by KATHERINE SHARPE
In an accelerated culture, 15 years is a long time. And last spring, when a stiff, cream-colored envelope arrived in the mail to announce preparations for my 10th college reunion, I realized that it had been nearly that long since my experience with antidepressants began.
When the envelope came, I was at work on a book about my generation’s relationship to psychiatric drugs. The book opened with a memory from the fall of 1997, when I was a dumped, homesick, anxious, and tearful freshman. I sought guidance in my school’s health and counseling center, where I was quickly treated to a remedy that seemed exotic—a diagnosis of depression and a prescription for a pill known as an SSRI, or selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor. Over the following months, I realized with a mounting sense of shock how many of my classmates were using medication, too.
The Chronicle for more
(Thanks to reader)