Withering Away
How anxiety and depression medication revived my old self
Story by Melody Marichalar
Illustrations by Grace Matson
Before you read: This is a heavy piece about living with anxiety and depression. I mention suicide, the loss of a loved one, and physical symptoms due to my mental health. Please read with this in mind and take care of yourself.
Finding Mental Health Care in Whatcom County
My room mirrored my mental state: bare, dying and cold. The only signs of life were my unmade bed and a stockpile of used cups on my bedside table. In the corner of my room, a stack of unread books collected dust — just one of the many hobbies I had abandoned. The winter weather of Bellingham made my loft room cold compared to the rest of the house, yet I didn’t have the energy to buy myself a heater. Friends and visitors would comment on my bleak white walls and withering plants. I would laugh off their remarks but felt a deep pit of shame. I wanted to scream until my lungs burned because I felt no different from those plants.
Last year was hell for me. I couldn’t escape my mind; it was preoccupied by a loop of self-hatred. Sleep was the only escape, yet that too was stolen by anxiety. Nightmares replaced dreams. How could I rest when I was having vivid images of my friend in a dark room after trying to take her life — tubes hanging loosely off of her frail body in a light blue hospital gown and feeling the piercing pain of a dog shaking my neck as it attacked me?
Talking became something that I dreaded. Fear constantly controlled my speech, afraid that my newly developed slight stutter would barge into the conversation. I could feel it creeping in — my body tensing, my lungs shrinking, trapping the air inside. Just before I spoke, my mind would panic, convincing me I was about to mispronounce the words. The bubbling self-doubt resulted in the wrong sounds spilling out.
To avoid talking to others, I decided that I was going to silence myself and be a recluse. This escalated into me checking my roommates’ locations before arriving home; the horror of having to talk to someone made me pick at my nails until they were dripping with bright red. When I arrived home, I would practically run to my room — my heart racing at the possibility of being forced into a conversation. I wouldn’t make dinner until the footsteps of my roommates disappeared into the night, sometimes as late as midnight. The worst part is, these were not just my roommates, they were friends. I pushed away people who loved me because I hated myself.
Tears were more common in the morning than breakfast. Crying in the mirror while brushing my teeth became habitual. My skin was bursting with blemishes because of stress and lack of hygiene. My eyes, once full of life, were coated with dark circles. I felt like I had lost my inner spark and was stuck with a monster. Another tiring day in survival mode. I started skipping classes and important meetings because the tears wouldn’t dry up before I had to leave. Sometimes, I would cry so hard that I would end up over the toilet dry heaving. Skipped classes turned into failing grades. Failing grades turned into me questioning if I even had a future.
The summer before my senior year of college, I felt an unfamiliar sense of hope. Don’t get me wrong — I was still struggling with severe anxiety and depression, but for the first time in a while, it felt somewhat manageable. That is, up until Aug. 3, 2024, when one of my family members unexpectedly passed away, causing my mental health to plummet. I started experiencing up to three nightmares a night, waking up to a heart pounding so hard that I thought it was going to beat right out of my chest. Searching to see what qualified as a suicidal thought became a frequent tab on my laptop. Spending money became easy because, deep down, I truly believed that I wasn’t going to be here for much longer. I watched documentaries on people who survived jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge while secretly planning my own exit. I was at the lowest point in my life.
One night, I watched written words become pools of ink as my tears splashed onto my journal paper. I was rapidly writing down the thoughts that were racing through my head. I wrote how I felt like I was drowning in life, and the weight on my chest was too heavy to continue trying to float.
Tired from the draining dreams and overall fatigue from the night before, I picked up my phone and dialed my doctor. I was scheduled for later in the day and told my family that I was going to get professional help — without disclosing all the details of what led up to this decision.
The back of my sweaty thighs gripped onto the crinkly paper of the exam table. I swung my feet as I explained to my doctor the reason for the appointment. Giving these feelings existence outside of my body felt weird; for so long, they were trapped in my crammed mind. It was strange to confess my most intense symptoms to a stranger while completely hiding them from the people closest to me. For a split second, imposter syndrome gripped my throat. “Was I just overreacting?” No, no I was not. While I waited in the pharmacy line for my first bottle of Zoloft, panic warmed my body. There was no next step if the small blue pills didn’t work.
I first noticed the side effects of Zoloft, a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, around week three. The negative voice in my head had died down, but so had my ability to have physical reactions to emotions. I was still in the early stages of grieving, and releasing tears felt like an impossible task. I could feel the pressure behind my eyes growing and the lump in my throat expanding, but the tears wouldn’t shed. My body felt too full and fragile, yet no matter how much I tipped, nothing spilled over.
The end of summer was approaching, and I was preparing to move back to Bellingham. Usually, I would be an anxious mess, knowing that I was about to depart from my home where anxiety-inducing situations were rare. The year before, I would spend the five-hour drive to Bellingham listening to self-help podcasts, frantically absorbing last-minute tips in preparation for feeling socially anxious. Yet, I didn’t feel that way this year; I was excited to be back in Bellingham and change last year’s narrative.
The wind whipped through my newly cut hair as I drove down Chuckanut Drive singing Michael Jackson. I missed the people and city of Bellingham and, for the first time in months, I felt confident in my social ability. The first couple of months back felt transformative. By then, I had been on medication for three months, and its effects were apparent. All of my junior year, I was desperate to meet my old self after she vanished without a trace. My medication had brought her back for my senior year. I felt comfortable talking to people and my stutter slowly disappeared just as fast as my brain fog. I started to feel less tired and was able to make it through the whole day without sleep. My anxiety had drained me for so long that the constant exhaustion felt normal. Nightmares still plagued my sleep but they too were gradually fading.
After neglecting my well-being for so long, I finally took the initiative to care for myself. I found myself drawn to small acts of self-care again — painting my nails, brushing my teeth consistently and making sure I was getting enough to eat. I even booked my first therapy appointment as an outlet to share my thoughts.
As much as the medicine was making a difference, I still had days where anxiety and depression crept over me, taking hold of my body. I will admit, some of my darkest nights were during this period of my life, yet it felt easier to manage these extreme emotions.
Anxiety and depression are harsh illnesses that can feel deeply isolating. I hope my writing reassured you that your struggles — even the darkest, most embarrassing parts are deeply human and shared by many. More than anything, I want to remind you that seeking professional help is an act of bravery. You are strong, and I’m proud of you for carrying on, even when the weight you bear is twice as heavy.