Throughout my life, I’ve turned to anti-anxiety medication on three separate occasions. The first time was after welcoming our first child, the second followed the birth of our second child, and now, I find myself in the same position again.
Anxiety has always been a part of me. As a child, I was frequently overwhelmed by my parents’ spontaneous decisions. I craved predictability and would mentally prepare for every outing, fearing surprises—an amusing contrast given that my parents thrived on unpredictability.
At age six, I began biting my nails; by nine, I was pulling my hair out. I remember being fascinated by the different colors of my hair—blonde, brown, red—each glinting under the light. One day, I caught a glimpse of a large bald patch on my head after stepping out of the shower. My mother reassured me that she could manage it with a side part. Thankfully, being homeschooled that year protected me from the harsh judgments of third graders. Eventually, my hair grew back, but I switched to chewing my cuticles as a coping mechanism.
By twelve, I turned to food. During one particularly stressful holiday season, I spent my days at my grandmother’s house, indulging in cheese sandwiches and homemade fudge. I consumed until I felt ill, seeking comfort in food—though it never truly helped.
I’ve never been one to rely on medication. My mom preferred natural remedies, concocting poultices and tinctures from tea bags, and we only visited doctors when absolutely necessary. Before becoming a mother, I viewed those who sought medication as weak. I believed that I could navigate my challenges without assistance.
I was mistaken.
The prospect of obtaining a prescription for anxiety medication was, in itself, a source of anxiety. I worried about how the doctor would perceive me—what if she thought I was dishonest? What if I appeared too put together or too disheveled? My mind spiraled into worst-case scenarios, like fearing the apocalypse and imagining that I wouldn’t have access to my medication when I needed it most.
I also harbored concerns about my children inadvertently accessing my pills or transforming into an emotionally numb version of myself. I grappled with the stigma of medication versus the alternative of falling into alcoholism. Which would society judge me more harshly for? Why did that even matter?
For years, I struggled on my own, attempting to cope through exercise and other means, but eventually, the weight of my worries became too much to bear. I reached a breaking point and sought help.
To my relief, my doctor didn’t dismiss me or judge my feelings. Instead, she validated my emotions and reassured me that seeking help was not a sign of weakness. Her kindness instilled a sense of trust, and for the first time, I believed her.
Despite my lingering fears over potential side effects from the medication, I ultimately chose to prioritize my mental well-being. The tightness in my chest began to dissipate, and I finally felt like I could breathe again—deep, satisfying breaths.
It’s often said that asking for help takes courage, but I believe the true bravery lies in recognizing that we need it in the first place.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, Harper Lane shares her journey with anxiety and the transformative experience of seeking help through medication. Initially, she struggled with stigma and self-judgment regarding mental health treatment but ultimately found empowerment in her decision to prioritize her mental well-being. The article emphasizes that recognizing the need for help is a courageous step, and it encourages open discussions about mental health.