My husband is in the middle of looking for a new job and seeing as I’m a stay-at-home mom, his ability to find paying work is a bit vital. For two months now, I’ve been teetering on the edge of a panic attack, feeling like at any given moment I might cease being able to breath or move, and I’ll probably just feebly curl up into the fetal position behind the couch for the rest of my living days.
After working with my therapist on controlling this anxiety for nearly a month and a half, I broke down and went to my psychiatrist for medication. And I’m surprised to find what a relief this is.
I take medication every single day for my bipolar depression, and will probably do so until the day I die. This condition not necessarily situational, it just exists as an ever-present state of being. I’m ok with taking my depression medication, never once have I questioned or lamented it. It can and does keep me from dying.
But I was very anxious about the mere thought of taking medication to deal with my anxiety.
You see, my anxiety was so wrapped up in this job-hunt situation that I kept thinking I’d just get over it, or get used to it, or something. That I’d be able to talk myself through it. And though I just barely kept it all together, it was like putting a lid on a pot of boiling water. The water is rolling beneath, there is steam coming out the sides and it won’t be long before it starts bubbling over.
So, I’ve turned to medication. And an hour after popping that first pill I feel... clearer. I’ve actually sat down and written this whole post from scratch, the first time I’ve been able to do so in months, and feel good about it.*
So, at least for a while, I’m on medication for depression AND anxiety.
I’m a real hoot at parties.
And I'm ok with this.
*Fun Fact: I have a plethora of half-written posts, so when I run into writer’s block I just flesh out one of them. Dirty Secret: Four of the past eight posts I’ve published came from that well and now the well’s done gone dry.