The Wake

A year ago, life was good. I had just graduated high school and was about to go to a stellar college. I had a ton of really badass friends. I was dating a boy with whom I’d been obsessed for three years, who was also attending the U of M. I had moved out of my father’s house, and we were finally patching things up. And I was finally, finally leaving the stifling boredom of Manhattan, Kansas.

But I was sad consistently and unsure of why. When I was with my friends or boyfriend, I was trying to figure out why I was so unfufilled. When my mom, my best friend in the world, told me that she loved me and that she would miss me when I left, I mumbled “ditto” or something equally as meaningless and left the room.

The thing is, I knew all along what was happening. I had been treated for depression when I was a freshman in high school, but had gotten off the medicine when I felt better. After reading some article about how America was over-medicated, I started to hate the fact that I had been one of the doped-up zombies the author was talking about. So I chose to suffer.

That was a mistake on my part. After a summer of being unable to make me happy, my boyfriend broke up with me. My best friends moved away to the far corners of the country, and I didn’t say goodbye to them because I couldn’t express something I didn’t feel. In college, I made friends relatively easily, and was doing well in my classes, but I spent every night crying in the stairwell of Middlebrook Hall, getting pitying stares from the security monitors. After two months of this purgatory, my mom convinced me to go back on antidepressants.

Now I am upset over the ignorance of others every time I hear some condescending motherfucker telling me that America is overmedicated and we all need to man up and deal with our problems. Fuck that. Why the hell shouldn’t I have taken medication? I took all the appropriate steps before medication. I talked until I was blue in the face with everyone important in my life, not to mention a professional counselor.

All I felt at that point was a constant loneliness, despite the fact that I was surrounded by people who loved me. Avoiding becoming a statistic even became unavoidable. According to the National Institute of Mental Health “most people with a depressive illness do not seek treatment.” All I wanted was to be able to enjoy my life, I still don’t see a reason why that shouldn’t be socially acceptable.

I suffered from a milder form of depression, called dysthymia. In general most people would agree that those with severe cases of bipolar disorder or depression need medication, and in those cases, anti-depression medications are seen as one of the best solutions. So when does it become okay for someone to get on medication? Schizophrenics are not the only ones who are allowed to have medicine, nor should one have to be suicidal to warrant medical help. It is also important to consider that at this point it might be too late to recover completely.

Anti-depressants are considered dangerous for exactly this reason; because depression can’t be measured. There’s no test or definitive indicator that tells a doctor that his or her patient needs medication. This does not mean it doesn’t exist. Just because the pain isn’t physical doesn’t mean it’s not real, or that it shouldn’t be treated. Depression and bipolar disorder are just as real as any other diagnosable illness. A medical professional would never tell a cancer patient to get some counseling, or maybe pick up a new hobby. And while depression isn’t cancer, it is still an illness with serious mental and sometimes physical manifestations.

The apex of the argument between those who support antidepressant use and those who don’t is this: most people don’t understand that antidepressants are like other forms of medications. Why is it so hard to see? Doctors prescribe pain killers when their patient has gone through physical trauma that’s putting them in pain, along with physical treatment for whatever the injury or illness was.

The public should acknowledge that anti-depressants could help people who are in pain and accept them for what they are: a tool that could help you, along with truly dealing with your problems, to feel better. Taking anti-depressants and coming to terms with whatever has caused the emotional pain that warrants them are not mutually exclusive, and it’s time we stop assuming they are. Mental illnesses should be treated exactly the way physical illnesses are; with careful diagnosis and a variety of treatments that maximize the comfort of the patient while working towards permanent recovery.

Yes, I realize it’s possible for patients to get addicted to anti-depressants, just like it’s possible for patients to get addicted to painkillers. And I realize it’s possible that doctors may be over-prescribing anti-depressants just as they’ve over-prescribed antibiotics for decades. But we sure as hell don’t disregard painkillers and antibiotics in cases in which they’re needed.

It’s easy for me to look back now and realize how stupid I was for ignoring the relief I knew medication could have brought me. But at the time the voices telling me that pills weren’t the answer were loud and convincing. It took me a long time to realize that anti-depressants don’t make people zombies; depression does. Anti-depressants, along with counseling and life changes, if necessary, are key to ending the depression so commonly felt by myself and countless others.