This post was sent to me by a friend who has been struggling with depression for much longer than me. In it, the experience of SSRI withdrawal is described: this is an exceptionally difficult aspect of the condition to cope with, something that has intense physical and mental side effects that leave you completely exhausted. It's not something that gets talked about a lot unless the user is planning to come off the medication; the GP may mention it when you first get onto the drugs, and then again in the context of coming off, but there's little support in between for the times when you do forget, or are unable to renew the prescription.
I am enormously proud of my friend for having the courage to talk about this, and grateful that I've been given permission to publish it here.
Withdrawal
It's my own fault. Yet my inability to prepare for how I'm feeling right now rears its head every month. I've let myself down and I've let down those I love.
It should all be so simple. I know the drill. Renew, review, repeat. Yet my closest ally for the last decade too often goes missing at the vital time - and it's all because I neglect to repeat the right part of the process.
Why do I put myself through days of feeling like I do by being incapable of simply submitting a piece of paper? Perhaps my subconscious wants me to forget. Perhaps it enjoys the company that comes from conversing with myself in public. Perhaps my muscles cry out to involuntarily jerk and twitch just to feel alive. Perhaps those clicking sounds I unwillingly make are humble cries for attention. Perhaps the complete loss of balance, the drowning sensation, and the numbness in my legs are just an assault on the comfort I risk becoming used to. Or perhaps, just perhaps, I need to feel something close to what I'm feeling right now to remember how dark my depression can be, and how I should better appreciate the high points and those around me that do care.
Regardless of the reason, it's now been five days since my last full dose of Sertraline. These five days - which come at the end of a ten-year relationship - have been tricky to negotiate. I've been in situations that scare me. Situations that, for most people, might seem trivial (being around friends and family, going to work, getting out of bed). Yet, I've managed to get through each moment... just. Yes, it may have been at half speed. And yes, it may not have been much fun for either me or those around me. But get through I have. And I'll continue to get through them, despite what some fleeting thoughts might say.
I've been promised that tomorrow I will have a full quota of tablets to tide me over. I'll be back in working order - of sorts. A number of doctors have said that I'll have to depend on these little tablets for life. I'm not sure if that's reassuring or not. After all, prolonged exposure to SSRIs alters the brain for good. Going back is not an option. But the way I feel right now, I don't want to go back. I long only for the support that the cocktail of chemicals brings.
I'll tell myself that next month I'll prepare better. That next month things will be ok. I depend on my tablets to function. I don't necessarily want to, but I do. Maybe that's why I forget. Maybe it's a protest of sorts. Who knows?
Whatever the reason, I feel ashamed to have let myself down again. I rely on the help these pills provide. Does that make me addicted? I'm scared to admit that it does. But I'm also scared that I'll stop.
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