What Happens When the Pills Don’t Work

I was deep in it.

Really, really sick.

Nothing helped. No relief. No answers. Just more medication. And that made everything worse.

My doctor’s only solution was to try a new pill. Then another. And another. I wasn’t getting better. I was becoming a shell of myself. Over-medicated, under-functioning, numb. I was so drugged I didn’t even realize it. But I felt it. I was so sick.

The meds dulled the edge. Barely. But they stole everything else. Especially when you’re already in the depths of depression, and the thing that’s supposed to help just makes you feel heavier. Slower. More useless.

Eventually, I just couldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t want to take another pill. Something inside me snapped.

Honestly, I didn’t think I was going to survive. And not in a vague, dramatic kind of way. I genuinely didn’t think I’d make it through. Unless you’ve been there, it’s hard to understand. But I lived the experience of suicide in my brain. Not the act of doing it. But the grief of leaving. I imagined the devastation it would cause. My mom. My partner. My friends. I lived that heartbreak, in vivid detail, over and over.

But I couldn’t bring myself to actually go.

I stayed.

But staying didn’t feel like living. I wasn’t really here. Just surviving in this half-life of side effects and sedation. So one night, in the middle of that fog, a different thought came through.

If I’m going to die anyway, why am I dying like this? Why am I dragging myself through this medicated haze if it’s not even helping?

I had an alarm on my phone. Every night at 10pm. It was labelled “Take Your Crazy Pill.” Because I hated taking it. My brain wouldn’t remember to take it for my “health.” Even though it dulled the pain a bit, I hated it so much that I’d snooze the alarm for hours some nights before finally taking it.

Because if I stopped? I knew I’d stop for days. And when I had to get back on them, I’d get my fucking ass handed to me. More nausea. More side effects. More hell. Just absolute trash while my body adjusted to the “medicine.”

So I kept taking it. Just to avoid the horror of starting again.

But you can only white-knuckle it for so long. One night, I didn’t take it. Then another. And I didn’t tell anyone. I just let the alarm keep going off. Like a background soundtrack to my quiet rebellion.

And then the wildest thing happened.

I didn’t feel worse.

I didn’t feel better. Don’t get me wrong. I was still really fucking sick. But I wasn’t worse. Not falling off a cliff like they always said I would. And that was… shocking.

Eventually, I told my partner.

“By the way, I’ve gone off my meds.”

We were still pretty early in our relationship, and her response?

“Okay.”

She’d seen me on my roller coaster of medications and getting my ass handed to me. I didn’t need someone to convince me it was a bad idea. I needed someone to support my decision. And that’s exactly what she did.

I shared my decision with her more out of safety for myself than anything. Because sometimes when you’re in it, really deep in it, you don’t know how bad things are. I used to rely on my mom or my partner to tell me when I needed to increase my meds. So I figured I should say something to ultimately keep myself safe.

After a few months off the meds, something even stranger happened.

I started to feel again.

I started crying more. Not because I was sad. Because I was feeling.

It hit me how much I’d been suppressing. Sure, the meds dulled my depression. But they also dulled my joy. My excitement. My empathy. My compassion.

They dulled everything.

I remember watching a show. SWAT, of all things. Just some action TV show. But the family-like dynamics in it? The emotional moments? I cried. Like, full-body tears. And it was so strange. And so beautiful.

Because when something on a screen, or in a story, or in life, makes you feel something. That’s not weakness. That’s not brokenness. That’s being alive.

The medication took that from me. And I’m still angry about that.

Because I deserved to feel.

We all do.

I was deeply unwell for a long time. And the only “cure” I was given was to talk. To go to therapy.

Now, let me be clear. I’ll share more about my journey with therapy in a future blog. I don’t have anything bad to say about therapists. They have a place. Just like the meds.

But none of it should be the only answer.

We weren’t meant to numb ourselves for 25 years and call it healing.

We were meant to feel.

To grow.

To transform.

I haven’t needed to see a doctor in a while. Not because they suddenly started helping. But because I found my own way out. I’m not saying I’ll never go back. Never say never. But after everything? Let’s just say I’ve got some serious trust issues.

BodyTalk was the start. It gave me enough relief, enough clarity, to even consider taking care of myself in other ways. As I healed, I was able to add more—moving my body, eating real food, grounding, making actual healthy choices. And the more I did, the better I felt. It became a bit of a snowball, rolling toward something that feels like real health. Bit by bit, clearing out the poison.

And I’m still at it. Still peeling back layers. Still figuring out how to enjoy this human flesh shack a little more each day.

It’s not perfect, but damn, it’s better.

And for that? I’m grateful.