My name is Meleah Gibson, and I’m from Seattle, WA.

I first wrote this story in the same bed I didn’t leave for two years. The fact that I’m alive to tell it
is nothing short of a miracle.

In 1999, I walked into a doctor’s office as a bubbly teenager with typical teenage problems. I
walked out with a prescription for a new drug called Paxil and a promise that it would make me
feel “normal” again—that “all those pesky little thoughts” would disappear. They didn’t. They just
changed, along with something much bigger: me.

Over the next three years, my spirituality, faith, and sense of self slowly eroded. I lost touch with
God and, with that, everything else. My passions faded one by one—first dance, then music,
then painting. Relationships slipped away. My desire to have children disappeared. In the end, I
lost everything that made me me.

As my joy vanished, an all-consuming uneasiness took its place. It wasn’t just mental—it was
physical and spiritual. I couldn’t get comfortable in any sense. Later, I would come to understand
that this was anxiety, turning into depression—caused by the very pill that was supposed to cure
it. Instead of healing me, it was destroying me, even leading to hypothyroidism by disrupting my
body’s delicate hormonal balance, starting with serotonin—the so-called “feel-good” chemical.
My outward appearance began to reflect my inner turmoil. I started dressing darker, acting
darker. I became anorexic and bulimic, desperate to control something—perhaps even trying,
subconsciously, to purge the toxicity out of my body. These choices devastated my health,
pulled me further from my values, and eroded my self-worth. But by then, I was too numb to
care.

A Crossroads

In 2003, I reached a breaking point. I was on a date with my now-husband when the trembling
began. My body shook violently. My heart raced. I was convinced I was dying. Not knowing what
was happening, my husband rushed me to the ER—a place I’d never been before. It was there
that I first heard the term panic attack—and was given my first benzodiazepine, Xanax.
That was the moment I unknowingly boarded the dizzying, never-ending ride known as the
“psychiatric medication cocktail.

” Instead of recognizing that my panic attacks were a withdrawal symptom of Paxil, my doctors added more and more drugs—Xanax, then Lamictal, then, eventually, self-medication with alcohol.

My diagnosis evolved from a simple panic attack to “Bipolar II.

” Multiple doctors assured me I would need medication for life. I didn’t question them. I trusted them. And in doing so, I unknowingly followed them down a path that led not to healing—but to destruction.
These pills weren’t saving me. They were just covering my eyes, numbing me to what was really happening—until it was too late.

The Cycle of Dependence

As my dependence on benzodiazepines deepened, my panic attacks worsened—not from the
original anxiety, but from the sheer terror of running out. I went from carrying Xanax in my
pocket “just in case” to taking it preemptively, hoping to prevent attacks before they even began.
When my tolerance grew too high, my prescriptions were denied. That’s when alcohol entered
the picture.

I still remember the night it happened. I was out with friends on a beautiful summer
evening—one I should have been able to enjoy. But then, another attack hit. With no pill in my
pocket, I reached for something else: a drink. And just like that, a new addiction was born.
My body changed rapidly. The weight piled on. The bloating from prescription drugs and alcohol
overtook whatever beauty I had left. The amounts I drank—amounts that should have killed
me—were staggering. My reflection was unrecognizable.

Drowning in prescription medication and alcohol, I became so desperate that I sought out an
addiction specialist. The verdict was grim: if I didn’t detox immediately, I was at risk of a fatal
seizure. That’s when my family, terrified and confused, sent me to rehab.

What I found there was not healing—but hopelessness.

Women just like me lined up barefoot at 5:45 AM each morning, whispering their assigned
numbers to indifferent nurses. In exchange, we received a Dixie cup filled with the very pills that
had ruined our lives.

I spent my time there doing the only thing I could control—losing the weight I’d gained. But my
soul remained untouched, my pain unresolved. When I left, the itch to drink returned almost
immediately.

A Turning Point

Then came a miracle: I got pregnant with my first daughter.

For her, I successfully weaned off Paxil and Lamictal. But after giving birth, I was told that due to
my Bipolar II diagnosis and postpartum risks, I had to restart them. I had fought so hard to rid
my body of these drugs, yet now, in my most vulnerable state, I was told I had no choice. So I
gave in. And still, the depression came. The anxiety deepened. The emptiness grew. The pills
stripped away my ability to breastfeed, making it even harder to bond with my babies.
Years passed in cycles of half-hearted attempts to quit, followed by relapses. But something
inside me kept questioning. I started researching SSRIs, panic attacks, and alcoholism. Deep in
my soul, I knew the truth: this is where it all began.

The Fight for My Life

I had to break free—quickly. My health was deteriorating. But I tapered off too fast, nearly killing
myself in the process. Withdrawal from Paxil, Klonopin, Lamictal, and alcohol led to seizures
and more hospitalizations. Yet, despite the suffering, something inside me kept fighting.
With unwavering patience, I began a slow, deliberate detox—one drug at a time, over nearly
three years.

By September 2024, my body was so weak I could barely walk. I even started looking at
wheelchairs. I thought the damage was permanent. But now, looking back with clear eyes, I see
it differently.

That wasn’t just where the pills had taken me. It was where God had brought me—to a
crossroads.

On the night I took my last drink, I dragged myself on what should have been a five-minute walk
home—a walk that instead took me half an hour. I was still chasing the peace I had longed for
since the day I swallowed my first antidepressant. But in that moment, I was given a choice:
continue down the same road—or follow a new path.

I chose to follow.

That night, I surrendered. I set down my sword. I stopped fighting and started healing.

A Life Remembered

Now, I wake up not only remembering—but remembering with gratitude. I remember the dancer. The pianist. The friend who made people laugh. The woman who loved
life and, more importantly, loved people.


I remember me.

For the first time, I am fully present as a wife and mother. I am learning how to love my family
from my sober essence.

My healing wasn’t overnight. It required patience, faith, and an unshakeable willingness to fight for myself.

And now, I live—with purpose.