Duloxetine Withdrawal: The Chaos No One Warned Me About

I didn’t plan for this to be a chapter in my life, but here I am…caught in the in-between space where medication ends, and everything else begins again. I’m currently going through withdrawal after stopping duloxetine (which I have been taking for 2 decades), and I want to be honest about what that feels like.

Because it’s not gentle, it’s not clean. And it sure as hell isn’t what I was told to expect.

What It Feels Like

Some days, I feel everything.
Like my skin is too thin, and the world is screaming.
Every sound feels loud. Every silence feels like abandonment. My emotions burn through me like a wildfire: anger, grief, sorrow, shame, fear, and sometimes they all come at once. There’s no warning. No mercy. Just waves.

I cry without a reason.
I spiral over nothing.
I question every thought, every word, every interaction.
It’s like my nervous system is constantly under attack from invisible forces.
I wake up soaked in sweat. My dreams are so vivid, so real, they haunt me into the day. I can’t tell what’s memory, what’s imagination, or what’s some cruel trick my brain is playing on me while it tries to rebalance itself.

And then, suddenly…
I feel nothing.
Like a blackout after a storm.
I wake up and there are no feelings, just a numb, grey emptiness that stretches across the day like fog. I sit still. I dissociate. I stare at the walls. I feel like I’m watching my life through a glass. I’m not okay, but I don’t even have the energy to say so.

This is the reality of chemical withdrawal.

My brain was used to having its serotonin and norepinephrine regulated artificially, and duloxetine dulled the extremes. It buffered the chaos. And now? That buffer’s gone. My nervous system is screaming, trying to find balance again. But everything feels like too much, or absolutely nothing.

The Floating Feeling (When You’re Not Really Here)

There are moments where I’m not even sure I’m living.
My body is upright. I go through the motions. I talk. I nod. Maybe I even laugh.
But inside, I feel like I’m floating somewhere else.
Detached. Lightheaded. Not grounded in my own skin.

It’s like I’m watching a movie of my life instead of being in it.
Like I’m made of smoke.
Like I’m in the room but not really here.

And the scariest part is: no one notices.

I’m invisible even when I’m standing right in front of them.
I’m dissociating, drifting, trying to find something solid to hold onto, but there’s no name for it in casual conversation. No “Are you floating away today?” small talk. So I stay silent.

But this, too, is part of withdrawal.
This, too, is part of trauma.
And if anyone’s felt this, if you’re reading this and wondering if you’re the only one not fully inside yourself… you’re not.
I get it. I’m there too. And you’re still real, even if the world feels fake at the moment.

Common Duloxetine Withdrawal Symptoms (What I’ve Experienced):

Intense mood swings – Emotions flip like a switch: joy to rage, calm to panic, all without warning.

Crying spells out of nowhere – Sometimes it’s a sob that starts in the chest and floods out, other times it’s quiet tears with no name.

Vivid, intense nightmares – Dreams that feel too real, filled with fear, loss, or bizarre chaos. I wake up disoriented and shaken.

Night sweats – I wake up soaked, like I’ve run a marathon in my sleep.

Anxiety and panic attacks – My heart races. My chest tightens. I feel like I’m dying, even when I know I’m not.

Extreme irritability and hypersensitivity – Loud sounds, bright lights, even someone breathing wrong can set me off.

Dizziness and nausea – Sometimes the room spins or my stomach turns for no reason at all.

Shakiness and internal tremors – My hands don’t always show it, but inside, I feel like I’m buzzing uncontrollably.

Splitting headaches – Like pressure building behind my eyes or a tight band wrapping around my skull.

Brain zaps – That sharp, shocking jolt in my head that comes with sudden movement or blinking too fast. Horrible.

Sleep disturbances – Broken sleep, restless tossing, or waking in full panic at 3 AM.

Depersonalization – I feel like a ghost in my own body. Watching myself. Not real.

Emotional numbness – Everything goes flat. I can’t connect to anything, even the things I usually love.

Fatigue and heaviness – My limbs feel like sandbags. Even standing up feels like too much.

Flashes of rage or random grief – Sometimes it’s a scream, sometimes it’s sobbing into a pillow with no idea why.

Hopelessness and apathy – That sinking feeling of “what’s the point?” followed by not caring if anything happens next.

Confusion or memory fog – Like my brain is trying to walk through syrup. I lose my words. Forget what I was doing mid-sentence.

Restlessness – My body won’t settle, like it’s trying to crawl out of itself.

Increased pain and fibromyalgia flare-ups – My whole body aches more than usual. Pain feels louder, sharper.

Suicidal thoughts or intrusive dark thoughts – These don’t always come from sadness. Sometimes they just appear like static in the mind. Fleeting, scary, persistent, or even numb. It’s part of the brain’s chaotic reset. It doesn’t mean I want to die; it means my nervous system is in crisis mode and everything feels unbearable. If you’ve ever been there, I see you. And if you’re there now: don’t go through it alone. Please reach out. To anyone. Even me.

What Loved Ones Should Understand

If someone you care about is withdrawing from duloxetine or any antidepressant, please be gentle with them. They’re not “being moody” or overreacting; they are surviving a neurochemical war inside their brain.

What you can do:

• Don’t dismiss them. Even if they sound dramatic, the pain is real.
  → What might seem small or irrational to you can feel life-or-death to someone in crisis. Dismissing their experience only makes them feel isolated and ashamed. Trust them. Even if you don’t understand, believe them.
• Don’t try to fix them. Sometimes all they need is someone to sit beside them and say, “I know it’s hard. I’m here.”
  → Trying to fix someone usually comes from discomfort with their pain. But we don’t need solutions, we need presence. Sitting with someone in silence, without judgment, says, “You’re not too much for me.” And that’s everything.
• Check in. Even a message that says “thinking of you” can save a life.
  → When we’re in the dark, we convince ourselves no one would notice if we disappeared. A simple, no-pressure check-in breaks that lie. It reminds us we’re still tethered to the world, and that might be what keeps us going.
• Help with daily basics.
  → “Did you eat?” “Did you drink water?” These may sound simple, but in withdrawal or depression, survival tasks feel impossible.
• Validate. Words like “This is valid,” “You’re not crazy,” and “I’m proud of you” can go further than you think.
  → When we’re unraveling, our brains lie to us. They say we’re too much, too unstable, unlovable. Validation cuts through that noise. It reminds us that our pain isn’t imaginary, that we’re not broken, and that someone sees us exactly where we are and chooses to stay. A few simple words can pull someone back from the edge.
• Offer routine. “Did you eat today? Want to take a walk?” Small grounding actions matter.
  → In depression or withdrawal, basic tasks feel like climbing mountains. Asking open-ended questions like “What do you need?” can be too overwhelming. Instead, gently offer small, specific things. A warm meal. A 5-minute walk. A reminder to breathe. These aren’t little things, they’re anchors.
• Send a voice note or message without asking questions.
  → Sometimes we can’t respond, but hearing a loving voice reminds us we’re not alone.
• Offer small, specific support.
  → Say “I made soup—want some?” or “Wanna walk together for 10 minutes?” We often can’t ask, but we can receive.
• Remind us we don’t have to explain.
  → When you say, “No pressure. I’m here,” it lifts the weight of pretending we’re okay.
• Be patient with our silence.
  → No response doesn’t mean we don’t care. It means we’re overwhelmed. Stay. Don’t guilt us for needing space.
• Educate yourself.
  → Learn about the meds, the symptoms, and the disorder. Don’t make us teach you while we’re in it.

A Note About My Emotions (Read This Before You Ask If I’m Okay)

Every emotion I have is heightened. Joy, fear, grief, rage, love… it all floods through me like a tidal wave. There’s no filter. No buffer. I can go from laughing to spiraling in a matter of minutes. It’s exhausting. It’s overwhelming.

To my loved ones:

Don’t send me a text saying “Are you okay?” expecting a polite yes or a lie to make you comfortable.
I’m not okay.
If you care, educate yourself. Learn what mental illness and withdrawal really look like. Stop tiptoeing around discomfort and start showing up.

Because asking “are you okay?” when someone is clearly drowning isn’t comfort… It’s emotional laziness.
It’s what people do when they want to feel like they care without actually doing the work of holding space. It’s a surface-level concern. It requires no follow-up, no presence, no real effort. It’s easier to ask a question than to sit in the discomfort of the real answer.
What I need is presence. Patience. Someone to say:

““You don’t have to be okay. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here.

It might not seem like much, but when you’re in the middle of a mental health crisis, it’s everything. It tells me I’m safe. That I don’t have to perform wellness just to make others comfortable, that someone sees me in the chaos and chooses to stay. It’s permission to fall apart without fear of being abandoned. It’s the difference between feeling like a burden and feeling like a human being who’s allowed to struggle. Those words don’t fix anything, but they anchor me when everything else is slipping.

I don’t have the capacity to manage anyone else’s emotions.
Not because I don’t care. Not because I’ve stopped loving the people around me.
But because I’m carrying so much internally that even the smallest emotional demand feels like a weight I can’t lift.

I know I’m the one who’s usually calm. The one who listens. The one who softens the tension, reassures, explains, and makes sure no one feels blamed or misunderstood. I’ve always been that person. I’ve done it out of love.

I’m struggling.
And it’s hard enough to regulate my own emotions, without also trying to make sure everyone else is okay around me.

So if I seem quiet, distant, or less emotionally available, please understand it’s not about you.
It’s about me needing space to feel what I feel without filtering it through someone else’s comfort.

When I say I need space, I don’t mean “leave me alone.”
I don’t mean silence. I don’t mean distance. I don’t mean disconnection.
What I mean is: I need room to feel what I’m feeling without being expected to perform or explain it.
I need emotional space, space from having to manage someone else’s reaction to my pain. Space from the pressure to respond, reassure, or regulate anyone but myself.

Needing space means:

“Please still be here with me, but without expecting me to hold a conversation, solve anything, or be okay.”

It means I need to know you’re close, but not demanding.
That your presence is steady, even if I go quiet.
That I’m not being punished for shutting down. That I’m still safe with you, even when I’m overwhelmed.

I don’t want to hurt anyone. But I also can’t keep abandoning myself to soothe people who get uncomfortable with my truth.

Please don’t take it personally. Please don’t make it about whether you did something wrong.
This is about me needing to rest inside my own nervous system for once, without constantly looking outward.

If you love someone who’s going through this, don’t try to fix it. Don’t rush it. Just love them steadily, without conditions or demands. That quiet, grounded love (without pressure) is more than enough.

What I’m Doing to Cope

(And maybe it helps someone else too…)

• Tracking my symptoms daily, so I don’t feel lost in the chaos.
• Grounding myself with soft routines: water, food, light, nature.
• Taking magnesium and omega-3 supplements (with guidance).
• Letting myself cry, or feel nothing, without judgment.
• Writing it out… here, now, in this moment, so I can look back and say: “I survived this.”

And If You’re Going Through This Too…

You’re not alone. I swear to you: you are not weak, you’re not failing.
You’re recalibrating. Your body is trying to function without the thing it became dependent on. That’s massive. That’s violent, in a quiet way. But it won’t always feel like this.

So if you’re out there reading this, barely holding it together: I’m here. I see you. I get it.

And if you need someone to say it: You will survive this.
One breath, one tear, one quiet, numb morning at a time.

I’m still here.
So are you.
That’s enough.

P.S.: For those who don’t know, I take Duloxetine as part of my treatment for both Bipolar Disorder and Fibromyalgia. It helps manage the deep, heavy waves of depression that come with Bipolar. Those days where getting out of bed feels impossible, when the world feels gray and hope flickers dim. And for Fibromyalgia, it eases some of the nerve pain and chronic exhaustion that silently eats away at your strength day after day. Duloxetine was a stabilizer for me, a kind of emotional life vest in a stormy sea, and a cushion against physical pain that people don’t always see. But I’ve recently stopped taking it (under medical supervision), and now I’m experiencing intense withdrawal symptoms. This post is my way of journaling through the mess, of making sense of what I’m feeling and helping others understand what this journey really looks like from the inside.