My Antidepressant Is Rewriting My DNA

What if the antidepressant that finally worked was never meant to treat depression at all? One patient documents every stage of their transformation, the strength, the hunger, the teeth, the seam that split open in their arm, before losing the ability to live like themselves entirely.

Story Credit: David Hallo
Read The Original Story Here: https://www.reddit.com/r/horrorstories/comments/1rmz9ii/im_not_depressed_anymore_im_just_not_sure_im/

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Transcript

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They weren't fixing me. They were converting me. I started the medication because I was tired of waking up every day feeling like I was already drowning. That's the part people don't talk about with depression. Not the sadness, but the weight of it. The sheer heaviness of existing. Just lifting my head from the pillow felt like dragging stone out of mud. My therapist called it treatment resistant depressive disorder. She said there was a new clinical option though. High success rate, fast acting, FDA fast track, a real breakthrough this time. Breakthroughs always sound miraculous until you realize that something had to be broken first. The drug was called Salmuron. Three pills a day. Tiny white capsules with a faint metallic taste whenever they hit the tongue, like biting on foil. The doctor told me not to look up the research because the clinical language can be rather frightening if you're not well versed in immunogenics, that is. And that should have been my first warning. But when you're drowning, you don't argue about the color of the rope thrown your way. The change was subtle but unmistakable. Mornings didn't feel like war, and breathing didn't feel like a chore. I could get up, shower, eat, exist. For the first time in years, I laughed without it sounding brittle in my own ears. I thought, huh, so this is what normal people feel like. And later that night, I cried to myself in relief. I thought the story would end there. And I god, how I wish it had. My body started feeling lighter. I don't mean emotionally. I mean physically. Walking upstairs no longer left me gasping. I wasn't sore, my joints didn't ache, and I felt stronger. Not just metaphorically or mentally, I mean my muscles had mass that I hadn't even earned. After all, I hadn't been to the gym in over four years and I could barely manage a grocery bag, and yet I was lifting my entire laundry basket with one hand. I told my doctor the news about this when I saw her again. She simply smiled and wrote, Improved metabolic efficiency. Noted. Expected. Expected. Since when does an antidepressant become a performance enhancement? I asked myself. But before that question could be answered, the hunger came. Not ordinary hunger, but primal and deep. Like the body wasn't asking. It was demanding. I ate everything. Not junk, protein, dense foods, meats, hard cheeses, salts, anything that felt like fuel. And my teeth God. My teeth ached while I ate. A dull pressure, as if they were adjusting. The inside of my mouth felt unfamiliar. When I ran my tongue around my molars, the edges were flatter. Not worn down, but designed. Like grinding plates. Something meant for crushing more than chewing. Oh, I told myself I was being traumatic, but but when you've lived your whole life feeling like you don't belong in your own skin, you notice when the skin starts belonging to something else. The rash appeared. Not on the outside, under the skin. I could feel texture beneath the surface, like sand grains embedded along my arms, ribs, and spine. Except they moved. When I pressed my fingers to my forearm, something beneath the skin shifted away from the pressure, like a school of fish scattering from my touch. Later I went back and I asked my doctor, what was the active ingredient in this medicine you gave me? She looked at me and said, It's easier if I just show you. Come with me. I followed where she led me and she showed me a plasticated cross section of muscle tissue. Human muscle. Except it wasn't purely human. The fibers weren't individual strands. They were woven, a mesh, self anchoring, self repairing, self optimizing. Think of it like this, she began, tapping the display ever so slightly. We're helping your body operate in its ideal state. Ideal, I said to myself, as if my old body had been a mistake. I don't dream anymore. When I sleep, it's like the body just shuts off and turns back on. No drifting, no imagery, no me. The house is quiet, but my body isn't. I woke up to find myself standing in the kitchen, or sitting at the table, fingers drumming in rhythmic patterns. I don't remember learning. Or staring into the mirror. Not at myself, no, but at my reflection. As if that which lies in the mirror is the real one and the one staring into it is but an imitation. I looked into my own eyes last night and didn't recognize the focus behind them. Not empty, not dull, no. Calculating. I asked my doctor if this medication has ever been used on animals. She hesitated. The first real hesitation I'd seen from her. Not animals, she said. Prototypes. Prototypes? I asked myself. I asked her if the drug was rewriting my DNA. She didn't answer. She didn't have to. The next day, the inside of my arm split open, not like a cut, but like a seam. As if I've just ripped the threading of a shirt that I had worn for too long. And underneath where my muscle should have been, it wasn't blood that came out. It was white. White fibers braided like rope tightening, pulling themselves back inward before I could touch them. My body didn't want to be examined. My body knew I was trying to interfere. Two nights ago, I tried to stop taking the pills, but my hands wouldn't let me. I don't mean that metaphorically. I mean I sat there at the table and watched my own hand pick up the bottle, open it, place a pill on my tongue, and swallow. I was screaming inside my skull. My body was calm, efficient, comply. Yesterday I saw my doctor again. I asked her when the transformation ends. She smiled with the same clinical warmth and said When your body no longer produces sadness, fear, anger, or pain. When suffering becomes biologically impossible. So I'll I'll be happy? I asked, a bit confused. She shook her head before she answered and said, You'll be cured. Being cured is what I wanted, but I pressed for more details. I replied with a question. And human. Right? She looked at me and said nothing. She didn't answer. Today, I looked up the company's patent records. I found the original clinical purpose for Sol Moran. It wasn't created to treat depression. It was created for shock troops. Soldiers who feel no pain, require minimal rest, heal rapidly, operate without emotion, obey without hesitation. They weren't fixing me. They were converting me. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to write like myself. Every day my emotions are fading more and more. My memories feel catalogued, not lived. I can feel the last parts of me being folded away. If you're reading this, do not take the pills that say they are new or breakthrough or fast acting. If your doctor says side effects may vary, ask what they're not telling you. Ask what they changed inside you. Ask them what you're becoming. Ask before you can't ask anymore. Because I don't cry now. I don't feel afraid. In fact, I don't feel much of anything these days. And I think that was always the point. If you can tell me what you thought of today's episode, that would help me so I know what things to give you more of. This story comes from Reddit user David Hallow, who read stories like this rather often, so please do check out more of his stuff on Reddit. I really enjoyed how the sword weaponized the very real desperation that people feel when they seek mental health treatment, yet transforming the idea of hope into some kind of body horror through some kind of pharmaceutical conspiracy. Which is like the buildup from subtle improvements to disturbing physical changes, mirrors how people on medication often notice side effects gradually, making the narrators growing alarm feel authentic and earned. The detail about the narrator's hand refusing to stop taking the pills despite conscious resistance creates some kind of like visceral loss of agency kind of horror that's more disturbing than any external monster that was forcing it down his throat. And the revelation that Saul Moron was designed for Shock Troops basically reframes every improvement as deliberate dehumanization and objectification in a sense, turning relief from depression into an erasure of everything that makes someone human, including the capacity to recognize what's being lost. I'm glad I was able to have read the story and hope that you were glad to have listened. Since you probably want to hear more of my voice, you should tune in for tomorrow's new episode or or if you got some time to spare, you should go back and catch the last one. I'll be doing my best to post daily on YouTube, Spotify, and all other platforms for the remainder of the year and challenge myself. So let me know if you like this stuff and I'll keep making more of it. I know I've been away for a while, but in my absence, I have been working on some new projects and new content ideas that I am sure that you are going to thoroughly enjoy. So be sure to stay tuned for that as well. I don't want to get too into it, but you'll know it when you see it. And you can tell me what you think once you do. The link to my podcast and the story will be in the description down below. And if you want to listen to more of my voice, which you probably do, you can listen to all of the chilling stories episodes in the series here. Furthermore, if you have a story you'd like to recommend, you can reach out to me via Reddit, Discord, or email. Those methods of communication will be placed in the description for your convenience. Again, if you enjoyed today's episode, tune in for the next story or just go back and catch the last one. But until then, I hope you watch the shadows that lurk just beyond your side. Thank you for listening. And to all, a good night.