The first thought that comes to mind upon opening my eyes each morning is I wonder what it feels like to have a normal brain. When I say normal, I mean a brain that isn't constantly spinning, spiralling, sabotaging, or suffering.

I have known the word depressed since the age of seven. I saw it on my mom's old desktop computer after prompting a search for: “Why do I feel sad all the time?” I presented my new findings to my mother.

I know the jarring, crinkling sound the paper makes on the patient table too well. It seemed like the cue that triggered the mute button on any words I spoke of my discontent, that my doctor never seemed to be able to hear. Each sequential year from the age of seven, I'd return saying ‘aah’ at the popsicle stick on my tongue, which seemed to be the only thing in that office that listened. 

At sixteen, waking up each morning seemed to require more energy than having 24-hour jet lag. Smiling felt as easy as trying to hop on the ground right after jumping on a trampoline, and laughing was an organ I had seemed to misplace. I shuffled and crunched my way onto the table once again, this time telling my doctor that living felt like a chore, that finally unmuted my words to their ear. That appointment earned me a prescription for Sertraline, an antidepressant known as Zoloft. 

For the next three years, I bounced between therapists and dosages while racking up an impressive roster of diagnoses such as anxiety, ADHD, and disordered eating, which, luckily for me, all tend to enjoy each other’s company. By the end of year three, I was on a dose of Sertraline ten times that of my original. Living didn’t seem half-bad anymore, but I was stripped clean of any feeling at all. I must’ve missed the fine print of that bottle I can never open, the one that read: 

Life can be thought of as a squiggly line. It has endless highs and lows. Your squiggly line is more of a zig-zag, favouring the lows and sharper turns. Antidepressants will smooth out your zig-zags in exchange for a smoother alternative.

That smoother alternative turned out to be a flat line. I may not have had my bottomless lows, but it meant giving up the peaks too. This lightbulb over my head led me to break up with my antidepressants, in search of a more squiggly source of serotonin. 

I did all the things you would see in a movie scene of someone dramatically turning their life around, I stopped drinking alcohol, started waking up at the butt-crack of dawn, kept a daily gratitude list, divorced myself from unhealthy friendships, ate whole foods, studied damn hard, and worked out six days a week, playing hide-and-go-seek with my brain’s happy chemicals. After two months of spinach, steps, solitarily, and complete sobriety at nineteen, I felt as though I had never truly known happiness until now. 

The ability to properly cry after parting ways with antidepressants was bittersweet. The thought of returning to the sound of crinkly paper and placing ‘life’ at the top of my to-do list scared me, but the waterworks felt exultant. I enjoyed every teardrop I’d fish for with my tongue as it ran down my cheek.

Alongside my longing for a normal brain, I carry with me the grieving of feelings accompanied by childhood. I often wish I could play dress-up in that younger girl’s life, whose problems were Band-Aid-shaped and erased with a scoop of ice cream and a kiss on the forehead. While on my search for serotonin, I frequented these reflections on childhood, missing the size of life back then. Feelings such as trying to explain a funny story while choking on laughs and fragmented words or my biggest problems being the light of my invisible-ink pen losing battery, skinning my knee on the pavement, or losing at a game of Go Fish. That girl had no idea what the years ahead would hold for her. I confront this train of thought with flashbacks to the moment I ended my three-year-long tear drought. Band-Aids don’t come in the size ‘depression’, nor would they mend any of the problems I face today, although a bowl of ice cream and a kiss on the forehead might.

I can now confidently feel embarrassed for missing the size of problems I faced at five or the shallow nature of emotions I was capable of then. Those feelings back then could perfectly fit the mould of the words sad, happy, and angry, whereas words such as these don’t quite accomplish the description of the emotions I am prone to today. I may have problems in the form of health insurance, rent, or what to do with my life, but in exchange, I play dress-up with wardrobes of feelings like sonder, heartbreak, enlightenment, and awe. The peaks and troughs of my squiggly line have nearly tripled in size as compared to those of my younger self, as it is said, “small kids small problems, big kids big problems.” I now know that being a big kid doesn’t just mean bigger problems, but also, bigger joys, bigger solutions, bigger experiences, opportunities, choices, and passions, and most definitely bigger bowls of ice cream whenever I want.