On strength, surrender, and the decision to try again
I came off my antidepressants about a month ago.
This isn’t new for me. I’ve done it before, and I’ll probably do it again. It’s cyclical, predictable — just one of those things I tend to do, and I’ve made some peace with that.
If you’ve been around for a while, you might remember my State of the Mental Health Address from a few months back — a post where I cracked open the bottle and let some of the darker stuff spill out. At the time, my depression had deepened to the point of physical symptoms. It felt like living inside a black hole. My doctor and I made a plan: double my antidepressant dosage and add a new medication to help with sleep and migraines.
Some things improved. I started sleeping better. The migraines subsided. But the depression? That didn’t budge.
At my next appointment, I told my doctor that I still felt overwhelmed and hopeless more days than not. Joyless. Exhausted. Like I was running a marathon every morning just to get out the door with the kids. Swearing under my breath. Crying on the drive to work. Everything felt like too much — and that was on a good day.
She switched my meds. We tried something new. I gave it a month.
When the pharmacy texted me to pick up the refill, I ignored it. Then I ignored the next one. And when the reminders stopped coming, I didn’t miss them. My logic was simple: “It’s not helping. Why bother?”
But here’s the thing: it was helping — just not enough for me to notice until it was gone.
Off the meds, the shift was unmistakable. I cried at songs in the car. Snapped over nothing. Lost interest in books. My moods — already unpredictable — turned into a wild ride: loop-de-loops, spirals, upside-down dives. On the meds, it was a mild rollercoaster. Without them, it felt like free-falling.
That Friday night, after a concert, I came home, opened the cabinet, and quietly took my first antidepressant in over a month.
Not because it’s perfect.
But because it’s something.
Because feeling a little better is better than feeling nothing at all.
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| My first dose again that night |
I know I’ll need to go back to the doctor. I know this isn’t the right medication — but it’s a medication. And for now, that’s enough.
The irony isn’t lost on me: when someone else opens up about their anxiety or depression, I’m the first to say it’s okay. It’s real. It’s chemical. There’s no shame.
And yet… I hide mine. Not because I’m ashamed, exactly, but because I’m trained to hide it. To perform. To smile. To show up.
I’m open about having depression and anxiety. But not about what it looks like in the hard moments. The ugly, unfiltered parts. The parts that whisper, you should be stronger than this. The parts that make asking for help feel impossible.
I pride myself on being functional. Capable. Strong.
So every time I stop the meds cold turkey, it feels like a test: Can I do this on my own?
And every time I go back on them, it feels a little like failure.
But maybe it’s not.
Maybe the real strength isn’t doing it alone — maybe it’s recognizing when you can’t. Maybe needing help isn’t defeat. Maybe it’s the bravest thing we do.
So here I am. Still standing. Still struggling. But also — still choosing to try again.
And maybe that’s what strength looks like right now.
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