Close your eyes. Imagine you've just jumped into a deep body of water. Perhaps it's the deep end of a pool. Perhaps it's the Pacific Ocean. Either way, you feel your body sinking. You're holding your breath for as long as you can, but at some point you start to panic. You can see the surface, but you just can't get there. You're swimming as fast as you can, but you don't know when you'll take your next breath.
This is the best way I've found to explain my anxiety over the years. It feels like that moment of panic. It feels like I'm thrashing to get to the top, but I just keep sinking. It feels like I've forgotten what it's like to breathe. There are a lot of opinions circulating about mental illnesses like anxiety and depression. Because of that, there are also a lot of opinions circulating about being medicated for mental illnesses. I can only offer my experience, which lies somewhere on the vast spectrum.
When I first started noticing anxiety, I was probably in middle school, though I didn't have a word for it yet. I truthfully thought it was normal to feel the way I did. As I got older, I was exposed to a larger vocabulary that included the bare minimum about mental illnesses, but it was mostly surrounding depression. It wasn't until I got to college about two years ago that I was truly exposed to the entirety of anxiety, depression, and the way they intertwine. Through all of this, I was still convinced that medication was not for me. I was convinced that I was capable of just powering through and getting over it.
Eventually, I was terrified to leave my house. People were out there, and I couldn't deal with being around people. They were hateful. They were judging me. They were harassing me. "Walk faster. Avoid eye contact. Hold onto your pepper spray. Just make it home," were all thoughts clouding my head 99% of the time. I was genuinely just terrified.
The people around me were forced to watch me implode, and for that, I'm sorry to all of you. I know you didn't ask for this, and I'm eternally grateful for your patience and compassion. Luckily, I have these wonderful humans in my life who can see when I'm about to crumble, and they held me accountable for going to see a therapist.
At this point, I was still so sure medication was not the answer. But when you can barely walk outside of your house without having a panic attack, it's time to admit something is wrong. My therapist was and is amazing for validating the experiences I was having. He never asks, "Why?" He only asks that I acknowledge what I'm feeling and take steps to reduce the stress it causes.
Eventually, the time came. I was going to a therapist, but I was still crippled by the thought of living outside of my bedroom. After a lot of back and forth, I decided there was nothing to lose. If these tiny pills were supposed to help me function on a daily basis, I was going to try them out.
It has been over a month, and I am already noticing the effects. The most incredible thing is that my mind is able to breathe again. I feel a certain mental freedom that is reminiscent of childhood. I can leave my house, hang out with my friends, and walk down the street without feeling so debilitated by my mental illness. It's liberating.
I understand the feeling of wanting to handle it yourself. I understand feeling like you're somehow weaker than everyone else if you succumb to medication. But it's okay if you can't do it all on your own. It's okay if you need some help. I did, and I feel like a breath of fresh air.
Your experience is valid. Your feelings are valid. You are valid.
