Yesterday, I saw my doctor about the closet battling of things I can’t label. I tried to be as open and honest as I could be, but I still held back. I still kept things to myself. It’s funny, I’ve been told that bloggers have no filters, when really, I do. We talked about most things, and I told her my hesitation on calling these things depression and anxiety but admitted that I have been trying so long to will myself out of this that I just can’t do it solo anymore. She has referred me to a counsellor but in the mean time prescribed me some medication to take, to see if it helps. She prescribed 1oMG of Cipralex for me to take daily. I’m hesitant, again.
I’ve always said that Western medicine is too quick to prescribe drugs to fix things that could be easily fixed in other ways. I’m not saying that all cases can be fixed without drugs, I’m just saying that they are quick to push them. You walk in, you say “I don’t feel right” and then you’re prescribed a drug to make you feel right. What does feeling right even mean? Who decides what are normal and healthy emotions to have? Who decides what coping mechanisms are wrong? Sure, I’ll admit it; I do not handle stress well. I do not cope with my anxiety well. But does that mean I need to take a drug? A drug that could change my entire personality, my entire way of thinking?
I’ve heard the horror stories before. I’ve heard about people feeling so numb that they could watch a child get hit by a car and feel no empathy, all because of a drug they were prescribed to make things better. I don’t want to loose the good parts of who I am in an attempt to fix the not-so good parts. I’m scared.
M doesn’t know if I even need it. He thinks everything to do with my depression and anxiety is situational, but the problem is…our situation probably isn’t going to change any time soon. At least not drastically enough to stop having anxiety attacks and stop worrying about every little minuscule thing. I work myself into such a tizzy over it all, and I can’t stop. I keep worrying, worrying, worrying some more. Taking on more and more until I just can’t cope anymore.
I’m not asking for advice, for you guys to tell me to take it or not to take, that’s a decision that only I can make. M can’t even help me with it. I’m sitting on it for a few more days. I’m watching myself closely. I’m monitoring my thoughts.
I’m hesitant, but I think that’s good.
When the counsellor calls me with an appointment, I’ll jump all over it because I can admit that I do need some help with this. I’m just not sure it’s the kind of help that is prescribed from a bottle.