borrowed happiness

is it truly happiness if it only exists because of antidepressants?

i remember when i got diagnosed with depression. i was sitting in a room with my doctor while she asked me a bunch of questions. “how often do you feel hopeless?” “do you have trouble finding joy in the things you used to love?” “do you ever think about not wanting to be here?” “do you have trouble eating?” i answered them like i was filling out a survey. when she said the word depression it landed like a cold truth that i didn’t want but somehow always knew. i knew. it had a name. a chemical imbalance. a disorder. it felt like a relief. i thought to myself so it’s real. i am not being dramatic. i’m not moody or tired. it’s real. another part of me felt defeated and crumbled because if it is real does that mean it will never go away. will i feel this way forever?

that’s when the little orange bottle entered my life. that’s when lexapro entered my life.

some mornings i wake up staring at the ceiling. the weight in my chest is the first thing i notice. before my mind. before my body. before my day. before the sunlight peeking through my blinds. before anything. that familiar heaviness. like i’m already losing a battle i haven’t even started yet.

i never thought i’d be the person who needed pills to get through. i used to believe i could get through anything. mind over matter right? but when your own mind is the thing dragging you under it doesn’t work that way.

so now there’s a little orange bottle by my bed. i take lexapro every morning. the first few weeks were hell. nausea, fog, barely being able to stay awake. feeling so tired. feeling like my emotions were being filtered through a thing wet paper. but then something shifted. i wasn’t better, not really. but i was functioning. i woke up without the feeling of emptiness. i woke up and felt like i could get through the day. i could eat. i could laugh without it feeling like a lie. the dark cloud above my head was gone. i could see the world in color again.

but the thing is it’s hard to tell if i’m actually happy or if it’s just the chemicals from my medication doing their job. some days i feel like a puppet with strings tied to a serotonin booster. an ssri. like my joy isn’t mine anymore. its leased. borrowed. rented. manufactured. stabilized by milligrams and time release capsules and without it there’s a dark cloud hanging over my head. am i really happy? is this happiness when it’s not actually mine. it sucks to feel like you need something outside of yourself to feel okay. to get through. to do simple tasks that come easy for other people.

depending on something to feel okay isn't freedom. it’s maintenance. it’s survival. and while survival matters it doesn’t always feel like living. but if this is what it takes to stay and feel okay then i am fine with it. this has to be enough even if it doesn’t feel fair.

maybe one day it won’t be like this. maybe one day i’ll feel okay and my happiness won’t depend on whether i take an antidepressant or not.