It started as a tickle in my throat. A twinge of pain in my eyes when the sun peeked through the blinds. All these little things piled up into their very own mountain, and no matter how far I climbed, it just kept getting taller.
2016 was the year I finally made the decision to try medication for my mental illness. I’d been in therapy for a full year and it had helped tremendously, but I was still lacking the serotonin needed to make any real progress. I did a ton of research, asked as many professionals for their input as possible, and cried a lot.
The whole process was very overwhelming for me due to one question. What does this decision say about me?
This is not the original post I had planned for today, but after experiencing a rather crippling depressive episode, I decided to write this instead. Because somewhere out there someone is tucked away in a dark room under their blankets, scared to open their eyes and face the demons awaiting them. Someone is afraid to die, but much more afraid to live. Someone needs to hear this and know they’re not alone. They need someone to tell them the baby steps to recovery because it’s hard to think for yourself when your mind is working against you.