It was a year ago this week that I finally had the courage to say something.
I will never forget it. My battle with anxiety was at an all-time high. Our then-five-month-old son had just been diagnosed with bronchitis, my infantryman husband had to have surgery on a torn ligament in his wrist and I had just started working on my doctorate two months earlier.
That night, after listening to our little son cough and snot his (eventual) way to sleep, I stood over my husband’s recliner. As he looked up at me, I started to sob. My breathing increased and I started to shake.
I had my first (and thankfully only) true panic attack.
It was through my tears that I decided I couldn’t continue like this. I had been battling anxiety for years, doing all the “right” things I was “supposed” to do as a follower of Jesus. I prayed. I read books. I spent time in the word. I made a gratitude list. I tried to eat right. I memorized Scripture. I prayed more. And while those things helped at some level, something was still missing. My OneWord for 2017 was “Peace,” and at that moment, it seemed like a cruel joke.
This was no way to live. I later compared it to trying to function in my day-to-day life with a constant, loud, blaring TV or radio in the background broadcasting anxious feelings and thoughts that I simply could not turn off.
Something had to change. It was putting stress on our marriage (oh hey, which made me more anxious), it was impacting how I parented (ahem, more anxiety), it kept me from making healthy choices in regards to food (increased anxiety). My brain was always going a million miles an hour. The anxiety manifested into a short fuse and being easily frustrated (which made me act like a heifer to people I loved, which caused more anxiety). I would hear a siren and automatically wonder if it was headed out to Ranger Camp because something happened to my husband. My daughter would have a low-grade fever and say she had a headache and ZOOM! The train would leave the station in the blink of an eye, and I immediately created a contingency plan should it be something like meningitis (it wasn’t, of course). I was trapped in this cycle of stress and anxiety. The constant battle of fighting the anxiety was making me more anxious!
The day after my panic attack, we had a follow-up appointment with our family doctor for Malick’s bronchitis. Doc examined Malick and said we were headed in the right direction with all things lung and baby-health related. Then he took one look at me and asked how I was doing (he was a very intuitive practitioner). The floodgates opened. I burst into tears and word vomited all of the details shared in these previous paragraphs. Through my sobs I choked out, “I don’t like feeling like this. I don’t know what is wrong! I can’t completely fall to pieces every time one of my kids get sick!”
Guess what? He didn’t condemn me. He didn’t tell me to “just stop worrying.” He didn’t say to try harder.
He affirmed me. He said I was doing all the right things. I was a good mother, good wife, and a strong Christian. Doc mentioned there were some additional options that might work for me, specifically to work alongside of my faith and the other anxiety-combating practices I had implemented in my life over the years.
We set an appointment for two days later to discuss these options in more detail and create a more solid plan of action. (Note: At no time did I ever have thoughts of suicide. If you are reading this and have any inclination of self-harm or suicidal ideations, say something right now. Reach out. Don’t wait two days (or two minute!) Call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at1-800-273-8255.
At the next appointment, we decided that a low dose of an antidepressant medication coupled with counseling would be the best way to move forward. (Doc felt like I had some postpartum depression after having Malick, but even more so, postpartum anxiety. The way I understand it, antidepressants are a slow and constant release medication that can also help with anxiety. Straight up anxiety-only meds are for panic attacks and work more like a rescue inhaler for an asthma, which is why antidepressant was the way we chose to go).
Doc chose Citolapram for me (generic for Celexa) because it was weight neutral (I was already at my all-time highest weight and certainly didn’t want to add to it if I coudl avoid it!) He said that sometimes it takes several tries to find the right medication and it would likely take 4-6 weeks to see real improvement.
I left the doctor’s office feeling both relieved and grieved. Relieved that after 30+ years of fighting the anxiety (I remember even back in middle school that it was somewhat of a thing), I had finally said something and asked for outside help. Grieved, because (of course) Jerkface Satan was trying to make me feel bad for “needing” to ask for help. But I KNEW that was a lie, so I cried (again) in the car as I ate my Picnic Cafe Chicken Salad and read through the medicine information on the package insert.
I took my first “Happy Pill” (as I now affectionately/jokingly call them that afternoon). And friends… FRIENDS… I felt significantly different in 48 hours!! The background noise shut wayyyy down and the frantic feeling quieted. As I worked through the initial side effects (just being tired during the day for a couple of weeks– but I also had a new infant that didn’t help the situation), I continued to feel what a new “normal” could be for me. I was floored. Is this peace and resilience to life’s everyday challenges how I am supposed to feal? IS THIS REAL LIFE? (It was).
It’s now been a year. And the only regret I have was not saying something sooner. My thoughts have slowed down just enough so that I can legitimately filter them (see also: take them captive and submit them to Christ) and not let them run completely rampant when I get a note from the kids’ school saying that pink-eye is going around or my army husband texts me with, “So I’ve got some news.” I also met with a counselor for several months who served as a listening ear and encourager as I continue to navigate these waters.
I tell this (long) story not for sympathy, but to instill hope. Since sharing my experience (and fighting the trend of about depression/anxiety being “taboo”), I’ve had so many women (and a couple of guy friends) come forward and say they struggle too.
If you find yourself in the same rocky boat of anxiety, know you aren’t alone. You don’t have to fight it alone. Talk to your doctor or a therapist. Get some help. Reach out. Send me an email. I would be honored to encourage you and come alongside you in OUR journey to experience freedom and peace like never before.
You aren’t a failure. You aren’t a “bad Christian.” You don’t need to be “better than this.” Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is to exercise the courage to speak up, seeking help and support.
Say something. Seek freedom. Know God loves you and wants to help you no matter what you are facing. There’s hope when we ask for help. Do it. I did. And now, a year later, I couldn’t be more grateful for that unexpected panic attack in our Georgia living room and those tears in that doctor’s office. Ultimately, Jesus used those circumstances to set me free!
By His Power,
“Therefore let us draw near with confidence to the throne of grace, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.” ~Hebrews 4:16
