I grew up in a Quaker household in the ’60s. We had as natural food as you could get in those days. I wasn’t a big proponent of drugs or pills because we used natural remedies for most things. I felt insecure, however, as a child, because my parents didn’t live together and my mother was gone most of the time working and attending night school until I was well into my teens. That’s when I began to deal with bouts of depression. Those bouts increased throughout college and beyond as I just didn’t seem to find a place where I fit in.

I had a strong faith in God, from early on, from age seven. That made it harder and more confusing to admit that I just couldn’t shake dark feelings or the inability to shake those times. More than once I struggled with suicidal thoughts in college and even after that. I saw a counselor in college who basically shrugged off my feelings and said that I was pretty much a spoiled brat who whined too much. So I stopped seeing him.

I married young, aged 22, and had a baby by the age of 23. I met my husband in a religious group that was pretty isolationist. I was in a relationship that was troubled from the start, but I thought maybe I could be a good mom. So we had another girl, and I was on the mountaintop in my life with my feelings as a new mom. I loved those babies!

I was pregnant for a third time with my first husband when I had a miscarriage at seven months. He told me he couldn’t leave work and to deal with it. I was at home and my poor 5-year-old daughter had to call 911 as I was hemorrhaging. After I got out of the hospital, I was in trouble mentally then, and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to keep that relationship together. Yet I got pregnant once more with him. We had an abortion right away…it seemed like the right thing at the time. So I sought the help of a doctor, took an antidepressant (that I don’t remember the name of) and then divorced.

A year and a half later I rekindled a relationship with an old boyfriend and remarried. When I was 33, my son was born. I loved my children, but I felt like I wasn’t good enough to be their mother. I sought a therapist again, and she was kind and listened, and I saw her for three years. About the second year in, she had me take Wellbutrin, which gave me nightmares, so we switched to Cymbalta, which I took for the next 18 years before I stopped seeing her for financial reasons and because she moved away. I didn’t want to start with a new counselor. The Cymbalta was obscenely expensive for a long time—$360 per month, which we just couldn’t do. So my family physician would give me samples as much as she could, but that financial stress alone was almost worse than the bouts of depression. If I missed a dose I was so sick the next day I could barely get out of bed. And every few months, I would hit that dark, dark place again and not know what to do. I got pregnant again and was so full of despair that I would ruin another child’s life (struggling as I did), that I aborted that baby. I’ve regretted that decision every day of my life since then. I don’t care what the culture says, I knew I’d killed that baby, (babies). I was lied to that day, and the doctor told me that was just getting rid of cellular goo, and no pain would be felt by the baby. Of course we now have ultrasounds and advanced science that proves that’s a lie. I still took the antidepressants and thought over the years that they were helping me … after all, my doctor asked me once a year how I felt on them. And once a year I would say, “I’m ok,” and would proceed to live with the highs and lows of depression. My faith never wavered, but my biggest ask was always, God, why can I not beat this thing? Why can’t I be healed?

During Covid, I missed a dose and was violently ill for two days. It then hit me then, if for some reason I can’t get this medication I will get really sick, and I cannot depend on this any more. That was it. I told my doctor that I want to wean off of it and so she helped me to do that over six months. She never asked if I was depressed or not. She just helped me reduce the dose slowly. I’ve felt better in the last four years than I’ve my entire life. I’m 66 years old and I don’t take any medication. I have highs and lows, but I’ve learned to live with them. I thank God He has allowed me to live this amazing journey. I feel my feelings and they’re not dulled anymore. Maybe some people are helped by medications, but I don’t think that it was beneficial to me. Looking back, I wouldn’t do it again. I’m healthy and strong, and I’m blessed.