I’ve reached 1 month without my meds. It wasn’t intentional, I wasn’t trying to get off them, it was just a mix-up with the pharmacy. Although it wasn’t intentional, I didn’t follow up as often as I should’ve because the thought of being “normal” again seemed like a good idea.
I’ve reached 1 month without meds, and I don’t feel too great. Again, I fantasize myself dying. Again, the smallest things trigger me. Again, I can’t go out in public without having a panic attack first. Again, I drive home wishing a car would hit me. Again, I overthink till the point that I can’t do anything else. Again, I’m not happy.
You see, anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds are often frowned upon. People who take SSRIs for mental illnesses are seen as weak and helpless. People don’t understand that mental illness is as severe and real as any other illness. People don’t understand that having a good day comes once in a blue moon for us.
If and when your medication, therapy, or personal cures finally help you, finally you have 3 good days in a row. Finally, you are grateful to be alive. Finally, you enjoy drives back home while singing your heart out. Taking medication is not associated with weakness or helplessness, rather it is a symbol of your strength have been able to admit, ask, and receive help.
Taking meds is the only reason I didn’t kill myself 6 months ago. And I’m grateful for it. Otherwise, I would’ve missed my first life-changing trip. I would’ve missed 182 sun rides and 182 sunsets. I would’ve missed the pink moon. My sister turning 18. The transition from fall, to winter, to spring. 182 days worth of smiles and laughs. 182 reasons to live.
One month without meds showed me how long I had been suffering without help prior to being diagnosed. At the time I thought it was normal to wake up with no motivation to live, no feelings of happiness, times where you wanted to die. I am strong because I sought help, I got help, after 6935 bad days, I experienced 182 good ones.