High On Life or Highly Medicated?

One College Student’s Epic Battle with Depression and Suicide. Story by Aurea González. Photos by Mikhael Simmonds.

Back in May 2015, I attempted suicide.

Harsh? Maybe. But the reality is that there are millions out there like me attempting suicide on a regular basis. Fortunately, I was rushed to the hospital before I could get to the local bar and finish the job I started on campus with 45 Benadryl pills.

I spent six days locked up at the worst hospital I have ever been in. Harlem Hospital’s Psych Ward was a prison. I spent my days trying to sleep, waking up early for 6am showers, walking up and down one co-ed white hallway with horrible florescent lights, avoiding sexual harassment from the mentally ill, and trying to remain sane. I never thought that when I watched Girl, Interrupted that I would be able to compare my week in hell to Winona’s character.

But I’m not here to talk about my experience in a psych ward, for I already started a novel solely on my experience there. I’m here to write about my most recent revelation: medication.

See, I’m a senior at the City College of New York, and I have been known to dabble in a bit of everything where things can get a bit overwhelming. I work a lot, lately less than I used to. I have always been in school full-time and kept decent A-range grades. I have a boyfriend, and a decent social life. So what’s different between me and the average full-time college student that works and also has a life? Some might say depression. I beg to differ.

I have studied and written about mental health for a year now, and I am still working on a campaign that deals with the correlation between mentally ill college students and getting the help that they need. I do suffer from depression. But more than half of the student body suffers from depression and anxiety as well.

When I left Harlem Hospital, I began Psychotherapy, in efforts to become whole again. I needed to regain my self-confidence, my self-love and realize my worth, as well as mend my broken relationships my actions caused. When you know things, mentally, but emotionally you feel the opposite, you begin to feel broken and confused. You start acting like things are okay, because you don’t want people to think that you aren’t, or to think that you’re weak, and you like to avoid questions and confrontation at all costs. You start to become accustomed to your way of living, you know, playing a façade. It isn’t uncommon.

It wasn’t until last week where I had an episode and was at my lowest. I cried, and felt so depressed. But I reached out for help, speaking to my sister and a friend from school. Something I didn’t think to do back in May.

I am currently experiencing a mix of negative things I have no control over. Facing housing hardships and uncontrollable depression to the point of not getting out of bed and missing classes were beginning to dawn on me. The thing about not having control is that it causes me to feel worse about myself. I usually try not to stress over things I have no control over, but the act of things going downhill alone causes me to overanalyze and become worse emotionally.

When you’re on the subway and walking down the streets to your next responsibility like a robot, because you and I both know that sometimes it does feel like you’re on autopilot, and you’re crying, at what point do you feel, know, and finally acknowledge that you’ve lost control? Lost control of emotions, lost control of yourself? I realized it then.

I realized I was so out of control with my emotions and the effects that came with it, that I might actually need medication. I have never taken meds before, and during my stay and after I got out of Harlem Hospital, I’ve denied them. I did my part to seem to o.k. enough not take them. I spoke well, and maintained great control around doctors, never giving them a reason to prescribe me anti-depressants or any form of medication. But the day of my breakdown, I realized I might actually need them.

My mother suffers from depression and takes medication. I know depression is genetic, but I have never experienced severe and constant depression enough to take medication. The thought of having to take medication to control myself scares me. While others have a hard time talking about their illness and seeking help, I have always had a hard time acknowledging the possibility of having to take medication. I think it’s unnatural, and I’m afraid to no longer feel the things I feel without them, afraid of becoming a real robot in life. I don’t want to lose myself because I can’t control myself without them. I also don’t want to be reminded of my suicidal attempt method: pills. I’m afraid of not being able to connect natural feelings to things. I’m afraid of no longer being naturally healthy and o.k.

I didn’t realize till now that I, too, had attached this stigma behind medication. What do you think of when you find out someone takes medication regularly for a mood disorder, or any other illness? Immediately, the words crazy and uncontrollable come to mind. But the truth is, I am not in control. I have good days, bad days, and real horrible days like the one I experienced recently.

While people tell me that there isn’t anything wrong with taking medication, it doesn’t take away my fear of taking them. I have spent my entire life hiding from depression and expressing myself through performing, writing, and socializing. I have been successful doing those things as a form of coping and just because I love to. My social drinking became part of my daily routine, and smoking pot places my body and mind elsewhere. But what happens when that stuff just doesn’t work anymore? Do you just submit to medication because people say it can help? I have thought that this might end up being my solace temporarily as I finish my last semester in college because I don’t want to fail and more importantly, I don’t want to harm myself again.

When I go outside and feel the sun through my pores, will I be able to feel that again on medication? Will I be able to feel it the same way? Will I be able to cry again during a Broadway play that touches my heart? Will I become bipolar? These are all questions I am afraid doctors might not even be able to answer, just because I don’t think or believe that anyone can know you and your body the way you do.

So is medication the answer? I still don’t know. It can take weeks for your body to adjust. It can take months or years to find the right medication. And while I know people who have successfully been okay with medication, I still don’t think it’s for me. I want to believe that I am stronger than medication, stronger than my illness. I’m not downplaying anyone who is on it. If that is what you feel works for you, than I applaud you for taking action to become better. But I think I’ll give my next few months another shot without medication. As Sia says, “I survived. I’m still breathing, I’m alive.”