"You seem different," my husband said one evening, looking at me across the dinner table with concern in his eyes.
He was right. I was different.
Three years on Zoloft had helped my depression on paper, but it had stolen something much more precious – me.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed until my stomach hurt, felt genuinely excited about anything, or even cried during a sad movie. I was going through the motions of my life like an emotional robot.
The worst part? I'd gained 25 pounds that wouldn't budge no matter what I tried, and my sex drive had completely vanished. My husband felt like a stranger, and I felt like a fraud in my own body.
I was exhausted all the time but couldn't figure out why. My family kept asking if I was okay because I'd stopped doing... everything. The woman who used to wake up excited about weekend projects now spent Saturdays on the couch, staring at my phone.
Every morning I'd take my little blue pill and think, "Is this really who I'm supposed to be for the rest of my life?"

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