I Fought This Little White Pill

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My nightmare-inducing, heart palpitating, fear enveloping anxiety has been at an all-time high since the birth of my newborn.

The intrusive thoughts.

The constant reminders of all the ways in which the world isn’t perfect and my life with my vivacious toddler and sweet baby could crash down at any minute. I am not worth my family.

The job I’ve worked so hard to achieve could be taken away from me. They’ll realize I’m not right for it. They’ll find out any minute that I’m an imposter. I am an imposter.

The husband I’ve loved for 10 years is so close to realizing that he can do so much better than me. He is so much better than me. His departure is inevitable. I am unlovable.

My all-encompassing foreboding joys.

I’ve fought against using that white pill for so long.

The one that can begin to help take away my pain and cope with those everyday anxieties. The one that can ease those sleepless nights. The one that could work with me to find ways to finally calm down.

My thoughts could finally just calm down.

I’ve been fighting it because it means I have to be labeled, to be that oh so loaded and detested word: diagnosed. It means that I will have something saying my depression exists. My anxiety exists. It’s there. It’s got a name. It’s a part of me.

It’s permanently, in writing, in reality, a part of me.

I’ve been fighting it because I’ve relied on my anxiety.

My codependency resembles that of that overly negative friend who sucks you in because venting and hating can feel oh so good. My anxiety is that which I lean on. It’s part of my identity.

When I overexert myself in the name of “work ethic”.

When I come up with hundreds of unfinished projects in the name of “creativity”.

When I can’t sleep in the name of “caring too much”.

Really, I’ve been denying the imbalance and immobility this frenemy has become.

It’s time to break away from this frenemy.

Whether or not it’s written doesn’t mean I don’t have it.

Those words, depression and anxiety, have always been there. I’ve always known about it. I just . . . thought I could avoid it.

My pride and unwillingness to accept how much I’ve needed the white pill have finally begun to dwindle and I’m letting them go. I’m giving myself what my friends deserve, what my family deserves, what I deserve.

So, I’m jumping in. I’m not losing myself by taking this white pill, it’s allowing me to be who I’ve been all along. I get to be the truly authentic version of me without the weight that’s been pulling me down.

I’m ready to take the plunge into happiness, independence, and authenticity.

I’m ready to take that little white pill.

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Tierney Cashman

I am a mother, wife, teacher, and part-time blogger where I reminisce about the various options you have as a mom, and how you will never choose the right one. To someone, you are a horrible mom, but it’s OK, because apparently I am, too. Find me on Facebook and Instagram.

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I’ve fought against using that white pill for so long.

I’ve been fighting it because I’ve relied on my anxiety.

Those words, depression and anxiety, have always been there. I’ve always known about it. I just . . . thought I could avoid it.

If you liked this, you'll love our book, SO GOD MADE A GRANDMA

Tierney Cashman

Maybe that “Mean Mom” Is Just Busy

I’m Going to Tell You the Things Your Mom Should Have Told You

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There Was a Shooting at My High School; Can I Keep My Kids Safe Anymore?

Every Neighborhood Needs a Baby

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When Did We Change, Mama?

My ‘Dusty Son’ is 5

Get It Now

So God Made a Mother

I Fought This Little White Pill

I’ve fought against using that white pill for so long.

I’ve been fighting it because I’ve relied on my anxiety.

Those words, depression and anxiety, have always been there. I’ve always known about it. I just . . . thought I could avoid it.

If you liked this, you'll love our book, SO GOD MADE A GRANDMA

Maybe that “Mean Mom” Is Just Busy

I’m Going to Tell You the Things Your Mom Should Have Told You

Your Worth Is Not Someone Else’s To Measure

My In-Laws Don’t Like Me and It Breaks My Heart

We Fell Out of Friendship

There Was a Shooting at My High School; Can I Keep My Kids Safe Anymore?

Every Neighborhood Needs a Baby

God Carries Me Through the Deep Waters of Change

When Did We Change, Mama?

My ‘Dusty Son’ is 5

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