Let’s cut to the chase. I’m going to recklessly throw my personal out there because I vehemently believe in the deepest part of my heart that we don’t talk enough about any of this, because those of us caught in the struggle are clothed in a toxic cloak of shame.
And I’m sick of being shamed into silence. And I’m tired of staying quiet. And I’m done with feeling alienated.
People have zero problem believing you when you’re coughing, sick from a cold or sporting a cast from a broken arm. However, when it comes to how you feel inside, people are so quick to invalidate your pain.
I have always wished that there was some sort of outer damage, a big black bruise, that could reflect the inner damage I’ve felt. It’s like if people don’t see it, they don’t believe it.
But the struggle with emotional well-being is here, and it’s real, and it’s not going anywhere. So let’s talk about it.
Hi I’m Meera I’m 31 and i have depression, anxiety, panic attacks and and another fun little disorder known in the medical community as “obsessive compulsive disorder,” a harrowing issue that makes my eyes and brain obsessively fixate on disturbing images and ornate textures (don’t all line up to date me at once, people).
I’ve grappled with all three of these conditions for just shy of a decade, and I’ve tried many a method to naturally work through these pressing issues.
I go to therapy once a week. I’ve done cognitive behavior therapy (CBT). I exercised so much I lost half my body weight (bonus) , regularly.
I meditate and write it all out in leather bound journal and talk it all out and take heaps of vitamins and do my best to eat healthily and NOT drink my face off too often. It all helps.
Despite the nurturing lifestyle I’ve cultivated, however, I recently found myself once again needing a little medical help in order to be pulled out of this bout of black depression. So I take a small dose every evening.
It doesn’t numb me from the swell of emotions, but it stops the all-consuming bad feels from swallowing me whole. It helps me avoid staying shackled to my room with blinds drawn as I stew in an endless pit of sadness and suffocating anxiety. It keeps me functioning and moving forward into the life I deserve to live.
I take my medication seriously and am under the care of a wonderful, kind, caring psychiatrist with whom I check in on the reg. I’m a wildly responsible girl-creature, as we all should be when it comes to matters of mental and physical health.
I was off the meds for the past few years. I wanted to rip the Plaster away and see if I could navigate the tepid waters of life, naturally.
But, once again, I found the walls closing in around me. The pressing fear came back. It scared the sh*t out of me, and I knew I had to take action.
The debilitating depression, the clusters of panic attacks that make me terrified to leave the confines of my home, the dark images that play out on the surface of my brain and prevent me from being present, the cutting pain that pulls me out of living in the moment — the weight of it all came crashing down like a tidal wave taking out a small island (only I was the small island).
Maybe it never really left. I don’t know. But this time around, no amount of yoga, meditation or therapy seemed to quell the brutally bad feels from overtaking the entirety of my being.
And sometimes you just need to remember what it feels like to feel good again, to remember that it is possible to live outside of the limbless existence of depression. So, under the recommendation of trusted professionals, I went back on the meds.
Allow me to disclaim: I’m only speaking for myself. I’m not saying medication is right for anyone else, but it was the right choice (at this point in time) for me.
I own it. I used to hide it with a great ferocity, but f*ck it. This is me — take me or leave me, kittens.
And if you’re currently medicated and feeling ashamed, please don’t fret, we’re in this together, as a united force working to de-stigmatize mental health.
Credit to Zara Barrie x