How Antidepressants Made It So Much Worse

Trigger Warning: this post talks about mental health, medication, drug use, self-harm, and suicidal thoughts. It was written when I was at quite a low point. Only now do I have the strength to return to it and share it.

Upon rereading it, I see the need to make it perfectly clear that I support the use of medication for those who need it. Unfortunately for me and many others however, finding the right one can be challenging and potentially dangerous. A good doctor and mental health team is a must. Reach out and speak up if you are at risk.

That poem is the sum output of my day’s experiences. That, as well as this post.

There is no point to this post, other than to chronicle my feelings, namely, just how pointless everything feels.

A month and a half ago, I had a panic attack and decided to go on medication to combat the ever-present anxiety that was coursing through my system. It worked. The anxiety disappeared, but so did everything else. Focus, clarity, and care; gone. Along with all motivation and meaning. Life felt pointless. It still does.

I’ve stopped the medication, and biochemically it should be out of my system by now. I should ‘be fine’ and back to normal. But I am not. My ability to focus has returned. My energy has returned. The anxiety has returned - but not my meaning. Life still feels pointless.

I should be terrified, I should care, but I just don’t. The old arguments don’t work. Appealing to logic doesn’t help. Emotions seem just as pointless as life. Is this depression? Does it even matter?

I sit here, writing these words, feeling the pressure of a bracelet my son has placed upon my head. He is desperate to play with me. I should put my phone down. I should, yet I am here, writing these pointless words that no one will read. Why? Why can’t I get myself to act?

Importantly, why don’t I care? I mean, clearly I do care - I care enough to pontificate upon the page. But that’s more of an intellectual curiosity rather than true care. Kind of like an anthropologist examining an untouched tribe at war - from a safe distance with no skin in the game, nor relationships with any of the combatants. They care, but they care more about the data - I’m not sure if I even care about that. Perhaps writing is just a force of habit.

I should be angry that something important has been taken from my mind. Caring is Important, right? But that potential for anger itself dissipates into nothingness as well.

I know tomorrow I will regret wasting this day. This beautiful, glorious day when the sun is shining, the clouds are beautiful, and my son wants to play. Tomorrow when obligations come, I will wonder why I didn’t use today wisely - forgetting just how much of a malaise I was in when writing these words.

No. I won’t read this again. I doubt that could face the embarrassment of such an emotional diatribe. I couldn’t handle the kickback from my critical self any more than I can get off this couch right now and simply, just be.

In my pocket is a joint - I am debating getting high. Maybe it will show me what is wrong. Maybe it will give me back what’s been taken. Maybe it will act as natural medication, healing my wounded soul. Or maybe I am just an addict, looking for an excuse to use.

Now there is a terrifying thought - look at that I can feel something!

I lost my father to weed, then to psychosis, then to harder drugs, and finally to catatonia. Am I doomed to suffer the same fate? I doubt I could fall so low, but then again, he probably doubted so as well.

I want to write a poem called ‘the slowest suicide’ where I share the story of my father losing hope and checking out of life. But rather than ending everything in a moment, he instead decides to slowly poison himself - Decades of drug use to deal with the pain, decades of neglect for his sons.

It would be sad, and telling, and prophetic of a future that could potentially arise for me as well. Unfortunately, I don’t have that kind of talent, not right now anyway. All I have right now is a joint in my pocket and a pervasive feeling of pointlessness that is threatening to overwhelm me completely.

What would healthy me say? He would say that survival comes first. To make sure that I do what I can to not kill myself. Then can I worry about picking up the pieces. Surviving first, then functionality, then thriving.

Healthy me is wise man. But unfortunately, he is not here right now and I am making all this up. Besides, what does he know? His actions have cumulated in this moment. How can I trust his bullshit?

I am grateful that my kids are healthy. That I have a job. That my country is at peace. That I have food to eat and a bed to sleep in. But nonetheless, I feel empty. There is something lacking.

Friends.

I know people. I talk to them. I interact with them in a friendly manner. But I don’t feel connected to them.

What is the point? Besides, they will come and they will go. I am so lonely. Look at me, lamenting my loneliness upon a page to a digital audience I’ll never see. I could reach out. I could talk. I could accept the help of the people kind enough to message me in concern, but I won’t. They are not the people I need to be seen by, and the people I need to be seen by don’t care… And if they did, I don’t know if I would.

I feel trapped. Unable and unwilling to escape. Slowly falling into the same abyss my father fell into. He wasn’t there for me in life, but maybe in death I’ll understand. Haha what a joke right?

I find myself waiting for a moment that will never come. The starting pistol. The call to action. A vision from God. Words from a father to a son sharing wisdom of a life well lived.

That will never come but nonetheless I wait and wait and wait. Listlessly circling the drain. Finger in the lighter. Joint in my mouth.

take a breath
it’s okay
it will all be okay
for tomorrow is another day

This post was inspired by the book, Augmented Realities: Human Poetry x A.I. Art