I could never have imagined I’d end up on antidepressants. I certainly wouldn’t have imagined it happening like this.

The doctor’s office is bright the way doctor’s offices are. Fluorescent lights burn overhead, hiding nothing. I’m waiting.

It was the second time I’d initiated this conversation. For someone who was extraordinarily resistant to the idea of medication as an answer to my problem, this seems odd to me now.

Now, waiting, I am dreading the conversation. What if she says, “You don’t need medication.” This is my last resort. If I don’t try it, if it doesn’t work, I’m in real trouble.

That was not at all my point of view the first time medication was suggested to me. That time it was by the counsellor I was seeing, the one who figured out my problem long before I was willing to consider it. I didn’t listen to her.

From the examination room, I can hear sounds in the hall. Doctor’s office sounds. People coming and going. The receptionist on the phone just outside the door. I’d had to tell her why I needed the appointment. “I need to talk to someone about anti-depressants,” I’d confessed. She, who I’ve known for a while, who loves my son and always talks about how happy he is, didn’t treat me any differently when I came in. As I sit here in this brightly lit room, I wonder what she’s thinking.

The second time was at one of my son’s well baby visits. At the “anything else?” point in the conversation, I broached the topic with the doctor – a locum I had never seen before and probably wouldn’t see again. During that conversation, I was tentative, exploring: “I’m not feeling like I’m doing very well,” I offered while inside thinking, “I’m feeling awful, actually, but I don’t know if that’s normal. I’m sort of afraid it is.” Made it sound as though it was the usual sort of stuff: “But, you know, he really doesn’t sleep that much. How much not sleeping is normal, anyway?!”

Different sounds now. Appointment-finishing sounds. Thank-yous and goodbyes. I figure that means I’m next, and the butterflies return full force. This is a different doctor – one I’ve never seen before – and I’ve heard rumours that she doesn’t have a great bedside manner. I jiggle my foot the way I do when I’m nervous or distracted and wait for the door to open.

I don’t blame either of those people for the outcomes of the first conversations. They could have pushed, I suppose, or probed further. But in order for the outcome to have been different I’d have had to be willing to listen. To be honest about how not okay I was.

The door opens and she comes in. Any fantasy I had about a dignified conversation rapidly disappears as I break down in tears upon the telling of my story. I’m not a dignified crier, but in this moment I don’t even worry about the blotches on my face or the fact that I need to blow my nose. I’m just focused on finding something that will help because if I don’t I know I’m going to lose my family. She gives me her usual “I don’t usually turn to anti-depressants as the first solution” speech but it’s just part of the routine. She knows I need them. I know I need them.

That night, I look at the bottle of little pills. It feels significant what I’m about to do. It is significant.

I pop one in my mouth and wash it down with some water. Then the whole world shifted.

—

This post is in response to a prompt from The Red Dress Club, which is to
write a piece that begins with, “I could never have imagined” and ends with,
“Then the whole world shifted.”