What I’ve learned about numbness, depression, and choosing to feel
After a week of feeling unreasonably emotional, I finally realized something bigger was happening. Last night, I learned it had a name: emotional blunting.
At 10 p.m., I found myself Googling “Lexapro no emotion.” That’s when I stumbled onto a term I’d never heard before, but that described me to a T. Suddenly, it all made sense. I was nodding along, thinking, yes — this is me. This is what’s been happening all these years.
My first antidepressant was Prozac when I was 18 and drowning as a college freshman. I couldn’t cope with being away from home, sunk into a deep depression, and my family had to swoop in and rescue me. Though I’d always been anxious, this was my first official diagnosis. I stayed on Prozac for about five years, and that’s when my struggles with weight really began. I’ve often described that stretch as my “zombie years.” I went from feeling too much to feeling almost nothing. When I quit cold turkey to start a weight-loss journey (not smart, I know better now), I realized just how much the medication had dulled me.
For a couple of years I flailed along unmedicated, but the truth is, I’ve always been anxious and depressive — a worrier since childhood, obsessive in small and big ways. It’s part of who I am. Sometimes I can tuck it away, sometimes I can’t.
Depression has never really left me; it ebbs and flows. After Caleb was born in 2015, it came roaring back in the form of postpartum depression. That was the worst it’s ever been. I scared myself — and I scared my family. I remember rocking back and forth, crying, begging, “When will this stop?” Lights on, windows open, unable to be alone. It was brutal. Eventually it lifted, but I’ll never forget how bad it got.
Since then, I don’t really know what “normal” feels like. I’ve been on and off meds for so long that I don’t know what my baseline is without them. What should I feel like? What’s “okay”?
Most recently, I was on Lexapro. I started it after Holden was born, and for a time I thought it helped. But when I tried quitting cold turkey last year, I went off the rails. (Again — do not do this.) I went back on, stabilized, and resigned myself to being medicated forever.
But the truth is, I haven’t been doing well. Since Holden, my mental health has felt shakier than ever. I’m irritable. Agitated. Overwhelmed by the smallest things. I lose my patience. I zone out in front of the TV or my phone instead of enjoying hobbies I used to love. Every little task feels like too much. Even getting out the door with the kids feels like the weight of the world. I feel exhausted, unmotivated, not my best — and often like a bad mom.
This can’t be right.
When I talked to my doctor, we agreed Lexapro wasn’t helping anymore. Three weeks ago, she switched me to Wellbutrin.
I don’t know yet if it’s working long-term. But I know this: I feel.
For so long, I didn’t. I’ve said Prozac made me feel like a zombie, but so did Lexapro — I just didn’t realize it until now. I wasn’t myself. I wasn’t anyone. I was numb. But now, as Caleb gets ready to start kindergarten, I’m in tears. Not just thinking about logistics, but feeling it. Feeling the ache of him running into the world without me, even if it’s only two days a week.
Before, I would’ve brushed it off. I would’ve been practical, detached. Now, I’m messy. Emotional. Human. And I’d rather be that than a shell of myself.
Discovering “emotional blunting” was like the sky opening up. There wasn’t something wrong with me — it was the medication. To learn that there was a name for what I’d been experiencing was validating. To realize I don’t have to accept it was freeing.
I don’t know what “normal” looks like for me, or how long I’ll stay on Wellbutrin, but I do know this: I will never again take medication that leaves me numb. Life is messy, and it’s meant to be felt.
Sometimes life hurts. Sometimes it amazes you. But I want it all — the heartbreak and the joy, the highs and the lows — because anything is better than nothing. If I can feel the ache of watching my boy walk into school, it means I can also feel the joy of watching him grow. And I’ll take them both. Because too much is always better than not enough.
No comments