You are the reason I’m on antidepressants

“You’re the reason I’m on antidepressants.”

Awash with relief, I said that simple sentence.

Direct. Face-on. Rabbit-in-headlights. A heart-swellingly, jaw-clenchingly, neurotransmitter-manipulatingly momentous nothing.

A sentence that, despite its aching simplicity and directness, had never felt possible or right or desirable until that moment.

I could have said it to anyone.

I could have said it to my boss at the time.

The boss who, three weeks into my new job, told me his plan all along had been to “let me walk through the valley of the shadow of death”, to throw me in at the deep end and cast out a lifebuoy just as my head was about to dip entirely underwater.

The boss who, 5 months later, would sit across from me and ask if there was anything I wanted to say to him, with a knowledge and expectation in his eyes, both of us aware of everything that could or might be said in those last few minutes we would spend together.

But I didn’t say it to him.

I could have said it to my ex-partner.

The ex-partner who had every right to end our relationship – a decision we both agreed to but that started with her – but had nevertheless set in motion a huge and difficult change for us both.

The ex-partner who, over the course of the previous year, would semi-regularly appear on WhatsApp (and I on hers just as often) with a complicated attempt at catching up, or to ask a difficult question, with both options ending the same way – in hot-blooded, frustrating, provocative, spiralling clashes. A Groundhog Day of unintended selves.

But I didn’t say it to her.

I could have said it to my old employer.

The old employer who, through hubris or mismanagement or bad luck, had gone from raging success to rounds of redundancies in a matter of months.

The old employer who had offered excitement and the opportunity to pursue the career I’d always dreamed of. The employer who had brought me together with a group of friends – never colleagues, always friends – who made me enjoy every day of city rat-run commuting and kept me moving through the treacle of relationship breakdown and urgent relocation.

But I didn’t say it to them.

I said it to my partner.

The partner who, with perfectly-wavering fortitude and unconditional understanding, accepted all of me.

My rough edges, my panic attacks. My body convulsing in her arms as acidic dread hollowed out my every sinew.

The partner who helped me understand that pushing through without antidepressants is not a badge of honour. The partner who helped me work through internalised shame and misinformation to accept that, actually, a little white pill with ‘8 | 1’ stamped on one side and ‘A’ on the reverse is not a concession or a failing or even anything heroic, but a quiet act of acceptance.

Acceptance that I deserve help.

That I deserve to feel safe and settled in my mind and body.

So I said it to her.

It turns out that survival, recovery, and returning to (a new) normal isn’t made up of grand gestures or valiant struggle.

It’s quiet and is handed to you by a kindly pharmacist with a magnificent beard who leaves the words “Goodbye Mr. Clarke” ringing in your ears.

It sits on your bedside table in a little green and white bag, in a little red and white box, in two little sheets, in 30 identical snow white pills.

That’s all it is.

Just little things wrapped up in bigger things, that sit by your side and, sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly, tell you that you might be wrong but you can also be right.

And so I said it to my partner and I meant it.

I hugged her and smiled and felt the welling of relief and uncertainty in my eyes and heart.

I said it to her.

“You’re the reason I’m on anti-depressants.”

“Thank you,” one of us said to the other.

Or maybe it was just me.