6 THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM 6 WEEKS ON ANTIDEPRESSANTS

Hilde reports from the front lines

1. Forget the racist crackpot who misdiagnosed you with bipolar disorder six years ago. Medication is not to be feared.

Psychiatrists have given me every diagnosis in the book, excluding borderline personality disorder. Sometimes it was funny, like when my second college psychiatrist, who was always an hour late to our Zoom calls and puffing on a vape the size of a car battery, nonchalantly informed me within ten minutes of meeting me that I had OCD. In hindsight, it was funny that my high school psychiatrist spent her sessions loading me up on pills and yelling at me, and then begged me for a patient testimony when she moved to Atlanta. But when my first college psychiatrist, a Southern belle who called my mixed-race father¹ a “hybrid” and Chinese people “orientals”, told me within fifteen minutes of meeting me that I had bipolar disorder and prescribed me a mood stabilizing medication that rivaled a lobotomy, it was not funny. At all.

Besides giving me the usual psychotropic side effects like short-term memory loss and sexual dysfunction, these pills gave me muscle spasms, insomnia, constant panic attacks, and an obliterated appetite; made me cry whenever I had to do math (not good if math is intrinsic to your degree); and had me staring at the walls for hours in complete silence. I spent six weeks on the medication and, as I had yet to experience one positive impact, begged my psychiatrist to take me off it. She said, “Let’s wait and see.”

“For what?” I asked.

“For as long as these checks from Blue Cross Blue Shield keep clearing,” said her eyes. Then she sent me a prescription refill.

I quit cold turkey the next week. This led to me immediately developing catastrophic depression. I checked into rehab several months later.

Given that this was my last tango with happy pills, I was not ecstatic about giving them another chance. However, I have found that one cannot write off all medication because one’s most recent experience with it was predicated on medical malpractice. If your doctor listens, your diagnosis aligns with reality and your medication agrees with your body, there is a chance that said medication may work.

Do not pass the opportunity up.

2. Do not take your medication on an empty stomach.

My current psychiatrist showed up to our first appointment fifteen minutes late and drenched in sweat. I waited patiently as he struggled to boot up his laptop, which then promptly exploded with a torrent of notifications. The notifications did not cease for the entirety of our session, and it was to this chorus that he prescribed me medication. He never warned me to take the medication with food—though he made sure to advise that the medication had no sexual side effects (it does).

This was curious, given that the medication increases serotonin levels and that most serotonin production occurs in the gut. Taking this medication on an empty stomach is thus a foolproof way to ensure your shit will get rocked.

On my first day, I took the medication on an empty stomach and got on a train during rush hour. I had no place to sit, and as the train lurched, so did I, the previous night’s dinner inching up my throat. Fellow passengers probably thought I was coming down off smack. Perhaps I inspired a tweet about public transit’s takeover by immigrant crackheads.

3. Try not to start your medication during a record-breaking heatwave.

Antidepressants can impair one’s ability to regulate their temperature. Just my luck to decide to get help during Europe’s hottest week in recorded history. I would not recommend this.

4. You need a pill organizer.

You think you do not need a pill organizer because unlike your teenage years, you are no longer taking seven pills a day. How hard is it to take just one pill? This mindset is how you give yourself serotonin syndrome.

Serotonin syndrome is when one’s body is overloaded with excess serotonin. Symptoms can span from bad digestion and restlessness, to death. I accidentally gave myself this syndrome because my medication erases my short-term memory and, as I was not tracking my intake with a pill organizer, I forgot if I took it three mornings in a row and accidentally doubled my dosage.

Of course I didn’t get serotonin syndrome back when I was combining antidepressants with mystery uppers found on the bottom of my teenage friend’s closet, including meth. I got it now, as a vegetarian-five-days-a-week gym-attending teetotaler.

5. It is nice to take a break from alcohol.

Before you slam your laptop closed and hurl it at the wall, hear me out.

Alcohol is not the devil. But my relationship with it has long left much to be desired. I have outgrown my worst habits: gone are the days of drinking frat boys under the table, weeklong cross-continental benders, seven-liquor concoctions mixed in storage containers, and severe gastrointestinal stress. But after leaving Palestine, I began habitually seeking escape from my mental state via “social drinks” every other night. As my past rodeo with antidepressants included me swallowing Wellbutrin with Malibu, and as antidepressants also happened to never work for me before, I decided this go round to pause my alcohol consumption. I owed it to myself to receive my antidepressant’s full effects.

Six weeks on, I am glad to say this method has found some success. Furthermore, I have a better understanding of my relationship with alcohol and a deeper appreciation for the drinks I love. My digestion has also significantly improved.

6. The world is depressing, but clinical depression is also real.

People love this line: “You’re not depressed! Your mental state is just a reflection of the world’s injustices!”

It is probable that many of us experience mental health issues due to society collapsing beneath us, sending us hurtling into nonexistent social safety nets. It makes sense to me that I, specifically, am sad, given my PTSD from witnessing a genocide. But I also told myself that bullshit line for months whilst my brain chemistry was literally making me forget to eat. I was not just sad—I was clinically ill. There is nothing shameful about accepting help.

I’m glad I did.

1. Technically, in the way most black Americans are. He would not like me saying this lol