I can’t speak for everyone, but I feel compelled to share that I am not alone in my struggles. For quite some time, I have been grappling with my mental health, and the moment has finally arrived for me to take action.
Anxiety has shadowed me since childhood. Life’s unfortunate events and overwhelming pressures handed me a load of emotional turmoil. Each of us carries a story that leaves us feeling lost and desperate, yet that narrative isn’t the focal point here. Regardless of its relevance, the damage has been done, and time marches on. Life continues, and here we stand.
As a young teenager navigating the challenges of life, I often found myself looking back, constructing a formidable barrier to prevent past pain from resurfacing. I meticulously plotted my life, analyzing those around me, all the while avoiding any chance to experience hurt. Little did I know, by my late 20s, I was unknowingly nurturing the seeds of anxiety that had been planted long ago.
Anxiety feeds on my insecurities and fears. It manifests as sweaty palms and a racing heart, steals my sleep, and fills my mind with troubling thoughts that somehow make sense in the dead of night. It sours relationships, disrupts social gatherings, and impairs my roles as a spouse and parent. It drains me of the confidence that remained.
Depression introduced itself to me as I entered adulthood. As I navigated my 20s, I believed that the world could be mine if I could just learn to manage my anxiety. Yet, when my nerves spiraled out of control, depression loomed over me like a thick fog, threatening to become an impenetrable storm cloud. It showered me with darkness without any clear reason, leaving me to search for light. Even when I found a glimmer, the clouds would return. This feeling was both foreign and hauntingly familiar, echoing the darker periods of my youth, compelling me to flee from it as fast as possible. But it always found me again.
Depression amplifies my anxiety and irrational thoughts. It engulfs me in feelings of being overwhelmed, enveloping me in sadness and isolation. It keeps me away from my family, both physically and emotionally, offering a dark refuge where I can hide from my stagnant pain. It leads me through a cyclical pattern of despair, pulling me back into darkness time after time.
I’m weary of running away. I’m weary of missing out on life simply because I can’t seem to cope. I’m drained.
I see myself attempting to stifle my anxiety and depression. Others see a smiling facade—a mask I’ve perfected. I feel like I’m on a hamster wheel, constantly trying to keep my mind occupied to evade the thoughts that relentlessly attack. To the outside world, I appear accomplished and capable of handling everything, but the pressure feels suffocating.
I find myself in a relentless race, criticizing myself whenever I stumble. I watch as my potential slips away, as opportunities pass me by because attempting anything beyond my current load seems impossible. I rationalize my feelings, convincing myself they will vanish with time—after graduation, after moving, after this or that. But they don’t.
And I’m not alone.
I eventually hit a breaking point, sitting on the edge of my bed, consumed by thoughts of inadequacy as a mother and spouse. I reached for my phone and called my doctor.
Walking into her office, I was sweating and on the brink of tears. I sat down, heart racing and blood pressure soaring, feeling as if I had just downed five shots of espresso. In that moment, I cried out for help as she compassionately posed the tough questions.
“Are you a therapist?” she asked.
“Yes, an intern,” I replied.
“Wow,” she said, “You should feel proud of taking this step.” And with that, she wrote me a prescription.
I felt a sense of pride. In this vulnerable moment, I was like a small child, yet proud nonetheless. It took me a long time to arrive here, not because I thought I was immune or embarrassed, but because I needed that moment of clarity—an acknowledgment that I couldn’t manage this alone.
This emotional low wasn’t caused by anyone else—neither my children, husband, family, nor friends. It was solely my depression and anxiety that cornered me. I am grateful for that moment of realization; without it, I might never have taken such a significant step.
And I’m not alone.
I stand with a courageous community that battles daily against the stigma associated with these struggles, employing therapy and medication as tools for survival. Together, we fight against the shame and isolation that can accompany mental health disorders.
We are not alone. Depression and anxiety do not discriminate—they affect every gender, race, size, and culture. And that’s okay, because we have each other to help dispel the stigma from our minds and our society. I am not ashamed. We are not ashamed. And you don’t have to feel ashamed either.
Because you are not alone.
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Summary:
In this heartfelt reflection, the author shares her journey through anxiety and depression, emphasizing that many are not alone in their struggles. Despite the challenges, she finds strength in reaching out for help and connecting with others who face similar battles. The narrative highlights the importance of self-acceptance and the community support that exists for those dealing with mental health issues.