The Monster Within

Do you remember when you were a kid and you had to walk through a dark room? The way your heart would race, your eyes would play tricks on you, warping the shadows into wicked monsters, and you'd start moving faster, as if making it to the light would somehow save you from the creepy creatures breathing down your neck?

That's what it's like. The constant anxiety, edging on panic, follows everywhere. When I was a child it was panic attacks when in the shower. My siblings would sit with me, or the family dog would, and I would rush as I felt the monsters closing in on me every second.

When I left home for college it only got worse. At that point, I finally sought out help and reached out to our local support counselor at the school. I walked in, anxiety levels through the roof, and explained the panic attacks and the lack of sleep. She told me it was "normal separation anxiety" from leaving home, and it would subside on its own. I felt ignored and looked down on, and I never went back.

As a new mother, trying to nurse my newborn to sleep in her nursery, I'd be overcome with stomach dropping panic. My heart would race and every nerve in my body was screaming. Telling me to run, telling me that the peaceful room, painted in shades of grey and lavender, was unsafe, that something was coming for both of us.

She slept in my room until she was almost two.

The anxiety would keep me awake at night, to the point of vomiting. Especially once my husband started working nights. I stopped sleeping except when he was home, and the lack of sleep only made things worse.

The social stigma against medication only made it harder for me to seek help. In fact, I refused for the longest time, until I began having the panic attacks at work. First my HR team reached out, then my supervisor, and then my teammates. With their support and reassurance, I reached out to a psychiatrist for the first time.

I was terrified the first time I went. What if he told me there was nothing wrong, and it was all in my head? (A foolish thought, looking back. Of course it's in my head.) Or worse, what if he told me I was really sick and they couldn't help me?

He didn't say any of that. He didn't call me crazy; he didn't tell me I couldn't be fixed. He told me he understood; he told me that he wanted to help. He prescribed me medication.

I almost refused to take it. There is such a stigma around medication and I worried it would somehow make me a weaker person, or less of a mother. I made myself take it, and it was like my whole world changed.

I could sleep for the first time in forever. I could relax in a room alone without a panic attack. I could drive places and walk places and talk to people and do things. Like writing this.

Of course, I still have my bad days. I still have work to do, and I still see him regularly so he can help me do that. But don't let anyone tell you that medication is bad for you. Don't let anyone say that taking it makes you weaker, or less of a person. It's a tool, no different than an inhaler or an insulin syringe.

An illness of the brain is no different than an illness of the lungs or kidney. Sometimes something as simple as eating right and exercising help to set it right. Sometimes it takes more. That doesn't make you weak.

Seek help. Reach out. Never give up.