106. The Lifeline I Can’t Afford to Ignore: Why Taking My Medication Matters

There’s a quiet kind of courage in taking your prescribed medications every day.  It’s not flashy, it doesn’t earn applause, and no one’s giving you a medal.  For someone like me—an addict in recovery who also battles major depressive disorder, bipolar disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and generalized anxiety—taking my prescribed medications is nothing short of lifesaving.  It's a decision I make every day that keeps me grounded, breathing, and able to show up in the world with some sense of peace. It’s not easy.  It never has been.  But I’ve learned, often the hard way, just how crucial it is to stick with it.

There was a time, not that long ago, when I truly believed I didn’t need medication.  Or maybe I was just scared of needing it.  Scared that taking pills each morning and each night meant something was deeply wrong with me—that I was broken in a way that couldn’t be fixed. Addiction already made me feel like I was wearing a label across my forehead that said, “less than.”  Adding a list of mental illnesses and a cabinet full of prescription bottles only made that weight heavier.

What I’ve come to understand through years of trial and error, relapse and reflection, is that my mental health and my recovery are deeply intertwined.  One doesn’t stand without the other.  I can’t stay clean and sober without addressing the underlying mental health issues that led me to self-medicate in the first place.  And I can’t address those issues unless I’m willing to take the medications that help keep the chaos in my brain at bay.

When my depression is at its worst, I don’t want to get out of bed.  I don’t want to eat.  I don’t want to speak.  I don’t want to be alive.  When my bipolar disorder is in full swing, I can be euphoric one moment and in the depths of despair the next.  The OCD traps me in endless loops of thought, rituals I must do “just right” or else something terrible will happen.  PTSD floods my body with panic from memories I wish I could forget, and my anxiety makes even a quiet room feel like it’s closing in on me.  It’s a lot, and when left untreated, it becomes unbearable.

Medication helps.  It doesn’t cure everything, and it’s not a magic fix, but it’s the difference between drowning and keeping my head above water.  It’s the difference between isolating in my bedroom for days and showing up to coach my kids’ soccer games with a genuine smile. It’s the difference between numbing my pain with drugs and facing it with courage, clarity, and support.

But here’s something that I’ve had to learn, and relearn, over time: sometimes the medications stop working.  Or maybe they never fully worked in the first place, but I was too scared, too stubborn, or too exhausted to say anything.  There have been days—weeks, even months—when the pills I take daily don’t seem to do what they’re supposed to.  I start slipping.  I get irritable.  I get hopeless.  I start to think, What’s the point?  That’s when the temptation to quit taking them creeps in.  That’s when I hear the old voices saying, You’re better off without them.  They’re not working anyway.  You’re strong enough on your own.  That’s the illness talking.  That’s the addict in me looking for an excuse to fall back into chaos.  I’ve learned—sometimes painfully—that when the medicine isn’t working, it doesn’t mean I should stop taking it.  It means I need to talk to my doctor.  I need to be honest.  I need to be open to the hard, uncomfortable process of trying something new.

And let me tell you, I hate change.  I hate it with a passion.  I cling to routines, even broken ones, because they feel familiar.  So, when a doctor tells me we might need to adjust my meds or try something different altogether, my first instinct is to shut down.  I think, What if it gets worse?  What if the side effects are awful?  What if this new medication changes me in a way I don’t like?  But if I want to live—and I mean really live, not just survive—I must be willing to do what’s necessary.  I have to trust that my recovery is worth the discomfort. That my life is worth fighting for, even when that fight means walking into a psychiatrist’s office and saying, “This isn’t working.  Can we try something else?”

I know I’m not alone in this.  There are others like me—people trying to stay sober while navigating the wild terrain of mental illness.  We don’t talk about it enough.  We don’t admit how hard it is to balance all the moving parts.  If you’re reading this and you’ve ever questioned whether taking your medication matters, I want you to know that it does.  It matters more than you realize.

There’s no shame in needing help.  There’s no weakness in relying on a pill to stabilize your mood or ease your anxiety.  If anything, there’s strength in it.  There’s bravery in walking into a pharmacy and picking up a prescription that might make the difference between relapse and recovery.  Between hopelessness and healing.  Between life and death.

I take my medication because I want to be here for the people I love.  I want to coach soccer games, write columns, and spend time with my family and friends.  I take my medication because I’ve lost too many people who didn’t.  I’ve seen what happens when mental illness is left untreated.  I’ve been that person before—curled up in bed, consumed by darkness, certain that there was no way out.

Today, I know better.  I know that taking my meds isn’t a sign of defeat—it’s a declaration of hope.  It’s me saying, “I believe in my future.  I believe I deserve peace.  I believe I’m worth saving.”

If you’re walking this path too, be gentle with yourself.  Speak up when things aren’t working.  Stay open to change, even when it scares you. And above all, take your meds—not because you’re weak, but because your life matters. And so does mine.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.