The pressure was an all too familiar feeling, like an elephant was sitting on my chest. I’d recently started taking my antidepressants again and was aware they weren’t magic; it’d take time. I tried regulating my breathing and quickly downloaded some apps made to distract from panic attacks. I walked around outside to take in some fresh air when I felt my thoughts starting to swirl. The world was flying past me, and I felt like I was trudging through mud.
I glanced at the clock. I needed to meet my family for brunch. I knew canceling to stay in bed would only make me feel guilty and intensify the anxiety bubbling inside of me. During the drive I tried to think of excuses for my less-than-enthusiastic personality, but when I got there I simply stated, “My anxiety is really bad today.”
Over Christmas I told my family I had found a new therapist and was working with my primary care physician to restart my antidepressants. They were aware I struggle with depression and anxiety but never really asked questions. Until I broke the ice and showed them what me fighting my anxiety looks like.
I liked to think I was fighting the mental health stigma by writing the occasional blog post with a casual mention and “liking” uplifting photos on Instagram. When it came to my own friends and family, however, I’d clam up, falling prey to imaginary scenarios in which they would treat me as “crazy” or “unstable.” Instead I’d sit quietly, drowning in thoughts and fighting back tears or hiding in my room until I felt in control enough to not break down in front of anyone.
“What do you get anxious about?” my mom asked me after we’d been seated at a table.
I tried my best to explain how my thoughts quickly spiraled out of control and that while I’m taking my medication it is easier to recognize the irrationality behind them but I still get physical symptoms. Usually these spirals are triggered when I haven’t been keeping my normal routine, like over the holidays.
They nodded along. My dad acknowledged that he often feels that way too and probably has undiagnosed obsessive-compulsive behaviors and anxiety. We talked about our personal triggers.
Throughout the conversation I felt the tension in my chest relax, if only ever so slightly. It was like the weight of constantly pretending to be OK was lifted. I knew they knew I wasn’t making this up. My invisible illness became more valid because they often felt the same symptoms. I felt proud of myself for seeking out treatment.
I let my family see that I wasn’t OK, and we all became a little more OK because of it.
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Thinkstock photo by Anita Charlton