A few months ago, I found myself spiraling. And I don’t say that casually—I genuinely felt like I was losing control.
I’ve battled depression and anxiety since my teenage years, which I initially dismissed as typical teenage drama. But as it turns out, those feelings are just part of who I am. I’d go through phases of sadness that could last weeks, but I usually managed to find my way back to brighter days. For the longest time, I attributed my anxiety to being a natural worrier. Friends and family would often tell me to just chill out, reminding me that worrying wouldn’t change anything and that a good night’s sleep could do wonders. While they meant well, their advice didn’t ease my anxiety.
Lately, though, I noticed my negative emotions and anxiety ramping up. What started as mild discomfort evolved into a tidal wave of overwhelming feelings that clouded my ability to think clearly about daily matters or significant life decisions. I felt trapped in a storm of chaos, where everything became too much to handle.
Sleep? Forget about it. Just the thought of going to bed filled me with dread. I would lie awake, anxious about the unknowns of tomorrow, worrying whether I’d be able to sleep, and questioning what was wrong with me. Over-the-counter sleep aids were useless, and the less I slept, the more my anxiety intensified.
My kids became the unintended casualties of my emotional turmoil. I found myself snapping at them for trivial things that didn’t warrant a raised voice. I even resorted to hiding in their bedroom while they watched cartoons, utterly overwhelmed by the challenge of managing two toddlers. The pressure to keep them happy and healthy felt like an enormous weight, one that I was struggling to bear.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, I reached my breaking point. My partner had to work on a Saturday, and there I was with two toddlers refusing to nap. Logically, I should have allowed them to cry it out until they fell asleep. Instead, I felt utterly defeated. I was ready to retreat to my bedroom, lock the door, and let them have free rein of the house while I took a much-needed break. It was as if my panic button was pressed, and I was spiraling into a dark place.
Fortunately, I managed to grasp a sliver of reality and called my partner, asking him to reach out to his mother. I couldn’t bring myself to do it; I felt ashamed to admit that I couldn’t manage my kids. I desperately needed my mother-in-law to take them for a night or two. It was clear to me that stepping back was in everyone’s best interest.
Luckily, she was eager to help, and I got a few days of rest. I also sought assistance from my doctor, who prescribed me some medication to help me navigate this challenging period. The difference was incredible. After a few weeks, I began to genuinely enjoy time with my children again—something I hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever.
I’m on the mend, slowly but surely feeling like myself again. I don’t plan to be on medication forever, but for now, I recognize that it’s essential for regaining my mental footing. A toddler’s refusal to nap no longer sends me spiraling into despair, and I’m learning to cope better.
If you find yourself struggling, I urge you to reach out for help. It’s not a sign of weakness; it’s a testament to your strength. It takes courage to call someone and ask for the tools you need to be the best parent possible. It’s okay to admit that you can’t do it all on your own; no one should expect you to. You are strong enough to prioritize what’s best for you and your family.
I found the strength to ask for help, and I hope you do too.
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Summary
This article recounts a personal journey through the struggles of parenting while grappling with anxiety and depression. After hitting a breaking point, the author sought help from family and medical professionals, ultimately finding relief through medication and support. The piece emphasizes the importance of acknowledging one’s limits and asking for help, framing it as a strength rather than a weakness.