Throughout my life, I’ve turned to anti-anxiety medication at three distinct moments: first after the birth of my first child, again after my second, and currently, as I navigate life’s challenges.
From an early age, I’ve grappled with anxiety. I distinctly recall feeling overwhelmed by my parents’ spontaneity as a child; I craved structure and predictability. Surprises were distressing for me, a stark contrast to my free-spirited parents who thrived on living in the moment.
At six, I developed a habit of biting my nails. By nine, I was pulling out my hair, mesmerized by the colorful strands that glimmered in the sunlight. It wasn’t long before I noticed a conspicuous bald patch on my head—a fact that my mother kindly tried to cover up. I was home-schooled that year, which saved me from the potential bullying that could have ensued from my hair loss. Once it grew back, I switched my focus to chewing my cuticles.
As I turned twelve, food became my comfort. During a particularly stressful holiday season, I spent days at my Grandma’s house indulging in cheese sandwiches and homemade fudge, eating until I felt ill in a futile attempt to soothe my anxiety.
Medication was never part of my upbringing. My mother preferred natural remedies, concocting poultices and tinctures from tea bags, and we only visited the doctor in dire situations. Until I experienced the intense despair after the birth of my first child—when I felt driven to the brink of irrationality—I held a critical view of those who sought medication for their struggles. I thought it indicated weakness.
Yet, I realized I was mistaken. The thought of obtaining a prescription for anxiety medication was daunting in itself. I worried my doctor might think I was fabricating my symptoms or engaging in illicit activities. Would I dress too casually or too formally for my appointment?
My mind was a whirlwind of fears—what if I couldn’t get my contact lenses during an apocalypse, or if my children accidentally ingested my pills? I felt trapped between the judgment of society around medication and the risks of self-medicating with alcohol.
Eventually, the weight of my accumulated stress became unbearable. Seeking help felt like my only option.
To my relief, my doctor was incredibly supportive. She didn’t question my honesty, instead validating my feelings and assuring me that it was okay to seek help. Her comforting touch helped me realize that I wasn’t weak for needing medication. Surprisingly, I found myself believing her words.
Despite my initial fears—like becoming numb or experiencing side effects—I took the plunge. The tightness in my chest dissipated, allowing me to breathe deeply once more. Medication liberated me, and I finally felt capable of facing life’s hurdles.
People often say it takes bravery to ask for help, but I believe it takes even more courage to acknowledge that you need it in the first place.
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In summary, seeking help through medication is not a sign of weakness but an act of strength. It’s a way to reclaim your life and find peace amidst the chaos.