Illustration by Jessica Krcmarik

[The illustration features a place mat with an array of breakfast foods and coffee. A pair of arms rests on the mat. One hand is holding a spoon; the other hand is clutching onto a pill bottle.]

I remember the first “crazy pill” that I ever took. I was on vacation in Tennessee, sitting on the edge of one of those generic motel beds with a hideous blanket covered with — what was it? Seashells?

Pill bottle in hand, my mother looked at me with apprehension and said what many folks would say to me for years to come:

“Are you sure about this?”

I nodded, looked her in the eye and without hesitation, I said, “Absolutely.”

In the years that I have been taking psychotropic medications, never for a moment have I regretted my decision. Have I been afraid of what happens in the long term? Sure. Have I contemplated the impact of “big pharma” and my piece in that frightening puzzle? Definitely.

But for me, trying to survive each day trapped within an agonizing depression was not an option. Attempting to end my life again was not an option. Continuing down the path that I was on? Not an option.

When I looked back at my life, I realized I had spent more time struggling than I had spent truly living. And I knew that if something didn’t change, bipolar disorder was going to kill me.

Everyone and their brother has an opinion on my decision to take medication for bipolar and anxiety. But have you tried meditation? What about acupuncture? Have you changed your diet? What about fish oil?

Initially, I entertained them. I explained that I had tried everything that I could, and that medications had been my last resort.

That is, until I realized that I was under no obligation to justify my decision, especially to those who did not understand my struggle.

People who did not know what dissociation was, or what it feels like to be in the midst of a paranoid delusion; people who had never felt anxiety that stripped them of their ability to function in our society; people who had never felt emotional pain that seemed to throb from inside the marrow of their bones.

Complete strangers would badger me, presuming to know what was best for me without actually knowing the relentless, devastating pain that mental illness had put me through. Strangers who thought that they knew better than me, the person who had lived through this for years, what my body needed to heal.

Sometimes, it was well-intentioned. But most of the time, it was coming from a judgmental place.

They may as well have been saying, “I know nothing about mental illness, but I’m going to tell you about this random treatment I read about on the internet because clearly you don’t know what you’re doing.”

And it made me so, so angry.

No, medications were not a “cop out,” they weren’t the “easy way out,” they weren’t a “quick fix” that magically made me happy and high and light. They weren’t easy, they weren’t quick, and they definitely weren’t fun.

Taking medication for my illnesses was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever made, and it took incredible courage to make that choice. It was a process that took years — years of side effects, years of false hope, years of judgment, years of doubt — to finally get it right.

But eventually, with the right doctor and with a lot of patience, we did get it right. After four years of being the equivalent of a human guinea pig, my body responded at last and I could begin to do the important work of healing. Combined with therapy, my transition, and self-care, I was able to begin again — this time, completely present and alive, no longer struggling just to keep my head above water.

And you know what? I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry for exercising my bodily autonomy. I’m not sorry for making the choice to take care of myself. I’m not sorry for taking control of my life.

Most of all, I’m not sorry for having the strength to choose life over death. Each day that I swallow these pills, I am reminded of the tenacity it took to keep myself alive, in spite of every fiery and relentless urge to end it all. I did what I needed to do to keep myself alive, and I’ll never apologize for the fact that I’m still here.

To be clear: Meds aren’t right for everyone, and they aren’t accessible for everyone, either. We need to do better not just for folks who take meds, but for those who do not or cannot. We need to protect a person’s right to dictate and choose what’s best for their body, and advocate to make those resources available to them — no matter what they end up deciding.

Ultimately, this is not about medicating every single person with a mental illness. It’s about giving us the power to decide how to heal, be it with medication or otherwise, and defending our right to make that choice without pressure, without shame, and without obstacles that prevent us from exercising those choices.

I am not ashamed of these pills. I am only ashamed to be part of a society that still believes it can dictate what’s right for my body, and what’s right for my community.


Editor’s Note: The use of the phrase “crazy pills” is not being endorsed as acceptable for mainstream use, but rather, reclaimed in a way that the author finds personally empowering.




  1. It is good to take your health into your own hands. Doing that gave me some kind of will for fighting power.

    If you have a cold you take pills. If you have a chronic disease such as Osteoporosis you take pills.

    Why then when you have a Mental Health problem does it seem so absurd to be taking pills? People who don’t know the things you have been through can not understand it. I mean honestly what is wrong with just wanting to feel better? With not wanting to feel the pain of it?

    Good on you. (hugs)

    Liked by 1 person

  2. There are so many “solutions” out there- and yes, I’m guilty of having thought I could get off my meds, just do yoga, go to church, whatever. Falling into the trap of “taking meds is weak, is not healthy,” etc. What’s not healthy is being so incapacitated by anxiety that I can’t sleep or eat, that I isolate myself from the world and start thinking about hurting myself or even ending my life.

    “No, medications were not a “cop out,” they weren’t the “easy way out,” they weren’t a “quick fix” that magically made me happy and high and light.”

    Quite right, Sam- meds are only a tool that help us regain our basic functioning, so that we can return to the real work- the uncovering and growth that comes through therapy, human interaction, and time.

    thanks again for another well-written and much-needed post. I love your work.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I totally relate to what you’re saying. I tried everything and I always felt like a failure when it didn’t work. Eventually I realized that the medications weren’t the problem — society’s attitude towards mental illness and treatments are the problem.

      And you’re so welcome! Thanks for your thoughtful comment. ^_^


  3. ” I’m not sorry for exercising my bodily autonomy. I’m not sorry for making the choice to take care of myself. I’m not sorry for taking control of my life.”

    Yes! Yes to the infinitieth power, YES! I wish I’d used those lines a few years back when I first started taking meds for depression. More succinct and less stressful than citing medical studies ad nauseam and handing over peer-reviewed articles to naysayers. And way more polite than my frequently used, “Fuck off. The Cymbalta and Xanax keep me from killing myself and taking you with me!”

    Liked by 1 person

  4. I still refuse to take meds, I suffer severe clinical depression and sometimes I get panic attacks now and then but I really, really refuse to take meds… I guess I’m just scared that I’ll get so used to them that when the doc says I can finally stop taking them I am going to feel like I can’t, like I won’t be able to be okay if I stop taking them. Like putting all hopes of being happy in one tiny pill.

    It’s a struggle for me, I want to be okay but at the same time I’m scared of meds :\

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I was so very afraid of taking medications. That is a valid fear that so many people have.

      It’s strange, because for every other medical condition, we don’t hesitate to take medications when they’re needed. If I have an infection, I’ve got the antibiotic. If I need insulin and I’m diabetic, I’m going to take the pills that my doctor says that I need. If I have high cholesterol, I don’t feel fearful of my prescription — I swallow the pill. The stigma is so intense that we are even afraid of something that could make us feel better.

      Ultimately, I asked myself, which is scarier? Committing suicide or living a lifetime of instability and pain? Or trying a medication that could make it better?

      I can’t make that choice for you, and our situations are not identical, obviously. You need to do what’s best for you. But it’s worth considering what scares you, why it makes you afraid, and if the alternative is a risk worth taking.

      No matter what you decide, I’m sending you lots of love, light, and support. ❤

      Liked by 1 person

  5. I have taken anti-depressants for 20 years and I will until I die. I was lucky enough to fins a combo that works for me after only two tries. I will NEVER go back to that dark black hole that depression was for me for 20 years before that. Taking pills was only the start of my recovery as I often point out. I guarantee also that the anti-meds attitudes I had internalized kept me from getting help years before and ,might have cost my kids their mother. Thanks for this great post!

    Liked by 1 person

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