There is a small white pill on the kitchen counter. So far I have managed to cut it in half, and I am looking at the two pieces. Two tiny 25 milligram pieces of SSRI. Taking it should be easy; it is going to help me get better.
We are, after all, a generation of self-medicators. We pop painkillers, contraceptives, allergy tablets as casually as we have a conversation. When we get sick, we Google our symptoms and can prescribe ourselves something before we've even seen the GP. Easy.
I cannot take this tablet. I'm so scared. As I stand staring at it, my head floods with everything that swallowing this tablet means, and could mean. It means I really am ill; it means a long uphill climb just to become normal; it means that I am about to become dependent on a drug. What if I can't come off it? What if, after 6 months, 50mg isn't enough? What if it doesn't work? What if I get awful side effects?
If there is one night I need someone to hold my hand, it's tonight. There is no-one. I sink to the kitchen floor and cry.
Half an hour later and I get to my feet, pick up the tablet. I think of my friend Jen. I think of what she would say. She'd tell me I'm brave, so that is what I tell myself, slightly shaky, tablet in palm. You are so brave, you are so brave, you are so brave... Seven times I repeat this before I can tip the tablet into my mouth and chase it with water. It's done. I collapse on the couch and begin crying all over again.
***
It is almost ten months later, and it turns out taking that first pill was a good idea after all. SSRIs don't work for everyone - they're not even necessarily recommended by GPs - but they gave me the stability to make that uphill climb and to get my head around a healthier way of looking at things.
Last week I began to come off my meds. It's a long process - I basically have to trick my body into not noticing I'm withdrawing so that I can minimise the symptoms - but I can live with that. I'm coming off the meds. It's another of my little victories.
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