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There, in that oddly cold Pittsburgh CVS, my fairy tale romance/antidepressant success story began.

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Medicine would help, I was told, it would make things so much better. My life would be enjoyable, not just something I had to bear. They were wrong.

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With you, the hardships do not defeat me. With you, I am resilient and brilliant and exactly who I was always meant to be. With you, I’m the best me.

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This is how my depression, like a cruel lover, convinced me that if I left, I would have nowhere else to go.

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I still tear up way more than I ever have, and am learning to accept that as a part of me. I’m trying to embrace tears as a visceral human reaction to life, not as a sign of weakness or cause for embarrassment.

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I’d sprinkle Adderall in my coffee every morning if there were no consequences.

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A few days later, I began having heart palpitations and cold sweats. Mentally, I felt fine, but physically, I was kind of a wreck. But both worlds collided one day while I was working at my then-job at Estee Lauder. I remember it so well…

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While on medication, I was able to fight these storms as a whole person, not a wounded and vulnerable creature.

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I can trace my anxiety back to kindergarten. As a child, I spent an inordinate amount of time puking. I wasn’t sickly or malnourished. I just puked on the regular.

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So if Zoloft works so well and I have been living with anxiety my whole life, why stop? Pretty simple. Sex. Or actually, lack of sex. Well, to be REALLY technical, lack of sex DRIVE.