I Asked for Revolution. I Got a Zoloft Prescription.

What’s so hard about “seeking help” for political depression.

This blog entry is part 3 of the On Making it to Tomorrow series. As I work on new music about resilience, I’m processing my thoughts as part of my writing process. To start at the beginning, click here.

What I share below is a deeply personal journey that shouldn’t be taken as prescriptive or as medical advice. It’s just my experience with medication. Everyone’s experience is different and valid.

I left the hospital squeezing a bottle of Zoloft like a stress ball. They were my first prescription psych meds, and I felt a bit miffed about it.

I spotted my friend Anthony approaching through the glass hospital doors, all smiles. When we caught eyes, he opened his arms as wide as possible. He hugged me like I’d just returned home from active duty. “Let’s get you some food, buddy,” he said.

I tried to explain to Anthony how I ended up in the E.R.—that the world felt like a slave ship and, since it seemed any successful mutiny was a long way off, I’d decided to jump.

“Well,” he said, “what if you thought of it as a slave yacht?” I knew he was trying to help, and being facetious. But his response signaled that maybe I should stop sharing my feelings, lest people conclude I…