I just rode out the dark days. But I felt like it was only a matter of time until the next depressive episode would sucker-punch me on the face. Good days felt like the exception to my otherwise gloomy state.
This wasn’t the way to live.
Maybe, before God could heal me internally, I needed to accept external help. Beyond prayer, maybe I had to do the work.
So I took the first step and opened up about my struggles to my loved ones. To my relief, they assured me that my feelings were real. That it wasn’t all in my head. It was their assurance that gave me the strength to seek professional help.
I started to recognize that mental illness could affect anyone, regardless of their spiritual beliefs.
It took me more than 12 months to open up to the idea of walking into a psychiatrist’s office and getting a prescription. Still, here I was. Afraid of judgment and still a little skeptical. But also hopeful.
The doctor goes through a checklist of depression symptoms, to which I answer “yes” “no” or “sometimes.”
He ends up ticking most of the checkboxes on the list.
Afterward, he writes down a prescription for escitalopram, specifying the brand “Feliz S.”
The name reminds me of Felix Felicis — the lucky potion that Harry Potter drinks before going on a mission to get Professor Slughorn to divulge a memory.
The Harry Potter wiki page describes Felix Felicis as “a magical potion that makes the drinker lucky for a period of time, during which everything they attempt will be successful.”
I walk into the pharmacy and buy a month’s worth of medication, hopeful that I, too, will be successful in my attempt at overcoming depression.
The first days were uncomfortable, with bouts of nausea and a loss of appetite.
But then something magical happened.
The brain fog started to dissolve. The days didn’t feel as dreadful. Suddenly, I felt an unfamiliar lightness, which was the only time I realized how long depression was weighing me down.
The changes were subtle but I did feel the difference. And so did the people around me.
I sit next to my girlfriend at a Mexican fast-food restaurant during one of our midnight snack dates. I feel perky, bopping my shoulders to the background music as I wait excitedly for my burrito and milkshake, and being extra talkative.
My girlfriend says, “Can I just point out that since you started taking your meds, we haven’t had explosive fights in about a month.”
The external observation validates the change I’ve been feeling on the inside.
For the first time, I’m seeing the tangible changes from an intangible problem that started inside me.
Knowing what I know now, who am I to tell someone to pray more or “look at the bright side” instead of alleviating their fears of seeking professional help? If we were talking about a different illness, we wouldn’t just sit around and do nothing about it.
It took me years of unlearning misconceptions, but now I know prayer and action go hand in hand. And I’ve come out of the experience with more empathy.
It’s been less than 30 days since I started taking meds. I’m not yet out of the woods, but the light is slowly making its way in. I walk on, hopeful for the days ahead.
