After struggling to seek help for years, I finally realized that everything I thought I knew about depression was wrong.
For example, taking antidepressants is helpful, but it doesn’t magically fix everything. They don’t make you feel perfect, but you’re not feeling worse off either. Kind of like you’re on autopilot every day.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy I’m able to do things again. What was once difficult to do about a month ago feels a little less now. But I’m also scared.
A big part of me feels like a fraud. That the moment you take off the pills, I’m back to who I perceived I was—useless and lazy. I’ve been called both.
Truth is, I’ve been suffering from depression for ten years, and I finally sought help for it. But now that I’m medicated and fully functional, I don’t know where to begin.
That’s one of the most difficult pills I had to swallow.
Not the antidepressants, but the truth. I still don’t know where I’m headed. Which is funny because I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life.
I come from a country where healthcare isn’t accessible, and mental health issues are taboo. So for a long time, my end goal was always to seek treatment for my depression.
But now that I’m being treated, financially free, and living in another country, it’s not what I thought it’d be. Turns out, something I’ve toiled for many years still can’t cure my woes about the future.
I’m just as lost as I was before, if not more so.
In particular, I don’t know if I want to pursue becoming a writer full-time. I’ve taken such a long break from it, I can’t write without second-guessing every word right now.
Writing is a muscle that you need to flex consistently. But mine had been stagnant for three months that I’m afraid to come back to it. In fact, I’m afraid I lost it.
Which makes me even more afraid that I’ve done all of this for nothing. That getting help was a waste of time because I still haven’t…