I wake up already tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, but the sort that sits behind your eyes and makes the world feel slightly too loud. My heart isn’t racing yet, but it’s poised, like it’s waiting for a cue. In the bathroom mirror I look normal. That’s always the strangest part: I can look fine while my brain is quietly preparing for impact.
Anxiety, for me, is rarely a full-on panic attack. It’s more like constant background static. A running commentary of “what if” that I didn’t ask for and can’t mute. What if I say something weird. What if I’ve missed an email. What if I get that phone call. What if I can’t cope today and everyone notices.
I used to think I was just “high-strung” or dramatic. I became good at joking about it. I became even better at hiding it. But hiding it takes effort, and effort adds up. Over time my life started shrinking in ways that didn’t look dramatic from the outside. I’d avoid making plans because cancelling felt inevitable. I’d sit in meetings praying nobody asked my opinion. I’d replay conversations for hours afterwards like I was trying to find evidence I’d done something wrong.
I wasn’t living. I was managing.
Eventually, I did the thing I’d been putting off: I spoke to a GP. Even writing that feels like an achievement, because I was convinced I wouldn’t be taken seriously. I had a whole speech prepared in my head about why I wasn’t wasting anyone’s time, why I wasn’t making it up, why I wasn’t “just stressed.” I was sweating in the waiting room like I was about to sit an exam.
When I finally said the words out loud — “I think I have anxiety” — I felt two things at once: relief, and shame. Relief because I’d named it. Shame because I still believed, somewhere, that I should be able to sort it out alone.
The conversation moved to medication quicker than I expected. I’d been half-hoping for a magic sentence that would make everything stop, but I was also terrified of tablets. I’d heard so many opinions: “They’ll change your personality,” “They’re a crutch,” “They’re impossible to come off.” I’d also heard the opposite: “They saved my life.”
I didn’t know what to believe. I only knew I couldn’t keep going the way I was.
So I started medication.
The first week was not inspirational. I want to be honest about that, because people talk about mental health like it’s a tidy journey and it often isn’t. I was checking myself constantly. Is this doing something? Is it making me worse? Am I imagining side effects? Am I supposed to feel different?
I felt strange. A bit nauseous. My sleep was weird. My mood did that thing where it wobbles, and because I’m me, I panicked about the wobble. I remember sitting on my bed thinking, “I’ve done it now. I’ve broken my brain.”
But I kept going, partly because I’d been told to give it time, and partly because stopping felt like admitting defeat. I also tried to stop treating every sensation as an emergency. That was hard. Anxiety is persuasive. It can make a harmless feeling in your body seem like a warning.
A few weeks in, something shifted.
Not dramatically. Not like a film. More like… the volume turned down. The thoughts were still there, but they didn’t arrive with the same force. I could notice them and not immediately react. I could go to the shop without rehearsing ten escape routes. I could reply to a message without my stomach dropping.
It didn’t make me happy all the time. It didn’t turn me into a different person. What it did was give me some breathing space. And that space mattered more than I can explain, because it allowed me to actually do the other work: sleeping better, eating more regularly, getting outside, talking to someone I trust, and slowly learning what my triggers look like.
The biggest surprise was grief.
I grieved the years I’d spent struggling quietly. I grieved how normal I’d tried to be, how hard I’d worked to look okay. I grieved the version of me who thought asking for help was weak.
And then I felt angry — not at anyone specific, just at the idea that suffering in silence is somehow noble.
I won’t pretend medication is simple. There are days I still feel anxious, because I’m human and life is messy. There are days I worry about being on it “too long.” There are days I wonder what I’ll feel like if I come off it in the future. I’m learning to hold those thoughts gently rather than letting them spiral into a verdict.
What I’ve learned most is this: medication isn’t a personality transplant. It’s not a failure. For me, it was a tool. One that helped me get my footing when I was slipping on the same patch of ice every day.
And I’m still me.
I still overthink. I still get that flutter in my chest sometimes. I still have mornings where the world feels too sharp around the edges. But now, more often than not, I can move through the day without feeling like I’m fighting for my life in ordinary moments.
If you’re reading this and you’re scared of taking that first step — talking to someone, trying medication, admitting you’re not okay — I get it. I really do. Anxiety tells you that you’ll be judged, that you’ll be the exception, that you’ll make it worse, that you won’t be believed.
But you deserve support that actually supports you.
Not the “just calm down” advice. Not the “everyone gets stressed” minimising. Proper support. The kind that gives you room to breathe.
I’m anonymous here, but I’m not alone. And if you’re here reading this, chances are you aren’t either.
Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, but the sort that sits behind your eyes and makes the world feel slightly too loud. My heart isn’t racing yet, but it’s poised, like it’s waiting for a cue. In the bathroom mirror I look normal. That’s always the strangest part: I can look fine while my brain is quietly preparing for impact.
Anxiety, for me, is rarely a full-on panic attack. It’s more like constant background static. A running commentary of “what if” that I didn’t ask for and can’t mute. What if I say something weird. What if I’ve missed an email. What if I get that phone call. What if I can’t cope today and everyone notices.
I used to think I was just “high-strung” or dramatic. I became good at joking about it. I became even better at hiding it. But hiding it takes effort, and effort adds up. Over time my life started shrinking in ways that didn’t look dramatic from the outside. I’d avoid making plans because cancelling felt inevitable. I’d sit in meetings praying nobody asked my opinion. I’d replay conversations for hours afterwards like I was trying to find evidence I’d done something wrong.
I wasn’t living. I was managing.
Eventually, I did the thing I’d been putting off: I spoke to a GP. Even writing that feels like an achievement, because I was convinced I wouldn’t be taken seriously. I had a whole speech prepared in my head about why I wasn’t wasting anyone’s time, why I wasn’t making it up, why I wasn’t “just stressed.” I was sweating in the waiting room like I was about to sit an exam.
When I finally said the words out loud — “I think I have anxiety” — I felt two things at once: relief, and shame. Relief because I’d named it. Shame because I still believed, somewhere, that I should be able to sort it out alone.
The conversation moved to medication quicker than I expected. I’d been half-hoping for a magic sentence that would make everything stop, but I was also terrified of tablets. I’d heard so many opinions: “They’ll change your personality,” “They’re a crutch,” “They’re impossible to come off.” I’d also heard the opposite: “They saved my life.”
I didn’t know what to believe. I only knew I couldn’t keep going the way I was.
So I started medication.
The first week was not inspirational. I want to be honest about that, because people talk about mental health like it’s a tidy journey and it often isn’t. I was checking myself constantly. Is this doing something? Is it making me worse? Am I imagining side effects? Am I supposed to feel different?
I felt strange. A bit nauseous. My sleep was weird. My mood did that thing where it wobbles, and because I’m me, I panicked about the wobble. I remember sitting on my bed thinking, “I’ve done it now. I’ve broken my brain.”
But I kept going, partly because I’d been told to give it time, and partly because stopping felt like admitting defeat. I also tried to stop treating every sensation as an emergency. That was hard. Anxiety is persuasive. It can make a harmless feeling in your body seem like a warning.
A few weeks in, something shifted.
Not dramatically. Not like a film. More like… the volume turned down. The thoughts were still there, but they didn’t arrive with the same force. I could notice them and not immediately react. I could go to the shop without rehearsing ten escape routes. I could reply to a message without my stomach dropping.
It didn’t make me happy all the time. It didn’t turn me into a different person. What it did was give me some breathing space. And that space mattered more than I can explain, because it allowed me to actually do the other work: sleeping better, eating more regularly, getting outside, talking to someone I trust, and slowly learning what my triggers look like.
The biggest surprise was grief.
I grieved the years I’d spent struggling quietly. I grieved how normal I’d tried to be, how hard I’d worked to look okay. I grieved the version of me who thought asking for help was weak.
And then I felt angry — not at anyone specific, just at the idea that suffering in silence is somehow noble.
I won’t pretend medication is simple. There are days I still feel anxious, because I’m human and life is messy. There are days I worry about being on it “too long.” There are days I wonder what I’ll feel like if I come off it in the future. I’m learning to hold those thoughts gently rather than letting them spiral into a verdict.
What I’ve learned most is this: medication isn’t a personality transplant. It’s not a failure. For me, it was a tool. One that helped me get my footing when I was slipping on the same patch of ice every day.
And I’m still me.
I still overthink. I still get that flutter in my chest sometimes. I still have mornings where the world feels too sharp around the edges. But now, more often than not, I can move through the day without feeling like I’m fighting for my life in ordinary moments.
If you’re reading this and you’re scared of taking that first step — talking to someone, trying medication, admitting you’re not okay — I get it. I really do. Anxiety tells you that you’ll be judged, that you’ll be the exception, that you’ll make it worse, that you won’t be believed.
But you deserve support that actually supports you.
Not the “just calm down” advice. Not the “everyone gets stressed” minimising. Proper support. The kind that gives you room to breathe.
I’m anonymous here, but I’m not alone. And if you’re here reading this, chances are you aren’t either.