I'm Medicated - and It's Okay

It’s true.  I take an antidepressant daily.  You might not guess it.  But it’s a fact.

I am so thankful for the positive impact a small pill has had on my personal emotional and mental health.  I assure you, despite my sunshine and rose coloured Facebook posts portraying a near-perfect life and rarely a down day it’s not been all rainbows and skittles.  This medication business has been going on for nearly a year.  And likely should have happened years ago.

The story behind my final straw experience to take “the plunge” into medication?  Anxiety.  Health anxiety to be more specific.  It’s something I’ve struggled off and on with for years.  Especially since watching my dad die from cancer nearly 16 years ago when I was 18.  I likely tended toward the worrisome nature before those difficult events, but watching my dad fight and lose his battle solidified my fearful habits.

Over the years I’ve feared irreversible infertility, skin cancer, ALS, MS, brain tumors, pretty much anything extremely difficult or terminal.  My morbid thoughts had me clenching my teeth, holding my breath, and often on edge for when the floor would fall from beneath my seemingly stable life.  That continual battle against fear of the future and of disease took its toll over the years. 

My psycho-somatic symptoms began preying on my ever active mind until I felt regular tingles, tightness in my chest, inability to relax, shallow breathing, and a sensation that I was very often in fight-or-flight mode.  I would share my struggles with my husband, with family, with my closest friends very openly, but I’m well aware that my usually outgoing, chatty, and upbeat nature made my inner fears and battles against anxiety nearly invisible to the general public.

Last year my personal struggles came to a head when I was so taken over physically by my worries that I couldn’t tell the difference between sensations caused by anxiety or whether I was actually suffering from something horrid and definitely lethal.  My fears and constant attempts to rationalize and talk myself out of them took over my enjoyment of life.  I no longer had the ability to sit contentedly watching the kids play, I had difficulty sleeping because my mind wouldn’t stop.  I would wake up and feel a rush of terror and imagine my worst fears (death, suffering, watching someone die) come to reality.  It sucked.  Bad.  I would hold it together to the best of my ability while in public, in crowds, or around my kids, but my elastic abilities were only so flexible.  I would snap faster than a tiny twig and unfortunately Brad got the worst of my pent up worry and anxiety by way of unpredictability and a tendency to make mountains out of mole hills.  I tried hard to be strong, to battle it on my own, to use my openness and willingness to talk to friends, family, and councillors as my sole means to gain mental and emotional stability.  I have found that I am strong, but I am not super human.  I am aware, but actually way too aware.  My awareness was handicapping me with a deer-in-the-headlights, frantic be-ready-to-drop-everything-and-run-at-any-moment kind of aware.  I am rational for the most part, but also rational enough to know that worst fears sometimes do come true.

A few months in a row of personally absorbing every horror story I heard on the news, engrossing myself in every excruciating loss I read about, and frequently picturing myself in the position of losing myself or someone I loved most to a savage flesh eating disease (see?  I know, so morbid), I succumbed to the reality that I couldn’t fight my anxiety on my own.  I had to accept my fearful nature and seek the help that is available beyond myself.  The day I decided to begin taking the small dose of medication that I now take daily was a wonderful day marking the biggest turn around and reprieve from my anxious pattern that I had in years. 

I can now sit and think about glorious nothing when I need to relax.  I can hear a story on the news and think “wow, that must be so devastating” or “that is terrible and horrifying” and then continue peeling potatoes without feeling like my head is about to pop off for the fear that I will soon be living those exact experiences.  My doctor referred to my adopt-the-worst-case-scenario-to-my-life as over-empathy.  What a nice way of putting my selfish ambition to be so absorbed in non-reality that I couldn’t even enjoy the moment or be thankful for what I had. 

The point of this post?  Not to reel in your sympathy or pity.  Not to prove that I am bold and brave and able to conquer.  And definitely not to promote a single pill as a solution to all mental and emotional problems.  No.  This journal is my attempt to join the chorus that is letting us know that it’s okay.  It’s okay to have weakness and seek assistance to deal with our devils.  It’s okay to admit our struggles without shame or feeling like we are playing a victim.  I’m quite certain that too many people either choose or feel forced to struggle in silence and put up a front.  Our personal portrayals don’t have to reveal the nitty gritty dirty laundry that we all have hiding in our closets or under our beds (literally or figuratively), but I also have a drive to be authentic, and I believe authenticity is essential in order to build real and deep relationships that also aid in healing and dealing with our individual ghosts.

So before you think I have it altogether, or that anybody (including me) is stronger, braver, or better than you, think again.  We all have our demons.  Not one of us is exempt.   But there is strength in numbers and in sharing our successes as we wade through the mud. 

I’m thankful that I am not currently in a state of medical emergency, but I can now handle the thought that those events could become a reality one day.  Although I still feel horrified and deeply saddened when I hear about dire circumstances that people have faced in the past or are in the midst of, I am no longer fixated on them until they overtake me.  My adoption of horrors, my clinging to anxiety led to significant mental anguish and I’m grateful to God that fear has a lessened grip on me.  I’m thankful for my ability to open up about it and I wish to inspire others to feel free to share their own stories with people they love and trust.  I’m grateful for my confidence and that I am more equipped to deal with a tragedy should it become a reality in my life once again.  I am thankful for my little white pill (safely prescribed and ingested of course).

I am medicated, and it’s okay.