I don’t want to take the pills, I don’t want to take the pills, I don’t want to take the pills. It’s 5am. I am still awake — classic — and crying on the bathroom floor — classic. I don’t want to fight this anymore, I don’t want to live.

I don’t think I have ever been a stable, happy person. I was about eight years old when my parents first sent me to an alternative therapist because I was living in my own world, easily agitated, and restless. I first started taking antidepressants when I was 17, after not having been feeling well for years already. I distinctively remember almost refusing to take any psychopharmacology. “But Julia*, if you had diabetes, would you take insulin?” Yes. “So if you have an imbalance of ‘happiness neurotransmitters’ in your brain, why wouldn't you take them?”.

My psychiatrist won the argument.

Ever since, my seemingly near-perfect life has been an on-and-off struggle against depression, a continuous trial-and-error process of different antidepressants. I say ‘seemingly near-perfect’ because that is the response I often receive from people. “But Julia, your life is perfect. You go to Cambridge, you have loads of friends, you do loads of fun things, you are healthy etc.” The hardest part is explaining that that is exactly what defines depression: it is irrational.

I don’t want to take the pills, I don’t want to take the pills. I started taking antidepressants again six months ago. The depression was winning. I couldn’t fight it anymore. My boyfriend was exhausted. I was exhausted. “Julia, just come to bed. You’ll feel better tomorrow morning”. I go to the bathroom to cry. When I come back, he sleeps. The depression starts eating him up too. But I’m at Cambridge, I'm in a good relationship, I have loads of friends, I don’t have any financial worries. Why am I not happy? What’s wrong with me?

But the worst thing? The anticipation. Not again. I don’t want to fight this for the rest of my life.

I don’t want to have to take the pills to be normal. My medication was changed for the fourth time in six months. Either I don’t respond to them, or the side effects make them unbearable. Moreover, I gained two stone from the last medication. I can see people think: “Wow, she really let herself go”. But if I have to choose between being healthy and being skinny, I choose healthy every time. My doctor proposes fairly experimental drugs, other than the classic SSRI’s or SNRI’s. I consent: I have tried all the classic antidepressants and I need a way out. Two days later, I cry. A lot. I cry for 18 hours straight. I don’t want to leave my bed, I don’t want to finish my degree, I don’t want to cook. I don’t want to live.

People always say that it’s during the bad times you get to know your real friends. I have, from the bottom of my heart, always been astonished at the amazing support I received from friends and family. ‘You sometimes think you want to be disappear, but all you really want is to be found’. A friend takes a taxi to my house just to make sure I get up and don’t stay in bed all day. My mum is about to lose herself in the feeling of helplessness – she knows I’m struggling and I’m so far away. People ask how I’m doing but it’s too much. I ignore emails. I ignore texts. I’m an awful friend, I’m an awful daughter, I’m an awful girlfriend, I’m an awful sister. Not for a minute did I ever have to fight my depression by myself. “Julia, if you were actually such a bad friend and sister, why would all those people want to help you?” My therapist is right: maybe it’s the depression talking.

“But Julia, sometimes it’s healthy to cry”. Yes, sometimes it is. Not for 18 hours. I sit on the ground at my GP’s surgery. I barely talk. I just keep saying “help me help me, I can’t keep fighting”.

If you think the NHS has its flaws, the mental health system in this country is ten times worse. When I asked if I could be referred to a psychiatrist, my GP just says “I’m sorry, but to be referred to a psychiatrist, you practically need a rope around your neck”. These pills are going to kill me.

I find myself at A&E for the second time in 6 months. You can’t explain being suicidal to someone who has never been suicidal. It is almost as if one part of your body just screams “I don’t want to live, I don’t want to fight this for the rest of my life”. But then there is also a fighting instinct. I will win – I will find the right medication and therapy and I will be happy. And I will get a good job, and I will be a good mum, and I will be a good wife. Again, I explain my situation. I list all the medication I have already tried, the professionals I have been seeing. Again, there is the patronising. “Eat healthy, exercise, see friends.” But I am doing all these things.

And then the obsessive suicidal thoughts stop. I worry about my dissertation. Wait, my dissertation is in the future – I am actively thinking about the future. And the only thing I can think is “The pills saved my life.”

*Name changed to protect the author's anonymity.