It was perhaps 7 months ago that I declared with no sense of uncertainty to my therapist that I would "never, ever go back on anti-depressants again." She asked me why, and I told her that I hated being on them (several times over the last decade, usually for no more than 9-12 months at a time, and always to get me through particularly awful phases in my depression).

Last night, however, I found myself digging up my last prescription bottle of Fluoxetine and, despite the fact that they had technically expired, took 2x20 mg before I went to sleep.

The impetus? A dramatic, debilitating downward spiral, once again, into the depths of sadness and hopelessness.

Since my last round of SSRI's, I have (according to myself, my therapist and the insurance company who reviewed my file recently and cut down my weekly therapy coverage to every other week....) seen some measurable improvements in my life. Now in a committed and healthy relationship, for example, I felt that I would never return to the old familiar days of intense suicidal ideations and planning. "I could never do that to my partner," I said. And believed. And furthermore, I had come to a place where I felt that I would not even want to "do that" to my therapist. I felt strongly that I didn't want to hurt people by hurting myself--particularly in this most final of ways.

But something happened. In recent months, I found myself self-medicating to an even greater extent than normal with alcohol. I have been trying to fend off the self-hatred and hopelessness that had crept its way back into my psyche. Thoughts about my "worthless life" and lack of appropriate professional goals that would mean self-actualization/living up to my potential.... Being reminded that I still carry terrible wounds from my childhood that never really seem to heal, but instead, get ripped back open time and time again.... Feeling like I never wanted to get out of bed again.... And yes, starting to seriously plan and anticipate my own suicide. I was drowning in the darkness again. I felt there was no way out, and no one to actually talk to. (Can't tell my partner because she would be either extremely worried, or very insecure about the strength of our relationship, or both--and I don't want either of those things to happen. Also can't really tell my therapist, because now we are at every other week frequency, and it's going to be another week before I see her again, and really, what could she do over the phone--especially when she would be blindsided by these revelations, as she has reason to believe I have surmounted the worst of my depression and gotten past any threat of suicide.)

So I was lying in bed last night, feeling the weight of the depression leading me further still toward what seemed "the inevitable." And then, out of the blue, I remembered: in my nightstand, I had recently come across some leftover Fluoxetine from a couple years ago. I couldn't explain my change of heart over trying the pills again. I mean, I know how much I generally hate being on them, "in a cloud," numbed out and practically asexual and without a sense of what was truly "real." But my arm was reaching for the bottle in a last ditch effort, a faint memory of hope despite all the other misgivings. I took two pills. I went to sleep. And this morning, I woke up already feeling the effects (I always have had an immediate improvement when starting Prozac)--there was a lightness, a gentle sort of "swirling" feeling at the top of my head, not a dizziness but a floating feeling. And my eyes popped open, wider than in a long time, and I realized I wasn't waking up to a pressing darkness or tears today. I also felt, at long last, a general sense of motivation regarding job searching--which recently had come to a "why bother" sort of stand-still in my brain.

I called my Primary doc and asked him to refill the old prescription. And when I go to my therapist next week, I will tell her that, yes, I am back on the damn things again, after all--but that I *had* to go on them, because this is truly what I believe to be my last option at saving myself. And yes, soon I will again remember why I hate these pills, regardless of all that's so good about them--and eventually it will make me angry that when I awaken in the morning and swing my legs off the bed, I never really feel them hit the floor as I make my way to the bathroom. The floaty sense of relief I felt this morning will later feel like a numbness to everything real, and I will long to feel some emotions again, and not through some gauzy veil of plastic happiness, but in my gut, unequivocally, with tears running down my face in times of both sadness and joy.

But for now, it's another round of Prozac, and at least I'm seeing the future again--even if it means the inevitable disgust over this love/hate relationship I have with SSRI's.