Mental Health Week: My Experience With Anxiety

written by ERICA DICK October 8th, 2020

In spirit of mental health week, I thought it was important to share my own personal mental health story. It wasn’t until two of my good friends vocally shared with me about their journey with anxiety medication that I even considered that path. It then took an entire year after that for me to feel comfortable reaching out to a psychiatrist. Without the transparency of these two people’s experiences, I don’t think I would have allowed myself to try it. If you aren’t lucky enough to have a friend like this, let me serve as the person to tell you that there is NOTHING wrong needing medication.

I’ve never been secretive or embarrassed about my anxiety. In fact, I’m the token anxious friend who constantly forces people to reassure me that the knot in my neck isn’t a tumor. And yet, writing this post was incredibly difficult for me. I think mainly because the stigma around mental health has definitely dissolved, but only partially.  Everyone I know has a therapist. Everyone I know is “anxious.” But to really have your anxiety or depression debilitate you to the point where not even a trained professional can help you is something that brings many people to a new level of defeat.

This doesn’t surprise me, though, given that medication still evokes negative judgement from others. People still believe that being on medication to function implies that you have lost the “normal” parts of you. Well, I am here to tell you that the only thing that is “normal” is doing what you need to take care of yourself. 

I started seeing a therapist in 11th grade when my perfectionism began to eat me alive. If I thought I had possibly gotten anything other than an A on a test, my thoughts would bombard me for hours about how my performance wasn’t adequate and I had failed myself. Unless food was deemed “healthy” I wouldn’t allow myself to eat it or go a day without exercise. The anxiety that came with forgoing these rules was relentless, as well. After any conversation, job interview or even raising my hand in class, I would also think about each word I said for hours after. The fact that I might have strayed from perfection in any way tormented me

Eventually, I did the cognitive therapy work to release some of these pressures I put on myself and I thought I had my anxiety under control. However, coronavirus brought all of these fears back up to the surface with a whole new added component. All of a sudden, I wasn’t just worried I wasn’t perfect, I was in constant fear I would die. Part of my anxiety stems from OCD so these thoughts resembled a broken record player cycling forever. After touching an unclean surface or seeing a friend from less than six feet apart, I would worry about it for hours until I would feel my chest start to tighten, hyperventilating with the paralyzing fear I would get sick and die. 

This occurred multiple times a week, almost any task leaving me nervous and scared for my life. It wasn’t until talking to my therapist I realized I’d been having multiple panic attacks a week. I never want to minimize anyone else’s anxiety, but I feel it’s important to share that when people say things like “I thought I lost my wallet and literally had a panic attack,” it frustrates me beyond measure; if you truly knew the horror of panicking all the time, you would not minimize it like this. It stops you in your tracks and steals any sense of control right from under you. And for someone whose safety blanket is control, this upends your entire life. My anxiety had absolute control over me. 

I was lucky enough to find an amazing psychiatrist who told me that medication didn’t have to be the answer if I didn’t want it to be. But the choice is not always there for some people, and there should be no shame in that. However, I didn’t even remember my old self and moments without feeling like there was a boulder on my chest restricting my breathing were far and few. So, I went on a low dose of anxiety medication along with having something to help specifically with the panic attacks. It has given me back my life and allowed me to finally function with an ease I didn’t even remember I could. I don’t worry about every sensation in my body, every meal I ate and every word I said to someone. 

Medication is not for everyone. Therapy is not even for everyone. But, they both were right for me. And I’ve learned through this that getting any form of help is not defeat. It’s a rare and praiseworthy strength.