About me

Hello.  My name is Mindy, and I have an anxiety disorder.

Until recently, this is how my mood chart always read

I am an introvert and the primary caretaker of four young children with precious immortal souls, breakable bodies, and limited appreciation for what is good and right.  My daily responsibilities include, but are not limited to, feeding hungry mouths, bandaging bloody cuts, changing diapers, washing laundry, preventing blunt force trauma, teaching third grade, breaking up fights, teaching kindergarten, soothing tears, preventing death by strangulation, and keeping permanent markers away from the wall.


This may have something to do with my anxiety.


Nevertheless, anxiety is something I have struggled with almost as long as I can remember, and I have periodically battled its sister condition, depression, since college.


I am not alone in this.  According to the National Institute of Mental Health, 7% of American adults experience depression and 18% experience an anxiety disorder in any given year.  That's a lot of anxious souls.  Women are much more likely than men to experience either problem.


After resisting the idea for twelve years after the first time a doctor suggested I take an antidepressant, I have joined the 11% of Americans who do.


I am so glad.


During my physical this past fall, I admitted to my trusted PCP that I feel anxious.  A lot.  Every day.  All day.  That I can't bring myself to open the bedroom door in the morning and face the day.  That I'm strung out and impatient with my kids.  That I hide in the afternoons and dread waking them from their naps.  That I don't enjoy, well, anything.


I left that day with a prescription and a long list of doubts.  Is it wrong to take a "happy pill?"  Would it lobotomize me?  Maybe my feelings are just a normal part of life.  Would it have terrible side effects?  What's wrong with me, anyway, that other people can cope with life and I can't?


In the end, I looked at certain of my children, who were starting to disproportionately freak out at minor problems, and knew that I did not want them to model their behavior on an anxious, depressed mother.  I also looked at the sad face of my husband, who is profoundly impacted by my (lack of) mental health.  The pill that I could not swallow for years for my own good went down largely out of love for them.


Zoloft hasn't lobotomized me.  And it hardly has had any side effects.  It hasn't changed me into someone I'm not; in fact, it has lifted the clouds and freed me to be who I really am.  Depression and anxiety were like a crippling backache:  I could barely function and wasn't acting like myself until the pain was gone.


Is it wrong to rely on an antidepressant?  Well, is it wrong to live in a fallen world?  If prayer, Bible study, memorizing verses about anxiety, exercise, journaling, gardening, creative hobbies, outdoor walks, yoga, vitamin D, enough sleep, good nutrition, or, especially, trying harder to be positive could cure my problems, I would've been skipping through fields of wildflowers singing tra-la-la by now.  Twelve years is a long time to try everything but medication.


Are a lot of people on psychotropic drugs?  Yes.  Are some people being given a pill when they really need counseling and/or lifestyle changes?  Yes.


Has Zoloft been for me an immense mercy straight from the hand of a loving God?  Yes.  


What about those other people who can cope better than I?  Well, 11% of them are on drugs too.  And the rest...well, I'm not them.  One major change is that Zoloft helps me accept imperfection--in my kids, in my environment, and in myself.  I'm not a superhero.  That's a lot more ok than it used to be.