Coming off the happy pills

It was sometime last November that I realized I needed help. The day was Thursday–it was a day that seemed straight from hell. I woke up and went about my morning activities feeling more than a little off kilter. I ran into a wall, and tripped over my own feet on the way down the stairs. At 6:30, I left for work. My whole body felt tense and my reactions times were slow. I felt sure I was going to hit someone. I parked my car and began my walk into work. I clung tightly to my bag and stepped carefully, sure all the while that I would fall off the bridge and break my head open.

I made it to work, but I was strung so tightly I could have snapped any moment. My boss noticed my tenseness–but I couldn’t tell her what was going on–only that I seemed really paranoid that morning.

It took twice as long as it should have to prepare my assigned recipes because I kept having to search for my ingredients. I was into the walk-in three times before I found my spaghetti sauce ingredients–on the stack in the corner where they always are.

I rushed from work to class–ate my lunch in lecture. Forgot an apron for the cooking lab so I got points docked. Class got out early–I had two extra hours before I had to be at my next job. Usually I only had a half an hour.

I went home and took a nap–and even though I had set my alarm, I overslept. I was awakened by a call from a coworker. I was 45 minutes late to relieve him from his shift. I felt awful. The day kept running through my head until I finally got off at 9.

I got in my car and turned it towards home on autopilot. But I couldn’t go back to my house. I knew that if I did, I would crawl into it as if into a hole–and never come out again. Instead, I went to my parents house and spent the next two hours bawling.

That’s when I realized I needed help. The next day I cut my hours at the one job and gave up as many weekend shifts as I could at the other. And I set up an appointment with my physician assistant.

I came away from my appointment with a diagnosis of depression–most likely seasonal affective disorder–and a prescription for Zoloft. Within a week on the meds, I was coping much better.

This morning I took my last half pill of Zoloft. I’m going off the happy pill for the summer–maybe longer. I don’t know. The questions and judgments surrounding drug treatment of depression–and even the diagnosis of depression itself–rise in my mind once again. I had pushed them down, ignored them during the winter because I couldn’t afford to be philosophical–I needed the pill.

Now, when the sun start shining again and I can wake up without three alarms, when I have energy to carry out my daily activities, and even to dream and plan for the future–Now the demon reemerges to condemn me for my reliance on a drug to see me through. “Don’t you trust God? Can’t He heal you? Depression is all in your mind. It’s all your fault. You weren’t even really depressed–you just didn’t want to face the music. You’re a hypochondriac. You did it to yourself. And now you’re relying on a quick fix drug to ease your pain. How different are you really from someone who drowns his struggles in the bottle?”

Depression is a diagnosis that I’ve feared, hated, and gladly welcomed. Antidepressants are a cure I’ve despised, despaired over, and depended upon.

I fear that I’ll never have a winter of relief–that I’ll have to rely on my happy pills every year. I fear that it’ll extend–and I’ll always be depressed, not just in the winter. I fear that maybe the cause isn’t physiology–that maybe the problem is me. Maybe I just can’t cope, can’t manage. I fear that I’m deficient. I fear that depression is a sin–that all it means is that I’m not trusting God.

But the Bible says that perfect love casts out fear. Lord, may I bask in Your love. May I trust that Your arms will hold me fast even as the enemy attacks my mind with condemnation. “There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus.” I believe. Help me in my unbelief.