My Scarlet Letter

Photo by Bogdan Dada on Unsplash

It was a word that hadn’t really had a place in my vocabulary, and yet it would come to define much of my life in 2018.

The inability to take a deep breath. The spinning in my brain I couldn’t turn off. My analyzation and repetitive stories. The tightness in my stomach that caused me to eat less and less until slowly I crept toward double digits on the scale.

Anxiety.

I had experienced it in small flashes in my life, but it had never unpacked it bags and settled in long term with me. The term felt ugly; a betrayal of the very core of who I prided myself on being.

I am the bright ray of sunshine that bounces into rooms. Energy fills my veins and people only multiply it. I hug and tell stories and smile my way through most interactions.

That was my identity.

But in 2018, I was dating a man who was the first to sweep my off my feet in years. I fell fast, hard, and for several months, I was bursting with happiness as I fell into step with him. He had a smile you could feel and he was genuine, and thoughtful, and took care of me in a way no one had in a very long time.

In our committed relationship, I felt validated. I was finally able to join my friends and their partners on couple outings. I had someone to kiss at midnight on New Year’s Eve and celebrate birthdays with and share my time and experiences with.

And it was wonderful.

But as we opened up more to one another, and I learned more about him, I began to question if the man I had fallen in love with was the right person for me indefinitely.

As time wore on, I began to spiral. My head analyzed facts and hard truths, but my heart begged my logic to be silent.

Let me feel this. Let me be loved in this way. There are so many parts that make sense.

It was a battle that erupted into a war within me.

And it consumed me.

I had let people see my messiness before. It was also part of my brand. Do you see how I vulnerable I am? Do you see how imperfect I am? I’m relatable and approachable. I was both real but calculated, careful to never expose too much. My boundaries for raw honesty in my faults far surpassed my peers and I owned that. In comparison, I was an open book it seemed.

But I suddenly began spilling over the edges in a way I hadn’t anticipated – in a way I wasn’t comfortable with.

Within four months of dating him I began seeing a therapist. By then, I had been analyzing and spinning for so long, mounting evidence and wiping smudges from my rose-colored glasses that after my first appointment, she quietly suggested that I consider medication.

You’ve been spinning so long, it will be incredibly difficult to pull yourself out naturally.

I kept seeing her but refused medication. Call it pride, or being stubborn, or cautious to not fix a problem with a pill, but I sat on her couch for another month before trying a new therapist when I felt little progress being made.

Adding fuel to this fire was my decision to freeze my eggs. It was a choice I had made one month to the day before I met him. The week I had planned to begin the process I was summoned for jury duty, after which I further put off ordering the $6300 in medication that I would inject into my body throughout the process.

I delayed doing it until I was knocking at the door of my 35th birthday.

I was terrified. I was angry. I threw pity parties. I continued to spiral.

But one day at a time, I completed the process of freezing my eggs and put that behind me. I began what my doctor referred to as a ‘baby dose’ of Lexipro, a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor. In terms easier to understand, it treated depression and generalized anxiety disorder.

I ended my relationship.

I learned to breathe in.

Hold.

And slowly exhale.

And I began to say it out loud.

I have anxiety.

I had thought it was normal, the overthinking and the way my brain repeatedly circled over and over again, my stories becoming repetitive and my brain searching for clues or signs he was or wasn’t the one.

I continued to go to my therapist for the rest of the year. I journaled and got out what spun in my head on to paper. I began to blog. I continued to run. I started my mornings doing Yoga with Adriene. The weight came back, and then some. I felt healthy again.

I told my best friends. My parents. My sisters. My wine night girls. My coworker. I spoke my truth even when it was hard. I knew they’d love and support me. I anticipated that much.

But the one thing I hadn’t expected were the confessions offered when I shared my journey. The women who whispered back “me too” and revealed their own dance with anxiety and depression. I questioned why I had felt shame and betrayal in the tiny white pill that fell into my palm each morning, as if its existence erased the countless things that I loved and admired and respected about myself.

I looked at my anxiety as a scarlet letter I wore, announcing my sin and shame in a world where I desperately wanted perfection. I realize now that it’s something many of us walk with – though to what degree is unique and different depending on each person’s season of life.

We all struggle to overcome beliefs instilled in us to be truths. We are all fighting our own battles. We all have ways we feel like we fall short or don’t measure up.

It’s the woman in the cubicle next to you at work.

The one drinking wine with you on Wednesdays.

It’s the woman who shares your church pew.

It’s the one who avoids religion all together.

The one with no kids, one kid or many.

It’s all of us.

And as we embark on a fresh year and fresh decade, take a deep breath, give yourself grace, and own every imperfect thing about you.

Those are the parts that truly connect us.