Wrote this as my final creative nonfiction piece, for my Introduction to Creative Writing Class.
My system despised that word, a term for medication which relieves symptoms of depression. So, when my doctor — my psychiatrist — brought it up for the first time during our counseling session, my instinctive reaction was to try to talk her out of it. Out of desperation, I threw in some poorly-constructed arguments about how I couldn't afford to buy them with my meager allowance, along with how maybe I didn't really have to take them — maybe counseling and therapy were enough to make me heal, anyway. For someone who stutters a lot, my confidence was at its peak then: an 18-year-old college freshman, trying to outsmart someone who studied the human brain for years. As one might expect, she remained unfazed by my persuasion attempt.
She handed me a small box that contained green and yellow capsules inside. Pills tiny enough, that I could fit all 14 of them in my hands. Green, the color of nature, of growth. Yellow, the color of sun rays, of optimism. Yet at that time I didn't see my capability to grow, nor did I think I could be optimistic, because I was me. And I just wanted to be me.
Antidepressants. I wondered how that word for something that was supposed to help me heal could sicken me. There's no other word that can tone it down, unlike how I loved to coat the word "psychiatrist" with "doctor". Medication is medication. And I hated hearing even its synonyms — pills, capsules, drugs. They all sounded the same to me, like a voice telling me “you won’t be able to function without me”.
After the session, I hid the box of pills in the drawer under my study table. I almost believed that if I wished it away, it would actually disappear. I dove myself under the covers, wishing myself away as well. Yet, I woke up.
The morning after found me in front of my study table, staring at the box and my water bottle. The instruction sheet for my take-home exam paper, which I still hadn’t done, was also on the tabletop. It was due in two hours. At that moment, I didn’t have the time to think about that paper, though, as my mind only seemed to be comprised with a side-by-side collage of thoughts about my impending first dose, and replaying in my mind clips of my conversation with my doctor.
“Do you think your sadness is permanent?” she once asked, careful not to use the word “depression”, as if I didn’t already know I had it. She had to try and make her words less painful, for I refused to believe her diagnosis on me when she first suggested it. I nodded.
I wondered, until when would people keep on translating their words into a softer language, to minimize the impact? How long would they tone down their sentences when talking to me? The kind words in place of a truth slap trade-off was exhausting. Every move and touch were calculated when they were around me, it was if living in an artificial world.
My psychiatrist told me that the pill would stabilize my mood and I would not feel down at random times of the day, that my body clock would be in perfect rhythm again and I would be able to get out of my bed for my morning classes — like how it was before. It might sound ideal, but to me, it only meant that if I would be happy, it’s not because I’m happy — it was because of that neutralizing pill. I felt small, compared to that tiny pill, realizing how such a thing could hold so much power over my existence. I would not be myself anymore after it. And even before it, I was already living in a world of lies, of people using kind words to make me feel better. There was no way out.
With having no escape being my sole running thought, I found myself scrolling through my friends’ list, sending each one a message, telling them that I love them. I had once prided myself for being genuine with my words, but I didn’t know if I could still claim my words, my I love you’s to be genuine, to be coming from my heart, when I know a pill is taking over myself. I had accepted that after the first dose, I could never be sure that I would be sincere whenever I would write letters for my friends. Not only would the pill be a painstakingly robotic routine, taking it daily without fail, but it also got me thinking, what if people would love the drugged me more than who I really am? After all, people would want it when I would no longer be a burden, a crying mess in front of them, right? Yet, would that person be really the same as who I am, before the pill?
When they run into a dead end, and nothing seems to go right, humans cry. So I did. I could already taste the medicine, prior to actually taking it — it tasted like disappointment, regret and hopelessness.
It was almost ceremonial, when I finally downed the capsule. It felt like I was draining my old — my true — self out of me. I swear I could feel the pill in my bloodstream, erasing my entire existence: my involuntarily shaking right foot that was called "distracting" by a classmate, my suicidal tendencies that were a bit too creative sometimes, my always-trying-to-be-honest words, my body that doesn't have a concept of time, that could go through a whole 24 hours of sleeping and still want more. I might as well have dressed in black.
But, the world did not stop spinning after that. Time did not stop for me, even when I with all my heart thought it would. I felt like a blank page, an endless nothingness, and if I had a choice, the only thing I wanted to do was to stare at the ceiling. However, I knew I had to work on my exam paper on full turbo mode, because I wasn't special and the deadline wasn't pushed on a later time for me, while I was taking the pill.
I would be lying if I'd say that it went smooth from there, that the next morning I did not fear taking the pill. The truth was, some days were even worse than that first morning, while some days it was a breeze. Some days, the pill still felt too powerful, too heavy that my hands shook whenever I touch it. But, some days — though I struggled to admit it at first — I felt a sense of pride whenever I would look at the green and yellow capsules. As much as I hated them, sometimes the color green reminded me of growth and health; the color yellow reminded me of the sun that makes things glow, of the sun rays that I could feel on my skin, when I was outside because getting out of my bed and my dorm felt easier.
I wish there was a way to know then, that first morning, that after a few months, I will find myself in my psychiatrist’s office, again. This time, I will not cry, my voice will not shake, and she will tell me that I am getting better. I will be the medication-free person I aspire to be. And I will still feel truly loved by the people who are important to me.
And I wish there was a way to tell myself then, that after a year, the word which used to make me shiver will be the first word in one of my drafts. That I just really had to go through all that, and it will get better, as the cliche goes.
I would have not made a big fuss about my first dose if I knew then. But I wouldn’t have lessons, and this story to tell either.