By “meds,” I mean antidepressants.
My immune system has endured enough damage from years of mental health struggles that began in my teenage years. I will still take medication when my body genuinely needs it—for fevers, colds, or pain—but no more antidepressants. And for that, I am deeply grateful.
I know that for many people, starting or stopping antidepressants may not feel like a significant milestone. They are normalized, woven into daily life. But for me, they came with severe consequences—persistent stomach pain, headaches, constant discomfort, and a body that felt perpetually under attack.
I never wanted to be on medication. I turned to it only when my depression became unbearable—when I truly could not survive without help. I believe I have lived with depression since I was 11 or 12 years old, perhaps even earlier. But 2024 broke me in a way I had never experienced before.
It wasn’t multiple thoughts—it was one single thought, looping endlessly. A thought that could stay with me for weeks, even months. It felt like living in hell. No matter how hard I tried to push it away, I couldn’t. The pain was relentless.
Even after a year of separation, the eyes of the person who pushed me into that state never left me. They haunted me—looking at me as if they could tear my soul apart. I tried again and again to forget, but I couldn’t.
Recently, I have moved on from her. I have resolved many internal battles. I won’t say I am perfectly fine—but I am stable enough to say this with certainty: I no longer need antidepressants.
The last two years have been brutal on my body—constant bloating, headaches, fevers, and allergies. I am exhausted. I am done.
The hardest part has been withdrawal. I was on 100 mg, and every reduction triggered severe physical reactions—diarrhea, headaches, fevers, intense body pain (especially in my calves and thighs, as if they were being torn apart), swelling, anxiety, weight gain, and uncontrollable cravings.
Doctors call these symptoms “rare.” But what is rare anymore? For me, nothing feels rare—neither pain nor achievement.
I have experienced what many never do—both extraordinary success and extraordinary suffering. I don’t curse life for it. I balance them. Pain and achievement exist equally for me. This is how I survive. This is personal—please don’t try to replicate it.
The coming fifteen days will likely be physically difficult. I will need rest. I will need space. I will need leave.
But despite everything, I am genuinely happy.
Because I won’t have to take those medicines anymore.