It began with a fever, sharp and unyielding, the kind that makes you feel as though the weight of the world has shifted onto your chest. I had been unwell before, of course—had suffered through the occasional flu or mild infection—but this was different. My body was no longer my own, and every joint, every sinew, felt as though it had betrayed me.

The doctor, a stern man with a clipped accent, handed me the prescription for Cipro as though it were a sacred text. “This will clear the infection,” he said, his voice firm, almost commanding.

I took the slip of paper with a nod, too weary to argue or even question. The idea of relief, of something that might free me from this oppressive weight, was enough to banish my doubts.

The first few days on Cipro were uneventful, almost deceptively so. The fever receded, and with it came the return of something resembling normalcy. I began to believe that the battle was won, that I had emerged victorious over the unseen enemy that had plagued me.

But then, slowly, imperceptibly, the side effects began to creep in, like shadows stretching across the walls of a dimly lit room.

At first, it was a restlessness, a faint hum beneath the surface of my thoughts. My mind, usually so steady and deliberate, began to race. Images, memories, and half-formed ideas collided chaotically, refusing to settle.

Sleep, once a refuge, became elusive. I would lie awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts spiraling into dark and unfamiliar territories.

By the end of the first week, the restlessness had given way to something more sinister: a gnawing anxiety that clung to me like a second skin. It was as though the very air around me had thickened, pressing in, stifling.

Even the simplest tasks became monumental. I found myself questioning everything: Did I lock the door? Did I turn off the stove? Did I deserve to feel this way, this hollow, aching way?

When I finally confided in my partner, Marta, she listened patiently, her eyes filled with concern.

“Maybe it’s the medication,” she said gently. “Have you looked up the side effects?”

I hadn’t. The idea of confronting the possibility that the cure might be worse than the ailment had seemed too daunting. But her words spurred me to action.

It didn’t take long to find the connection. Cipro, I learned, was notorious for its potential effects on mental health. Anxiety, restlessness, insomnia—these were not uncommon.

Armed with this knowledge, I returned to the doctor, my questions sharp and insistent.

“Why didn’t you warn me about this?” I demanded, the frustration bubbling over.

The doctor sighed, his demeanor unflappable. “These side effects are rare,” he said, as though that might somehow mitigate my suffering. “But if you’re experiencing them, we can adjust the treatment.”

Adjust. The word felt hollow, inadequate.

The decision to stop the medication was not an easy one. Though the infection had largely abated, I worried that abandoning the treatment might invite its return. But the idea of continuing, of subjecting myself to another week of this torment, was unthinkable.

Marta stood by me throughout, her presence a steadying force in the storm of my thoughts. “We’ll get through this,” she said one night, her hand resting lightly on mine.

Her faith in me, in us, was both a comfort and a challenge. I wanted to believe her, to trust that this too would pass.

The days that followed were not easy. Though the symptoms began to fade, they did so slowly, reluctantly. There were setbacks—nights when sleep still eluded me, moments when the anxiety surged without warning.

But there were also victories. Small, quiet victories that felt monumental in their own way. The first night I slept through without waking. The first morning I felt the fog begin to lift.

And with each passing day, I began to feel more like myself again.

Looking back, I see that Cipro was both a curse and a catalyst. It forced me to confront not just the infection that had invaded my body, but the fragile equilibrium of my mind. It revealed to me the delicate interplay between physical health and mental well-being, a balance I had taken for granted.

There is humor in it too, though it is the kind of humor that comes only with hindsight. Marta and I laugh now about my late-night spirals, about the hours spent Googling symptoms and worst-case scenarios.

“You became your own worst patient,” she teases, and she’s not wrong.

The experience taught me resilience, but also the importance of questioning, of advocating for oneself. I learned that even the most trusted remedies can have unexpected consequences, and that it is not weakness to acknowledge when something is wrong.

Perhaps most importantly, I learned to lean on those who care for me, to accept their support without shame or hesitation.

Marta’s unwavering presence reminded me that we are not meant to face these battles alone, that there is strength in shared burdens and in the quiet acts of kindness that tether us to one another.

Cipro 500 mg did not break me, though there were moments when it felt as though it might. Instead, it illuminated the cracks, the vulnerabilities I had long ignored. And in doing so, it gave me the opportunity to rebuild, to emerge stronger and more aware of the delicate, intricate tapestry that is health—both of body and mind.

For that, I am grateful, though I do not wish to repeat the experience. Some lessons, after all, are best learned only once.