If you have a pulse, then you’re very familiar with the onslaught of pharmaceutical ads on TV, in magazines, in the fibers of American culture. There is a distinct lack of pharmaceutical ads in, well, every country BUT America. I’ve spent a significant number of years outside the confines of American capitalism. In Europe, ads for Fanta soda or Cadbury chocolate flood the airwaves. While abroad, I was often nostalgic for the U.S. of A. I’d pine for a cup of American drip coffee (not an Americano) or a hedonistically large portion of beef, but I never missed the exclusively American ads enticing you to ask your doctor about a life changing drug that also might inadvertently be the catalyst for an early death. You know the ads I’m talking about. Happy-go-lucky people and dogs frolicking in fields feeling euphoric, while the speed-talker narrator (who definitely used to do the 80s Micro Machine ads) informs you that suicidal ideation or diarrhea are possible side effects.
But I digress.
Here’s a quick backstory. I’m a social worker by trade and by heart. I love advocating to end mental health stigmatization and want nothing more than a world where people’s broken minds are treated with as much gusto and support as broken bones are treated. I want a world where people figuratively write words of encouragement on the casts of minds that have low serotonin levels or minds that are inundated with angry voices from delusions in their neurologically distinct minds. I’m grateful for advancements in medicine. I’m grateful that we’re not dying of the plague anymore (although COVID-19 has us all questioning the state of the world, but that’s for a different article).
We’ve made progress. We don’t commonly use electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) to treat depression anymore. PTSD is a household acronym, and the terms depressed and anxious are vernaculars not medical jargon.
So America loves Big Pharma, and I love breaking mental health barriers through empowerment and destigmatization; what’s the problem?
Well, let me now introduce you to the protagonist of this story: Prozac and the antagonist, me.
Prozac, also known as Fluoxetine, is an antidepressant medication. “It is approved for the treatment of major depressive disorder (MDD), obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), panic disorder, bulimia nervosa, and premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD).” (NAMI)
My diagnosis is PMDD, and for years I tried to function au naturel, sans drugs. I tried it all. From bee pollen to birth control. From yoga to running half marathons. From “brain foods” to Paleo diets. Nothing worked. My emotions were like a roller coaster, and I was rarely strapped in. My temper did not remain seated at all times. I was definitely the passenger along for the ride of severe emotional imbalance that was destroying my marriage and my overall ability to cope.
I grew increasingly desperate for help but not desperate enough to let Big Pharma win. I watched Dopesick with Michael Keaton. I have friends and family members whose lives were cut short by the lethal knife of substance use pushed to the limit. I know the staggering reality of lives being lost and Pharma’s pockets being lined.
In 2018, I came out about my depression in The Washington Post, and still drugs were not my answer. Sure selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs), the most commonly prescribed antidepressants, are right for many, but not me. I couldn’t grasp the idea of taking a prescription drug to treat myself. I’d given birth naturally to three kids. I could handle feeling sad on.my.own.
Or could I?
Finally, I saw the light, or rather I saw the dark, and it was so dark and riddled with so little hope that I let go of my fight against Big Pharma. I acquiesced. All it took was 20 plus years of suffering from cyclical bouts of depression, PMDD for the past seven years, and a tense marriage ready to burst at the seams. My PMDD symptoms were disrupting my work both inside and outside the home. My children understood that I needed my space, and my partner was getting fed up with being married to Mr. Hyde for a few days (sometimes weeks) every month.
How did I break you ask? Why did I relent to Big Pharma? Here’s what transpired. I talked to my friend—again. She’s been taking Prozac since she was a teenager, and for years she lauded its effects. I started to hear her. I started to let my rigid defiance soften. I spoke to another friend. As we hiked a local trail, I described how I felt: “I feel like that anxious tight feeling, right before a massive exhale. And the exhale never comes.” She’d been taking prescribed medication for anxiety for two years. She calmly said, “I feel like the exhale all the time now.”
This is what I needed to hear. I was out of breath from the hike, but I imagined the deep exhale that might come if I took the next step toward treatment. A step away from my stubborn dismissal of pharmaceuticals and toward seeking the right kind of help for me.
Next, I called a former therapist who I love and trust. I asked her opinion on Prozac. I know she explores alternative therapies first and medication as a last resort. She said, “Why not try it?!” She explained that Prozac has been around since 1988 and therefore has withstood the test of time. “It works, and if it doesn’t work for you, you can simply stop taking it,” she confidently explained. I researched its addictive qualities: virtually none. I researched its withdrawal symptoms: virtually none.
And then I cried. I cried out of fear. I cried because I felt like I was giving up. I felt weak and incapable of finding happiness and serenity on my own. And then I let go of my refusal to feel happy and whole. I let go of my pride. I swallowed my first Prozac pill and exhaled.
It’s been over six months now, and I wake up most days thanking myself for facing my fear. I’m brave and happy. I’m literally frolicking with my dog in the field.
Molly England | Writer | Therapist LMSW | Founder Willow of Wellness | Co-founder PAO 