A Day in SSRI Withdrawal: My Personal 24-Hour Log

SSRI withdrawal is one of the most misunderstood experiences in mental health. Many people assume it’s just depression or anxiety “coming back,” but for many of us, it’s something completely different — a physiological, chemical storm that affects everything from our emotions to our sleep, balance, and sense of safety.

I decided to document what a single 24-hour period looks like for me as I go through SSRI withdrawal. My hope is that this helps others — those who’ve never experienced it, so they can understand what it feels like, and those who are experiencing it, so they know they’re not alone.

You’re not crazy. You’re not broken. Your brain is trying to heal and rebalance itself.

Setting the Stage

This particular 24-hour period would rate about a 6 out of 10 on my withdrawal scale — not the worst day, but far from good.

Withdrawal doesn’t happen to everyone, but it happens to many. Unfortunately, it’s often minimized or misdiagnosed as a relapse of the original condition. I know, without question, that what I’m experiencing is withdrawal — not a return of depression or anxiety.

Morning: Waking in Panic

I wake up the same way I have for months — with a burst of adrenaline, as if someone just startled me awake. My heart races. My body floods with fear. For a few seconds, I’m sure something terrible has happened. Then I remember: this is the withdrawal.

Once I calm down enough to think, a deep sense of dread sets in — the kind that makes my stomach drop. My mind immediately runs through a checklist of loved ones, making sure everyone is okay, even though I know nothing’s wrong.

These feelings don’t come from thoughts. They appear first — raw, unfiltered panic — and only afterward does my mind scramble to make sense of them.

I get out of bed, make coffee (since restful sleep has been a stranger lately), and begin my daily mental pep talk:

“You feel like this because of withdrawal. It will pass. Others have been here and made it through. You can stop the taper if you need to. Don’t do anything rash. You can do this. Everyone is okay.”

Late Morning: The Physical Storm

There’s a steady ringing in my ears, waves of nausea, dizziness, and a constant headache that ebbs and flows in intensity. My chest sometimes aches sharply, like a pinprick in my lungs. My histamine system is out of balance, so I’m sneezing constantly.

After finishing some light work on my computer, a fresh wave of adrenaline hits — the kind that’s mentally draining, not energizing.

I try cleaning to channel it productively, but even small decisions feel monumental. After agonizing over whether to keep or donate items for half an hour, I start tossing everything into the donation pile just to stop thinking. The clutter adds to my stress instead of relieving it, so I stop and go for a bike ride.

I push myself hard, hoping to burn off the excess adrenaline. It helps physically, but emotionally, I feel nothing. No endorphins, no relief, just a quieter body and an empty mind.

Afternoon: The Emotional Void

I try to recall what used to bring me joy — my hobbies, my passions — but I feel disconnected from them all. I imagine doing things I once loved, but there’s no spark.

Even picturing something extraordinary — like someone handing me a million dollars — doesn’t elicit excitement. The anhedonia is complete.

I wonder how this affects my kids. I worry they don’t have a “normal” mom right now. Then I remind myself: I’m doing the best I can while healing.

I eat lunch and listen to The Let Them Theory on audiobook. If I can’t feel better right now, I can at least learn. I focus on gathering coping tools, visualizing what life will be like when this is all behind me.

Evening: Bracing for Night

As the day winds down, the symptoms remain. Around 6:00 PM, dread creeps in again — the anticipation of another sleepless night.

I distract myself with short videos, a TV show, and reading about withdrawal and symptom management until exhaustion finally takes over.

But sleep doesn’t bring rest. Two hours later, I wake in panic from a nightmare — someone’s trying to kill me, but no one believes me. My heart pounds. I turn on the TV to distract myself, but my mind won’t settle.

This pattern continues all night — waking, calming myself, dozing off, waking again. Around 5:30 AM, I’m convinced someone’s breaking into the house. I check everything — doors, cameras — and find nothing.

By 7:00 AM, I give up on sleep entirely. Another day begins, identical to the last.

Reflections on Withdrawal

The most frustrating part of this entire process is knowing these feelings are chemical, not emotional.

You can’t “think away” nausea, headaches, or dizziness — and you can’t think away withdrawal-induced panic, dread, or emotional numbness either. Positive thinking and gratitude help with perspective, but they don’t remove the symptoms.

Normally, thoughts create feelings. During withdrawal, feelings arrive uninvited, without any logical trigger. You can’t reason with them — only endure them, trust the process, and wait for your brain to heal.

If you’re walking this road too, please know: you’re not alone. Your brain is healing. The pain won’t last forever.
Even when it feels unbearable — keep going.