My daughter recently told me that she is a big fan of the anti-anxiety medicine I’ve started taking.
“Before, even when you were here, it was like you were somewhere else,” she told me. “But now, it’s like you’re actually with me.”
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
I started on the medicine recently after my lifelong struggle with anxiety morphed into something bigger than I could handle. Symptoms of depression mixed with an unsettling sense of estrangement from my life, my kids and from myself finally made me go in to see my doctor.
When he suggested medicine, I was nervous. It’s a step I probably should have taken years ago, but didn’t because I was scared. Scared of the stigma. Scared of the side effects. Of admitting that I needed help.
Let’s face it, I had anxiety about treating my anxiety. But I started the medicine anyway, and when I took that first pill, I felt proud and defeated all at once.
And slowly, I started coming back to life. The people around me started to come back into focus. I was able to block out negative or obsessive thoughts when I was with my children rather than drift away into my own head. I enjoyed my family again because I could be present in the moment rather than fretting about some future (or past) worry.
I felt more me than I have in a long time.
That’s when I realized just how far I’d gone, inch by inch, slowly over time, away from the me I used to be. And just how badly my family — and I — needed her back.
I realized, too, just how many other friends and family are likewise getting help for anxiety and depression. The more I talked openly about my treatment, the more people would say, “Oh, yeah, I’m on that, too” or “I’ve thought about going on something.”
People toss around the word anxiety like it’s nothing, but true anxiety can be debilitating. It’s so much more than the everyday worries. It’s the constant, exhausting burden of negativity. Of wanting to go to sleep just to make your brain shut off. Of resolving every day to be more engaged with your children, only to fail by 10 a.m. because you’re overwhelmed by your spiraling thoughts, and then you hate yourself and wonder why anyone keeps you around.
And often, anxiety leads straight to depression. How could it not? You can only live in that cycle of worry and self-hate for so long without going numb just to survive. You watch your life in third person, seeing yourself talk and move through the day but not being able to connect with anything around you. Or worse, you begin to wonder if everyone would be better off without the burden that is you.
Medicine may not be the answer for everyone, but everyone deserves the chance to get better, however they do it. There’s no shame in needing help, which is why I talk openly with my children about my medicine. I explain to them that I may not be on it forever, but for right now, I needed some help turning off the parts of my brain that make me scared or worried or sad. I hope if they ever need help, they’ll feel comfortable asking for it and talking about the hidden struggles we all have at some point.
As I said, I felt partly defeated when I started the medicine. Like I should be able to fix my problems on my own. Everyone else seems to do it. What’s wrong with me?
Now that I can see my anxiety more clearly (thanks to the lifting of the worry fog), I realize that my fears about treatment were my anxiety talking. It's a nasty little monster, always telling me I’m not enough. That I’m unlovable. Unworthy.
But I’m not. I am worthy of help. I am worthy of a life free of the mental anguish of anxiety and depression. And my children are worthy of an engaged, fully present mother, who is brave enough to fight her demons any way she can.