Antidepressants: How I Decided To Care For Myself

“Anxiety and depression run in our family.” My aunt said this to me one night during winter break, giving my hand a quick squeeze. I was uncomfortable with the sincerity dripping from her voice, so I laughed to shake off some tension. I knew she was right—my family does have this history, as I’m sure most families do. In my immediate family alone, two of my three siblings are on antidepressants. I myself had recently started therapy to see if medication would be a good fit for me too. So, yes, I already knew about my family’s history, I just didn’t want to talk about it at that moment. It was hitting too close to home. 

Anxiety-induced nausea is something I have become far too familiar with during my first two years of college. I’ve had anxiety in the past as well—ranging from moments in elementary school to long stretches during high school. I had been used to dealing with bouts of anxiety involving existential matters, social situations, obsessions over my health, and other fun things to worry about. Mostly, it’d been manageable, but it had only become increasingly less so over time—peaking this year. 

Photographed by Xinyi Gao

Symptoms of my anxiety only got worse after moving away from the comfort and consistency of my life and family at home in St. Louis. For the past year or so, I had felt this constant baseline level of anxiety that sat in the pit of my stomach, ready to flare up at a moment’s notice. Boarding a plane, anticipating a new or unfamiliar social or work situation, thinking about climate change, having a misunderstanding with my boyfriend or a friend, or finding an abnormality about my body all had the power to ramp up the intensity of my anxiety before I even had time to realize what was happening. I’d grown to hate this feeling of having a complete lack of control over my thoughts, resenting myself for how quickly my mind could spiral out about any number of issues. No matter how real or perceived these thoughts were, it even began to affect the way I felt physically. I could not understand why I couldn’t just make these fixations stop; it seemed so simple.  

The ramping up of my anxiety has often led me to talk to my family and friends about trying out therapy or medication to help manage my symptoms. I’ve been expressing some form of this sentiment since high school, but until recently, it was all talk. I always liked the idea of feeling less anxious and not so drained and emotionally raw after particularly long or intense periods of anxiousness. Still, I never felt like my anxiety or periods of feeling down were bad enough to require medication or therapy. I’d tell myself I could deal with it on my own, or that it really wasn’t so bad. I knew that some people needed extra help mentally—and that I was probably one of them—but I was scared of what that would look like and how I would need to make changes in my life. What would life be like without the constant undercurrent of worry that highlighted and controlled me?

In early November of last year, I decided I needed to find out for myself what life could be like without this constant I had grown used to. I was ready for a change, even though it is fun to use my nausea as a laugh line: “Haha yes, this is what happens to me. Isn’t it crazy? I cannot make it stop and worry about throwing up constantly.” It’s not even a very funny joke when I think about it now.

I knew how beneficial a combination of therapy and antidepressants had been for so many different people in my life that I had to try it out for myself. Enough talk, I decided, it was time to take care of myself and prioritize my mental health after so many years of putting it off. I found a therapist who I liked, and she found me a psychiatrist. 

A few weeks after that slightly uncomfortable conversation with my aunt, I walked out of my first psychiatrist appointment with a folder filled with a prescription and packets of my listed diagnoses—generalized anxiety disorder, social anxiety disorder, and depression in adults. I flipped through the pages in the Lyft on my way back to campus from Brookline, trying to make it to my 10:00 a.m. on time and feeling the weight of what this diagnosis meant to me. It felt good to finally have someone validate why I, at times, had such a hard time mentally. More than anything, I was hopeful that I would start to feel better.

Later that same day, I picked up my first prescription for antidepressants, stuffing them in my backpack for later. It felt like I was having a secret, monumental day, and no one had any way of knowing about it. After over two years of telling myself that I should do something about my anxiety, I had finally done it. 

I examined the small orange bottle that night in my room and continued to pore over the packets from my psychiatrist visit earlier that morning—and I started crying. As much as I joked about my mental health, this day meant a lot to me, and I felt a certain sense of pride in going through with it.

I’ve only been taking my antidepressants for about a month now, but I can already feel a difference in the way my body and mind feel when I experience bouts of anxiety. The baseline level I had grown so used to has mostly faded away, I do not mentally spiral out as quickly as I am used to, and nausea only happens somewhat infrequently. I am, of course, not “cured” of my anxiety or depression—the latter of which I still only sort of understand—but I am grateful to be getting to a healthier mental place.

Every night at 11 p.m., my phone shoots me a reminder: “sertraline.” And, every night, I swallow my pill with a drink of water, knowing I am making the decision to take care of myself one day at a time.