Throughout my life, I’ve encountered the need for anti-anxiety medication on three separate occasions. The first instance was after my first child was born, the second followed the birth of my second, and now, I find myself in the same position once again.
From an early age, I’ve grappled with anxiety. I distinctly remember feeling overwhelmed by my parents’ spontaneous plans; I craved predictability and often found myself envisioning possible scenarios every time we stepped out. Surprises were unsettling, especially growing up as an only child to two adventurous parents who thrived on spontaneity.
At six, I developed the habit of chewing my nails. By age nine, I was pulling out my hair, fascinated by the different shades glimmering in the sunlight. One day, post-shower, I was shocked to find a conspicuous bald patch on my head. My mother reassured me, saying she could cover it with a side part. That year, being homeschooled saved me from the inevitable ridicule faced by children who bald themselves in the third grade. Eventually, my hair grew back, and I switched my focus to chewing my cuticles.
At twelve, I turned to food for comfort. During a particularly stressful Christmas, I spent my days at my grandmother’s house indulging in cheese sandwiches and homemade fudge, eating until I felt ill. I thought it would make me feel better—only to realize it didn’t.
Historically, I’ve avoided medication. My mother preferred natural remedies, crafting poultices and tinctures from tea bags, and we typically reserved doctor visits for emergencies. It wasn’t until the overwhelming desperation post-childbirth struck that I began to feel a pull towards medication, a feeling that once led me to judge those who sought it out as weak.
I was mistaken.
For many who suffer from anxiety, even the thought of obtaining a prescription can be daunting. What if the doctor suspects I’m fabricating my symptoms? What if she thinks I’m one of those individuals who fill prescriptions only to sell them? I’d better dress neatly for the appointment—but not too polished, as I didn’t want to appear like a criminal mastermind.
I also grappled with fears of an impending apocalypse, worrying about the possibility of running out of contact lenses and, more importantly, my much-needed anti-anxiety medication. I was terrified my children might accidentally ingest my pills. I spent endless nights contemplating which was more stigmatized: the slow slide into alcoholism or the decision to take medication. Why did it even matter?
For a long time, I resisted seeking help. I experimented with exercise and various coping mechanisms, but eventually, the weight of my burdens became too much to bear. I knew it was time to seek assistance.
When I visited my doctor, she didn’t treat me like a liar; instead, she validated my feelings and assured me that my emotional state was entirely justifiable. Her kindness made me realize I wasn’t weak. Surprisingly, I believed her.
I still scrutinize the warning labels that accompany my prescription, worrying that I could be one of the rare cases to experience adverse effects. Despite my lingering concerns, the alleviation of my anxiety was worth it. For the first time in a long while, I could take deep breaths, unencumbered by the weight of my worries.
There’s a common belief that it takes courage to seek help, but I contend that it’s even braver to admit you need it in the first place. If you’re navigating similar feelings, know that you are not alone. For further insights on this topic, check out “Taking Medication Doesn’t Make Me Weak” on our blog, which dives deeper into the stigma surrounding mental health and medication. Also, if you’re considering at-home insemination options, reputable retailers like Make A Mom offer great products. Additionally, Parents.com is an excellent resource for understanding the ins and outs of the insemination process.
Summary:
In summary, my journey through anxiety has taught me that seeking help isn’t a sign of weakness. Embracing medication has provided me with relief and the ability to breathe freely again. It’s essential to recognize that asking for help is a courageous step towards healing.
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