Trinity of first year, a few weeks before exams, I sat with a few friends on the floor of my bedroom. The subject, as it often did during this period, turned to coping with stress, specifically the huge amount of strain that the Oxford environment can have on mental wellbeing. One girl described how she was feeling anxious, so anxious that she felt she couldn’t leave her room. Clearly, this was stress beyond what could be considered normal . We probed her for more, having asked if she had gone to see someone, to which she responded she hadn’t, as no kind of talking therapy had worked for her. We asked if she had considered talking to tutors, but no — she didn’t want to do that either. Every possible solution batted away, it couldn’t possibly help, wouldn’t be worth trying. ‘Well,’ I asked, ‘have you ever considered going on medication?’ The tone of the room seemed to shift, to unbalance. ‘No,’ she said flatly, as if insulted. ‘Why would I do that?’ I responded with the fact there are significant benefits, that it might help, and continued on and on. ‘No I wouldn’t do that. It’s weak, don’t you think?” This stung. At this point I had been taking antidepressants for six months.

I first went on medication after the Michaelmas of first year. I had struggled with stress and low mood since I joined secondary school, and it significantly worsened when I was around fifteen, catalysed by a nasty molotov cocktail of significant bereavement, exam stress, and social isolation. My final years of school were defined by a violent oscillation between manic hyper-productivity followed by dangerous periods of crippling low mood. It wasn’t all bad though. In my final year of school I made good friends, found new hobbies, and applied to university. And although I was still in a turbulent cycle rocketing up and down, when I left school in March I was excited about the future. I went to Oxford naively optimistic, refusing to consider that my mental health might be impacted by being here. Obviously, I was wrong. Michaelmas took me, chewed me up, and spat me out completely exhausted, depressed and unable to fathom coming back for Hilary. I went to the GP for a routine health check and found myself breaking down in the waiting room. After a few appointments I was diagnosed with severe low mood, prescribed antidepressants, and told to think very carefully about whether I should go back to university.

I had never considered medication before, not least because I only turned eighteen at the end of Michaelmas and doctors are extremely reluctant to prescribe medication like that to minors. At the time I was in too much of a haze to really think about what I was taking. I didn’t notice much of a difference. I got back to Oxford for Hilary and gritted my way through the never-ending cycle of work, sleep, repeat. It was only about a month into term that something began to give. Some fog was lifting, slowly but surely. I’d get excited about things again, make plans, and laugh with my friends. I noticed I was taking care with the things I cooked, experimenting with new recipes and meal prepping properly. I was taking an interest in work, reading something and actively enjoying it, taking a little pride in the essays I was producing. The dark film that had crept over my life over the past five years was now slowly flaking away. Since then, things have gotten better and better. I have tried lots of new hobbies, created and sustained friendships, found niches I never anticipated I had, and began to enjoy the academics here properly. I even cried of happiness (after watching My Life as a Courgette, may I add),for the first time in my life.  As of now, I have been on some form of mental health medication for a year and a half and don’t intend to stop. Psychiatric medication changed my life.

This is why I am so surprised that the use of such medication is often treated with scorn, shame, and suspicion. It also explains why I was so taken aback by the disgust with which the girl I was talking with had considered them. There seems to be a rhetoric that all mental health problems are fixable with enough mindfulness. While non-clinical treatments can be super effective, such as exercise, which has certainly helped me, there comes a point where you need additional help to get better. Medication doesn’t act as a total cure — recovery in any form requires huge amounts of work with potential slip-ups along the way — but medication can provide a really crucial safety net that helps make day-to-day life more bearable. Furthermore, I think by totally rejecting the use of clinical intervention like medication, mental health disorders are delegitimised as non-medical, or considered not as serious as physical problems. It would be nonsensical and ludicrous for someone with a chest infection to completely reject the use of antibiotics, so why is it so different for mental health disorders? Antidepressants are one of the most commonly prescribed drugs in the UK, yet remain largely undiscussed – they are certainly not a fix-all solution, nor do they work for everyone. Yet an attitude like the one held by the girl mentioned above is counterproductive and reductionist. Actively taking steps to lead a more livable life is not weak, but admirable, and opening your mind up to the possibility of alternative, clinical treatment can only be a positive thing.

Overall, as ever, open-mindedness and respect go a long way, especially when discussing something so stigmatised. Those who know very little about medication and haven’t experienced mental unwellness that requires it are the first to denounce it as harmful and unnecessary, as the ‘easy way out’. However, all this does is reflect their ignorance and proves the necessity for more education and understanding about the very real benefits (as well as, of course, potential shortcomings and side-effects) of medication, and the potential it has to very much change your life.