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Taking Medication Doesn’t Mean I’m Weak
Hey there, friend! I want to share a bit of my journey with you. I’ve been on anti-anxiety medication at three different stages in my life. The first time was after my first child was born, then again after the birth of my second, and now, I find myself in that place again.
Anxiety has always been my companion. As a kid, I remember feeling overwhelmed by my parents’ spontaneity. I preferred knowing our plans ahead of time; surprises made me anxious, which is funny considering my parents loved to just go with the flow. By the time I was 6, I had developed the habit of chewing my fingernails. At 9, I started pulling out my hair, fascinated by its different colors glinting in the sunlight. One day, stepping out of the shower, I noticed a bald patch down the center of my head. My mom reassured me that it was okay and that she could hide it with a side part. Thankfully, I was home-schooled that year, which meant I avoided the judgment of classmates.
When I turned 12, I turned to food. One particularly stressful Christmas break, I spent days at my Grandma’s house devouring cheese sandwiches and homemade fudge until I felt sick. I thought it would make me feel better, but it didn’t.
I’ve never been one to take medication. My mom preferred natural remedies—like making poultices from tea bags—so I grew up avoiding doctors unless absolutely necessary. Before having kids, I had a pretty judgmental view of those who relied on medication for their mental health. I thought they were weak. But I’ve learned that I was completely mistaken.
The thought of getting a prescription for anxiety meds itself can be anxiety-provoking. I worried about what the doctor would think of me. Would they believe my struggles? Would I look like someone who misuses prescriptions? My mind raced with fears about everything, from the apocalypse to my kids accidentally getting into my pills. I even compared the stigma of medication to slipping into alcoholism—what would people think?
For a long time, I tried to cope on my own through exercise and other methods, but eventually, everything piled up, and I knew I needed help.
When I finally saw my doctor, she didn’t judge me. She listened and assured me that my feelings were valid. I’ll never forget her kind gesture when she said I wasn’t weak. Surprisingly, I believed her.
I still read the entire warning label that came with my prescription, worried about side effects. But as I took the medication, the tightness in my chest began to fade, and I found I could breathe again—deep, satisfying breaths.
It takes real courage to admit when you need help, and I’ve learned that reaching out is not a sign of weakness but a strength.
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In summary, taking medication for mental health doesn’t make you weak; it can be a vital step toward feeling better and reclaiming joy in your life.