What It Means To "Get Better"
It’s amazing that a year ago last month I was afraid to see a psychiatrist for the first time. Afraid more when he prescribed Zoloft for my ongoing battle with anxiety and depression.
We sat in his little office and went over everything from my childhood to my struggle with self harm to my passions and pursuits in life. I did my best not to cry when he asked hard questions. And at the end of the session he sent in my prescription to a local pharmacy and warned me that the first few weeks would be rough. He told me that I should have a network of people around me who could make sure I was okay as my body and brain acclimated to the new medication.
I thought I had that. I assured him that I did and I left.
I started the meds that evening and I spent the next week and a half sick. At times I didn’t even feel I existed. It was incredibly frightening. And I was alone.
I couldn’t find it in myself be upset about the fact that I thought I had at least a few people who would check in on me, to make sure I wasn’t suicidal or having a bad reaction the the medicine.
What I do remember is sitting at my apartment, feeling scared, and realizing I was alone. That I had been alone for a long time. And that this was just the quiet proof of it.
My initial reaction to the meds was not uncommon. But much worse than anticipated. I read about other people’s experiences and some of these accounts scared me more than I could handle, so I stopped.
I was afraid of a lot of things during this time.
Afraid that I wouldn’t feel happy again.
Afraid that I wouldn’t feel sad again.
Afraid that I would lose relationships.
That I would change.
That I would get worse.
But mostly I was afraid that I would get better.
I had never been better. I had early onset and I was used to the swing of sadness. The levels of it. These things made up the skin I lived in and called home. But what did it feel like to not carry all these things inside of me? What would it cost me to lose such a huge chunk of who I believed myself to be?
I remember driving. Some weeks later. I remember getting canceled on by someone close to me for what felt like the millionth time. I remember the initial deep breath before the plunge into sadness and isolation. And I remember my emotions bouncing back. Almost like a desktop screensaver. And I remember being okay.
I remember breaking out of the abusive relationship I was in. Because I could feel how toxic it was. And I was beginning to really value myself.
I remember acknowledging and accepting my own sexuality. And allowing the people around me to know me for who I was and not the lie I had been telling.
I remember starting to not be afraid anymore.
Real friends have come slowly. A girlfriend, a deep love, now my fiancé.
There are some numbers on my phone that are now blocked. Some people who are no longer my friends.
There have been some painful truths.
But mostly there has been peace. And many more smiles than I had ever known before.
The meds cannot take credit for all of this though. The path to being healthy mentally and physically has required a lot of choices. Getting correctly medicated was simply the first step down a road. A road that led me to the human being I am today. Stronger, more loving, and more confident. Surrounded by people who build things instead of destroying them, because in the words of Capheus from Sense 8…
“Love is a bridge, not a wall, if you let it be.”
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