In my eyes and I hope that many other people, consider mental illness to be on the same shelf as any other illness. So, it makes sense that in some circumstances, medication is required to be well again.
I do have to confess that when I was first told that medication was the next step in my treatment plan, I wasn’t filled with excitement. A few years ago, I was taking the pill, and I wasn’t so embarrassed, mainly because it isn’t so shocking to hear of someone taking that type of medication. But in my case, I hadn’t of known anyone, yet hear about young adults taking antidepressants.
I was afraid of what others would think of me. Therefore I didn’t tell anyone. However, I was fighting the shame and disgrace against my self. The strain was always following me, and there was no running from it. But despite that, I didn’t have any other options for improving. I had three months of weekly psychology appointments, afterwards, I had to see my doctor again to see how I was going and hopefully downgrade the gas bag sessions. Having that said, that plan wasn’t going to happen; I had gotten worse. Although I was forever reminded that there was no quick fix to my anxiety, the relentless weeks of not improving, the pressures to improve and just being stuck, further extended the wall I needed to climb over. There were quite significant risks involved taking the medication, yet that all can be for another post.
One thing I know for sure is my opinion then and it now towards myself taking medication, has gone from one side of the spectrum to the other end. The idea of medicating myself to help improve my state of mind, made it feel as though I had lost all control over myself; whatever little bit I had left over thanks to anxiety I must say. The concept of not being able to compose my thoughts was genuinely defeating. Now four months of taking medication, I can sincerely say that I have no gloomy feelings towards myself taking medication. Pretty much any family or friends know, and now I’ve publically admitted it; I have no shame.
It’s a sign to people that I’m receiving help, that I’m brave enough to speak out about the type of medication I intake, and most importantly it can prove how one person can seem smooth sailing on the outside, yet is sinking inside. Even though I had never looked down upon those who take medication for mental illness, I was never able to be kind and understanding to myself like I was to other sufferers. I can’t pinpoint why I was so hard on myself; it could have been several factors, although I know now that I’m proud to have a mind so busy and complicated that it must be one of the few to need special treatment.