My name is Jenn, and I’m from Wisconsin. At 17, I was prescribed Celexa (Citalopram) for depression. I was in high school, silently struggling with an eating disorder, when my mom took me to our pediatrician—who quickly wrote the prescription. Later, in college, my first heartbreak hit hard. I was grieving, lonely, and overwhelmed. That’s when the story began: SSRIs had "saved" me. For the next 20 years, prescribers echoed that belief—and I accepted it as truth. My OB/GYN became more like a dealer than a doctor. At every annual Pap, we’d chat about my moods—she’d praise me for managing my own dosage: lowering it in the summer, increasing in winter, sometimes stopping altogether and starting again. My medical records listed depression as a risk factor and claimed I was doing “beautifully” on SSRIs. Since I wasn’t falling apart like after my first heartbreak, it was assumed the medication had fixed me.

But no one ever talked to me about the real risks of long-term SSRI use—or how to eventually get off them. I was switched to Lexapro (Escitalopram), with the implication I'd be on it for life. By my mid-20s, I dealt with severe acne, amenorrhea (the absence of menstrual periods), hyperhidrosis (excessive sweating), post-SSRI sexual dysfunction (PSSD), and chronic sinus infections. Yet every symptom came with a convenient explanation: hormones, allergies, or personal issues. My lack of sex drive? That was a "me" problem—I was told to see a sex therapist.

Over the years, I became emotionally numb—and took pride in it. I was the stoic one during loss or crisis, chosen to speak at funerals or respond to emergencies. It wasn’t about deep care; I could witness trauma, play the “hero,” and walk away emotionally untouched.
That detachment defined my career. I worked in prisons with the most mentally ill, witnessing suicides, self-mutilation—even inmates eating their own flesh. I stayed disconnected, often more focused on what I’d have for lunch than the trauma happening around me.

My curiosity around SSRIs deepened during my childbearing years, when I was ready to start a family—but couldn’t get pregnant. After multiple rounds of fertility treatments, I was told it wasn’t in the cards. I was diagnosed with amenorrhea (the absence of menstrual periods), cervical dysplasia (abnormal changes in the cells on the surface of the cervix, which can be precursors to cervical cancer if not treated), chronic anovulation (a condition where a woman does not ovulate regularly over an extended period), and infertility. Not once were the risks of SSRIs on hormonal production mentioned. The blame was placed on me—too skinny, too athletic, your body can’t produce estrogen.

By a miracle, I had two children. During my second pregnancy, I asked about Lexapro’s harm to my unborn child. I was reassured there was nothing to worry about—that the medication wouldn’t harm my baby. Doctors focused more on how I’d cope if my depression returned.

My children faced numerous challenges: fetal bradycardia (a type of irregular heartbeat), hypoxia (a condition where the body or a specific area of the body does not receive enough oxygen to function properly), low birth weight, jaundice, and neonatal abstinence syndrome (when a newborn experiences withdrawal symptoms after being exposed to drugs). They struggled with poor feeding, constipation, irritability, high-pitched crying, prolonged distress, gas, vomiting, diarrhea, mental health problems, and neurological issues like dyslexia and other developmental language disorders.

Three years ago, a friend asked me: “Jenn, is your heart still broken? If not, why are you still taking antidepressants?” That hit me hard. Why was I still on this medication? That pushed me to dive deep into research on long-term SSRI use. I immersed myself in studies about psychiatric harm and kept encountering warnings about dependence and withdrawal—information I had never been given before but couldn’t ignore.

I spent four months preparing my mind and body to taper. I explored functional medicine and completed a NeuroAdrenal assessment to understand my neurotransmitter levels. I changed my exercise, nutrition and sleep routines and restored depleted cortisol. I read everything about hyperbolic tapering. But the real challenge began when I started tapering and discovered what withdrawal truly meant. I quickly learned I was synthetically addicted to Lexapro.

I expected mood swings, sadness, and low motivation. I was unprepared for akathisia (a movement disorder characterized intense feelings of inner restlessness and terror and an uncontrollable urge to move), tactile hyperesthesia (a condition that involves an abnormal increase in sensitivity to stimuli of the senses), noise sensitivity, tardive dyskinesia (a movement disorder characterized by involuntary, repetitive movements, often caused by long-term use of certain medications), suicidal thoughts, paranoia, anxiety attacks, and hallucinations. These terrifying symptoms were new to me. Never did I imagine worrying for my children’s safety while driving—gripped by intrusive images of crashing the car.

Tapering slowly meant I needed a liquid form of my medication, but my family doctor wasn’t on board. She insisted simply cutting pills worked and after 20 years of practice, she’d never prescribed liquid antidepressants. That sparked my fight. Not just for me, but for anyone forced to become their own expert in hyperbolic tapering. I empowered myself, showing her the Maudsley Deprescribing Guidelines, explaining how the medicated brain adapts over time, and why slow tapering is crucial to avoid dangerous withdrawal symptoms. I told her I wouldn’t leave without the liquid. Reluctantly, she prescribed it—and that’s when I realized I’d be at her mercy until the day I get off Lexapro.

SSRIs have stolen my memory. I barely recall the births of my children, their first steps and birthdays, dating my spouse, my first sexual experience, wedding day, college graduation, or moving into my first home. My emotions are so numb I can’t feel deeply—and without feeling, memories slip away. For years, I developed a dependence on alcohol. My marriage has suffered, and I’ve struggled with PSSD as long as I can remember. My sense of self feels lost, and I’m scared of who I’ll be when I come off the medication—I won’t recognize that person.

I’m now two years and two months into tapering off Lexapro, down from 20mg to 3.25mg. In my quest to understand SSRI harm, I realized I needed to share what I’ve learned with others facing the same struggle. This led me to start a consulting business to help people navigate the complex, personal process of deprescribing. I also share stories and advocate for truth as the host of The Gaslit Truth podcast.

What I’ve learned is no two journeys of SSRI harm are the same. Lifestyle changes—nutrition, mindfulness, exercise, and sleep—make a huge difference during withdrawal. I’ve also found the psychological challenges of tapering often outweigh the physical dose reductions. True agency comes from reclaiming your power—not handing it to any white coat—but finding it within yourself.