This coming autumn will mark my seventh year of taking antidepressants.
It began when I was 19 and due to start university after an unplanned gap year in which I’d spent all day, every day worrying myself sick that I was a terrible person who was capable of terrible things.
I had spent almost that entire year locked in a cycle of terror and sadness. I didn’t want my next few years at university to be as dark.
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