When I was 24, the anxiety that had been building in both my brain and my body for years threat- ened to engulf me. I was trapped in a 24-hour cycle of intrusive thoughts and catastrophic images, my brain throwing even more horrifying scenarios at me every time I tried to shut a thought down.
Anxiety is such a catch-all term, so let me give you an example. I was stuck in an existential loop, obsessing about whether I was real, my family was real. Was the world a simulation? Was I already dead and imagining my life? Strange thoughts that might pop into your head from time to time, but ones that refused to leave mine.
I was crying all the time, unable to eat or socialise. The doctor took one look at me and prescribed antidepressants. I was loath to take them – I wasn’t depressed, I thought. I was frantic with fear. It wasn’t the only reason I was reluctant. Back then, I didn’t know a single person who talked openly about taking medication for their mental health. I only knew about drugs like Prozac from TV shows, where rampant stereotypes about medication abounded. I imagined that, in taking them, I’d not only be viewed as defective, but even worse – maybe I’d be admitting that to myself.
I took them in the end. I didn’t want to die. I wasn’t suicidal, but I realised I didn’t care much about living. And things got better. Not entirely – my anxious thoughts didn’t ebb away never to be seen again – but the meds got me to a place where I wasn’t staring at walls blankly. They allowed me to live life with enthusiasm, to not auto- matically view everything as terrifying. They brought me some relief.
Still, I told very few people I was taking them. For years I wasn’t open about my usage. I guess one day I grew tired of hiding something that helped me. I felt complicit in the bad rep medication gets, so I wrote about how SSRIs had helped me. People responded with their own experiences and it felt like the veil of secrecy and shame had lifted, if not for everyone who takes them, for me at least.
A few years ago, I realised that the meds I’d been taking on and off since I was 24 were no longer cutting it. Anxiety was creeping back in new and insidious ways. Every time I went for a run my brain imagined buildings toppling on to my head. I didn’t want to switch prescriptions; I didn’t want to try something new and face the possibility that another drug wouldn’t work for me.
Medication can be very effective in treating anxiety and depression, but there’s a lot of trial and error in finding the one that works for you. And then there are the side effects. Did you know one of the possible side effects of SSRIs can be increased anxiety? Some cruel pharmaceutical joke, huh?
Eventually, I made the switch, after that familiar feeling of not caring much about living returned. The first eight weeks were rough. I won’t list all the symptoms, but I will say they dissipated, eventually. And then, well, the clouds didn’t part to show brilliant sunshine, but I did feel better. The first time I noticed that my brain wasn’t riding the hamster wheel of horror was while I was on a run, and I realised I was thinking about how beautiful the view was instead of assessing how dangerous the route was. The second time was more obvious: I had the urge to dance. The new meds haven’t dulled my emotions or made me some kind of cheery optimist; they’ve just made life seem more worth doing. A strong 7/10.
Some of the stigma that surrounds antidepressants has lessened in the years since I started taking them, but people still message me to say that they keep their usage a secret – especially professionally – for fear of being seen as unstable. The other common message I get is that people feel they should be able to get over their issues through willpower alone, which infuriates me. It’s said a lot, but it bears repeating: you wouldn’t use willpower to treat a physical illness, you would use the drugs a doctor prescribed you. So why is an antidepressant any different?
I wouldn’t dream of pushing medication on to anyone. But I feel passionately that it’s something to consider if you’re feeling as desperate as I was. And to ignore the negative accounts you might hear from well-meaning friends or family and seek expert advice. Not everyone with a mental illness will need medication, but for some, and I include myself here, it’s a life saver.
Bella Mackie’s latest novel, ‘What A Way To Go’, is published 12 September