COMING OFF ANTIDEPRESSANTS

Coming off antidepressants can be a difficult process, and one that millions go through every year. Here, in unflinching detail, one woman shares her story – and reveals why she’s still grateful for the medication that gave her back her life

How one woman beat a gruelling withdrawal when the time was right for her

Something I hate about mental health as depicted on TV is that moment when the protagonist throws their meds down the loo – an epiphanic moment marking the beginning of a miraculously speedy recovery. The reality, at least in my case, couldn’t be more different. I began taking antidepressants in 2017, after years of sexual abuse in my early twenties left me with complex post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). After leaving that situation, I told no one – instead, I put all my energy into excelling in my university studies and my work as a journalist once I graduated. But I became increasingly ill and reached out to my GP, who prescribed me my first antidepressant. After a suicide attempt a few months later in June 2017, I spent three months in a mental health facility, where I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety (later corrected to complex PTSD in 2019). It was so painful watching the job I’d worked so hard to get slip away from me.

The antidepressant I settled on was the third type I received, after the ones

I’d tried before and at the hospital didn’t work for me. It was an SNRI (serotoninnoradrenaline reuptake inhibitor) called venlafaxine, of which I was prescribed the highest possible dosage. Though I could tell the medication was working, it took a year for it to build up to full effect. But, eventually, I felt able to face the world, even landing a full-time writing job, which I never thought would happen again, creating content for an energy and environmental advisory company. The medication gave me back my life, but after nearly three years, the side effects had begun to outweigh the benefits. I’d gone from being a size eight to an 18 and was having horrible sweats – while working as a waitress, I had to get a doctor’s note to wear a different uniform as I was so hot all the time.

I’ve been seeing my current counsellor since March last year, undergoing a form of therapy called eye movement desensitisation and reprocessing (EMDR) to treat my PTSD. After discussing it with him, my psychiatrist and my GP, I started to come off my antidepressants last June. Covid restrictions were still in place and, having experienced awful nausea every time my dosage had been tweaked in the past, I thought it was the right time to try it. I was terrified – venlafaxine is notoriously hard to come off and my psychiatrist warned me that it would be like withdrawing from heroin.

We reduced my dosage very gradually each week, and the side effects were almost immediate. A piercing headache in the middle of my forehead gave way to horrendous nausea and diarrhoea; one afternoon, I threw up seven times. Then there were the night sweats that were so intense I was waking up three times a night to change the sweat-logged sheets,

‘I’m proud of myself, but I’m not framing this as a triumph’

each time having to shower before I could go back to bed. As I lay limp and wearied on the bathroom floor one night, I genuinely thought I might die. The physical symptoms were awful, but the effect on my brain was just as confounding. My train of thought was constantly muddled and I kept losing things then finding them in bizarre places (headphones in my underwear drawer; keys in the oven; phone in the fridge). The PTSD flashbacks and panic attacks that had been muted by my medication returned in glaring detail, too.

Working full time as a content creator throughout the process was hard, but I was grateful for the structure. Plus, being at home meant I only had to take a few days

off – the rest of the time, I would go and vomit then return to my laptop. Luckily, my boss was very supportive and we agreed that now was the best time for it to happen. It was the same with my social life: had the world been operating normally, I’d probably have felt more isolated. The twice-weekly appointments with my counsellor helped me push through, and he was always on the other end of the phone when I needed him. Another huge source of support was the camaraderie of the online mental health community. I’d been documenting my experiences on a blog and on Twitter ever since I left the hospital, and having so many friends who could relate was a relief. At my lowest points, just hearing someone say ‘I get it’ meant the world.

After 10 weeks, I took my last pill on 10 August 2020.

I’m proud of myself for getting through the withdrawal process, but I’m cautious not to frame this as a triumph: coming off my antidepressants was the right thing for me to do at the time, but if I ever need to go back on them, I’d do it in a heartbeat. They were a necessity for me and they saved my life. I’m not telling my story to scare people, but because transparency around mental health is crucial – and medication can be an incredibly useful tool. No one’s journey is linear.