Alright, let’s ground this in absolute, unfiltered truth. Antidepressants and Recovery.
I’m back on antidepressants after years off. This is a fact, and it’s a non-negotiable part of my current path. But here’s the thing you need to get straight: this is not a sign of weakness. This is a strategic adaptation. It is the most powerful move I could have made. And for anyone else out there wrestling with a similar decision, you need to hear this, loud and clear: this is not a failure. This is a f*cking evolution.
The last time I was on medication, it was sertraline. It did its job, and the journey off it felt like a monumental victory. I felt like I had won the battle, defeated the demon, and emerged a stronger, more self-sufficient man. For years, I told myself I was strong enough, resilient enough to manage without that support. I wore it like a badge of honour, a testament to my personal fortitude. And for a while, I was. But life isn’t a flat road. It’s a punishing climb with unexpected, gut-wrenching challenges that hit you when you least expect them. It strips away your coping mechanisms, one by one, until you’re standing there, exposed to the elements. The truth is, that’s when you find out what you’re really made of. And what I’ve learned is that true strength isn’t about refusing help or stubbornly doing it alone; it’s about the brutal honesty of knowing when to strategically call in reinforcements. It’s about recognising that your body and mind are part of a complex system that sometimes needs an external intervention to get back in balance.
This time, the choice was different. The medication is different. It’s not sertraline – it’s mirtazapine. This isn’t just about mood regulation anymore. This is a tactical strike against one of my most insidious and dangerous triggers: sleep disruption. My sleep cycle had been annihilated. After quitting booze, my sleep was a million times better, a true gift of sobriety. But recent mental health issues over the last month or so have been what have completely screwed with it. It doesn’t matter how disciplined you are, how many positive affirmations you use, or how many miles you run; trying to rebuild a life on a foundation of exhaustion is like trying to build a skyscraper in a swamp. It’s a losing game. It’s an act of futility. The decision to go on this particular medication wasn’t an act of desperation; it was a strategic move to restore a critical function that my body and mind desperately need. That’s not a surrender. That’s power. That’s taking control of a fundamental physiological process that had spiralled out of my control and reclaiming it.
The Old Story vs. The New Truth: Rewriting the Internal Script
I’ve had to consciously, aggressively rewrite the script that has been running in my head. This is the inner work: the relentless war against the insidious narrative that seeks to diminish my progress, undermine my resolve, and pull me back into the comfort of shame. It’s the voice of an old, wounded part of myself trying to pull me back into a familiar comfort zone of self-pity. But it’s bollocks. All of it. It’s a ghost from a past life, and it has no authority here.
The Old Story:
“I’m back on meds. I failed. I’m fragile. I’m not strong enough to handle this on my own.”
This narrative is insidious because it is based on a lie. It whispers in the quiet moments, late at night, when you’re most vulnerable. It feeds on shame and the fear of judgment, the fear that someone will see this as a step backwards. It makes you feel like you’ve regressed. Like all the progress you’ve made was just a temporary fix, a flimsy illusion that has now been exposed. It’s a toxic cycle, a self-fulfilling prophecy of defeat. I could have let that narrative win. I could have retreated, spiralled, and let the chaos consume me. But that’s not who I am anymore. That’s not the man I’ve worked so hard to become.
The New Truth: Antidepressants and Recovery
“I’m reinforcing my foundation with medical support while I rewire my life. I am confronting my pain, not drowning it. This is a move of strength. Antidepressants and Recovery. This is power, not panic.”
This is the narrative you have to hold onto. This is the belief that will carry you through the early, f*cking hard days. I have already chosen to face my pain instead of drowning it in booze, in reckless behaviour, or in numbing distractions. That choice—the choice to stay sober, to stay present, to stay in the ring—is an act of profound bravery. It’s a different kind of bravery than what the world celebrates. It’s not the bravery of the battlefield; it’s the quiet, relentless bravery of choosing to heal. It’s the courage of saying, “This is not working on my own, and I am strong enough to admit that and seek the right support.” It’s an act of radical self-care and self-preservation. It is a sign of immense inner power, not weakness.
And yeah, I’ve been triggered in this transition. The sheer fatigue from a new medication, the odd cravings that have nothing to do with thirst or hunger, the unsettling sensation of my nervous system recalibrating. That’s not a sign that something is wrong. That’s expected. It’s the sound of the engine being replaced while the car is still moving. It’s the feeling of a scaffold going up around a building that is being rebuilt from the inside out. I’m not broken. I’m human. But I don’t get to use that humanity as an excuse to retreat. I’m not the bloke who folds at the first crack in the armour. I’m the one who is rebuilding the armour from the inside out, making it stronger than it ever was before.
How I’m Owning This Moment: The Non-Negotiables
You can’t just take a pill and expect a miracle. The medication is a support beam, not the entire structure. The real work is what you do while that support is in place. It’s about stacking tools and building habits that make the foundation solid. The non-negotiables are the pillars of this new life, the rituals that anchor me when the ground feels unstable. This is where the magic happens. This is where you put in the daily, unglamorous work that makes all the difference.
Routine like my life depends on it – because it does.
This isn’t about perfection. It’s about relentless consistency. I get up at the same time every day. I go to bed at the same time every night. Mirtazapine can make you feel drowsy, like you could sleep for 12 hours straight. But you can’t let it run the show. You have to establish a new circadian rhythm. This involves discipline. Even if I’m wired and can’t fall asleep, I lie in bed. I don’t get up and scroll my phone. I train my body to associate that time and place with rest. In the morning, within 30 minutes of waking, I move. A 10-minute walk around the block, a few minutes of stretching, anything to signal to my body that the day has begun. This simple act resets the circadian rhythm and sets the tone for the entire day. It’s a promise to myself that no matter how I feel, I will show up. I will do the work. I will follow the plan.
Cut the caffeine. Full stop.
This is a no-brainer, yet one of the hardest sacrifices to make. Mirtazapine can cause grogginess, but adding a late-afternoon coffee on top of that is a recipe for sleep chaos. It’s a direct contradiction to my goal. Caffeine is a powerful stimulant that messes with your brain chemistry, elevates cortisol, and can exacerbate anxiety and the very symptoms the medication is trying to manage. I’m choosing sleep over a temporary buzz. I’m choosing long-term stability over short-term gratification. This is a small sacrifice for a massive gain. Instead, I’m hydrating with water, I’m drinking herbal tea—anything to keep my system clean and give the medication the best possible environment to do its work. I am learning to find energy from other sources—my morning walk, a healthy meal, a moment of deep breathing—not from a crutch that ultimately harms me.
Cravings aren’t commands.
One of the common side effects of mirtazapine is an increased appetite. This can be a trap, a dangerous one. It’s easy to confuse this with a genuine need for food, or worse, to use it as an excuse to fall back into old, destructive patterns. I’m not doing that. I’m eating clean, protein-rich meals. I’m stabilising my blood sugar. I’m hydrating like hell. The craving is a signal, not an order. I acknowledge it, but I don’t obey it. This is the same mental muscle I’ve built to resist the craving for booze. The context is different, but the core principle is the same: I decide what I put into my body, not a passing sensation. This is about conscious choice over unconscious reaction. It is a moment-by-moment practice of mindfulness and discipline. I am learning to distinguish between a physical need and a mental urge.
Mental trigger? Here’s my line:
I have a simple mantra, a line I repeat to myself the moment that inner critic, that voice of doubt, starts whispering its nonsense. It’s my line in the sand. When I feel that old sense of panic or fragility, I stop and I say it: “I don’t drink. I breathe. I move. I rebuild.” It’s a reminder of the choices I’ve made, the battles I’ve won, and the work I’m doing right now. It short-circuits the negative feedback loop and brings me back to the present moment. This is a form of cognitive restructuring, a way of redirecting my focus from what I feel I’ve lost to what I am actively building. This mantra is a fortress against doubt, a beacon of my renewed purpose.
The Tools That Stack With The Meds: The Daily Rituals
The medication is the support beam, but the tools are the mortar, the bricks, the entire f*cking structure. You have to be an active participant in your own recovery. These are the daily practices that turn a pill into a foundation. They are the non-negotiable rituals that build resilience from the inside out.
Cold water exposure every morning.
This isn’t about masochism. It’s about training your mind to override discomfort. A 30-second blast of cold water in the shower. It shocks the system, it wakes you up, and it forces you to breathe and be present in a moment of physical stress. The mind wants to flee, but you stand there and you endure. It’s a microcosm of life. You can endure hard things. This trains that muscle. It’s a daily ritual of empowerment. It activates the vagus nerve, which helps regulate the nervous system, bringing it back into a state of balance. It’s a reminder that my body is resilient and that I have control over my physical and mental state. It’s an act of showing up for yourself, no matter how much your body rebels against it.
Evening breathwork.
As the sun goes down, I anchor my nervous system. After a day of sensory input, work, and mental strain, my mind can be racing. Breathwork is the off-ramp. My go-to is Box Breathing: Inhale for 4. Hold for 4. Exhale for 4. Hold for 4. Two minutes. Done. It’s simple, it’s effective, and it tells my nervous system that it’s safe to slow down. It’s a direct line to my parasympathetic nervous system, the one responsible for rest and digest. By consciously controlling my breath, I’m taking back control of my body’s stress response. It’s a way of saying, “I’m in charge now. It’s time to let go of the day’s stress and prepare for rest.” I also use a variation called coherent breathing, where I inhale and exhale for a count of six. This is another powerful way to calm the mind and body.
Visualisation before bed.
The final tool is the one that sets the stage for the next day. Before I fall asleep, I visualise. I see myself waking up clear-headed, strong, rested. I feel the energy in my body. I see myself moving with purpose. I visualise tackling difficult conversations, making good choices with my food, and handling unexpected stress with grace. This isn’t just fluffy feel-good nonsense. This is rewiring my brain. I’m pre-programming the neural pathways for a successful day. I’m telling my subconscious what I expect of it. I’m laying the foundation for a productive morning before the dreams even come. I’m creating a blueprint for my future self to follow, bypassing the cynical, defeated part of my brain that wants to tell me I can’t do it. The brain can’t distinguish between a vivid imagination and reality, so by visualising success, you are quite literally building a path to it.
This Isn’t Square One. This Is Deeper Work.
So many people see a return to medication as hitting rock bottom, as going back to the start. That’s a fundamentally flawed way of thinking. This is not square one. Square one was the moment I realised something was wrong. This is the next level. This is the level where I confront the issues that the initial recovery simply didn’t address.
The first phase of my recovery was about building a solid, basic foundation. It was about sobriety. It was about showing up. It was about creating a life I didn’t need to escape from. It was about fire-fighting, about getting the immediate crises under control. This phase is different. It’s a deeper level where I confront the nuanced, deeply ingrained triggers that have left a mark on my nervous system. It’s not a failing; it’s a strategic pivot—the courage to admit that old methods are no longer sufficient for new challenges. It’s about looking at the emotional and psychological trauma that has been stored in my body and mind and saying, “I’m ready to deal with this now. I have the support I need to do the hard work.” This is the real, unglamorous, and profound work of rebuilding a life.
I don’t owe anyone an explanation. Not friends, not family, not that inner critic whispering bollocks in the dark. My journey is mine. My healing is my responsibility. The people who matter will get it. The people who don’t, well, their opinion isn’t a bill I have to pay. This isn’t about winning or losing; it’s about the fight itself. It’s about showing up for myself every single day with discipline and intention. This chapter’s called: “The Part Where I Doubled Down,” and that’s exactly what I’m f*cking doing.
