{originally posted 6/21/2016}
6 1/2 weeks ago on a Friday, I finally mustered up the courage to admit to my husband how bad it had gotten on the inside. How hard it had become to leave my house, how anxious I would feel at the thought of having to be around people.
I told him how my senses felt like they would explode at times. If the TV was up too loud and the afternoon sun coming through our back windows was too bright, I felt like I would have a meltdown.
There is an old dirt road that runs behind our house that my son and I walk on every day. With tears running down my face, I asked my husband “why do you think I walk on the back road and not the front?”.
I needed help. And that next week I took the terrifying step of asking my doctor for medication.
As someone who has spent most of her life priding herself on being perfect, it felt like I had failed. I tried to meditate, journal, breathe, scream, cry and white knuckle my way through it. I thought if I just kept trying it would get better. It didn’t.
In the days since, I feel more like myself than I have since last Fall. I don’t feel on edge and on the verge of losing it constantly. I have been able to attend a completely packed concert with my Mom and sister, talk to strangers, laugh and smile a whole lot more with my husband and son. In short I am able to live a lot more freely.
To me, this is no different that someone who takes blood pressure medication or visits a chiropractor for a back issue. I am taking care of myself with medication that allows me to more calmly live my life. Maybe it won’t always be a need for me. Maybe it always will. Either way, I am not ashamed.
And you shouldn’t be either. Ask for help, and keep asking until you get what you need, not only to cope but also to thrive.
