Why I talk openly about my anxiety medication
For a long time, I treated my anxiety medication like a secret I had to carry carefully. I worried that people would assume I was unstable, weak, dramatic, or incapable of managing ordinary life. Even saying the words “I take medication for anxiety” could make my body tense, as though I had accidentally revealed something shameful.
I talk about it now because silence rarely makes mental illness easier to live with. It can make treatment feel like a private failure instead of one practical form of healthcare. My experience is personal, not a prescription for anyone else, but speaking honestly has helped me separate medical support from the judgement I once attached to it.
Anxiety is a health issue, not a character flaw
Anxiety is often described as overthinking, being highly strung, or needing to calm down. Those phrases can make a serious condition sound like a personality quirk. For me, anxiety has affected sleep, concentration, appetite, relationships, decision-making, and my ability to feel safe in my own thoughts. It is not simply having a busy week or worrying about an upcoming appointment.
Medication did not appear because I lacked discipline. It became part of my care when my symptoms were interfering with daily life and other strategies were not doing enough on their own. A prescription did not erase my responsibility or my personality. It gave my nervous system some support while I worked on the emotional and practical parts of recovery.
The shame around taking psychiatric medication is connected to the wider shame around needing help. I have written about writing through shame because shame grows in silence and shrinks when it is named with care. Speaking openly about medication is another way of refusing the idea that struggling makes a person less worthy.
My symptoms were bigger than everyday worry
There is a difference between reasonable concern and anxiety that takes over the room. Ordinary worry may respond to reassurance, rest, or solving a specific problem. An anxiety disorder can keep sounding the alarm after the immediate danger has passed. The body may remain tense, the mind may rehearse disasters, and simple tasks may feel strangely impossible.
I have experienced the mental loops, the physical agitation, and the exhaustion that follows a day spent trying to appear fine. Sometimes the hardest part was not one dramatic panic attack but the accumulation of smaller disruptions: avoiding messages, delaying decisions, losing sleep, and constantly scanning for what might go wrong. Those experiences were real even when I could still attend work, make coffee, or post online.
That distinction matters in Australia, where access to mental health support can depend heavily on location, income, availability, and whether someone can find a GP they trust. A person in inner Melbourne may have different options from someone in regional Queensland, while both may be doing their best to navigate long waitlists and rising costs. Functioning in public does not prove that someone is well.
A GP conversation can be a turning point
My medication journey involved speaking with a doctor, describing symptoms honestly, and discussing options rather than arriving with certainty. A GP may ask about sleep, mood, panic, physical health, other medicines, substance use, and any risk of self-harm. That conversation can feel vulnerable, but accurate information helps a clinician make safer decisions.
In Australia, a GP might discuss a mental health treatment plan, counselling, lifestyle support, or a referral alongside medication. These pathways are not equally accessible to everyone, and a plan does not magically remove the cost of appointments or the shortage of psychologists. Still, having a conversation is a meaningful place to begin. The right treatment may involve medication, therapy, both, or a different approach over time.
The Pharmaceutical Benefits Scheme can make some prescriptions more affordable, although the final cost depends on the medicine, the prescription arrangement, and a person’s circumstances. Picking up medication from a local chemist is a routine act, but it does not always feel routine when the label carries a mental health association. I have had to remind myself that collecting a prescription is no more shameful than collecting antibiotics or asthma medication.
Medication is support, not a personality replacement
One fear I carried was that medication would change who I was. I wondered whether I would lose my creativity, emotional depth, anger, humour, or ability to care about injustice. I did not want to become numb. I wanted the volume of fear lowered enough to hear the rest of myself.
Medication is not identical for everyone. Some people experience side effects, some find the first option unhelpful, and some need time and medical supervision before deciding whether a treatment is right. Changes to dosage or stopping suddenly can carry risks, so those decisions belong in conversation with a prescriber rather than in an impulsive moment after a difficult day.
For me, the useful question has not been whether medication makes me a different person. It is whether it gives me more room to be the person anxiety was crowding out. When I can sleep more consistently, think with less panic, and respond instead of immediately spiralling, I have more capacity for relationships, writing, and ordinary pleasure.
Rest belongs in mental health care
There is a cultural expectation that people should keep performing while unwell. We praise the person who answers emails from bed, attends every event, and treats exhaustion as evidence of commitment. That pressure affects anxious people intensely because overworking can look like control while actually keeping the nervous system permanently activated.
My belief in treatment includes rest, boundaries, nourishment, and time away from productivity. My feminist case for rest is rooted in the idea that our value should not depend on how much labour we can extract from ourselves. Medication cannot compensate for an impossible workload, an unsafe home, discrimination, or constant financial stress.
This is especially relevant in a culture that often treats a long commute across Sydney or a packed Melbourne tram as proof of resilience. People can be proud of getting through a demanding day and still need support afterwards. A tablet does not mean I should tolerate every harmful situation or push past every bodily limit.
Openness needs boundaries as well as honesty
Talking openly about anxiety medication does not mean sharing every detail with every person. Disclosure should be a choice, not another obligation placed on people with mental illness. I can tell a close friend that I am taking prescribed medication without explaining my diagnosis, dosage, history, or every side effect.
I also think carefully about the audience. Some people respond with care; others offer frightening anecdotes, dismissive comments, or unasked-for opinions about “natural” alternatives. In a workplace, disclosure may be relevant only if I need a reasonable adjustment or support. In a family conversation, I can decide how much information feels emotionally safe.
Online spaces make these boundaries more complicated. A personal story may help someone feel less alone, but it can also invite strangers to treat lived experience as medical advice. I am clear that my treatment is supervised and individual. What helps me may not help another person, and no one should change a prescription because a blogger described their own experience.
Treatment is an ongoing relationship with care
Anxiety medication is one part of a broader process. I still need sleep, food, movement that feels supportive, creative outlets, therapy when available, and people who understand that recovery is uneven. None of those things cancel out medication, and medication does not cancel them out. Care works better for me when I stop ranking one tool as morally superior to another.
Monitoring matters too. A person may need to notice changes in mood, sleep, appetite, anxiety, or energy and report them to their GP or pharmacist. In Australia, pharmacists are often an accessible source of information about how to take a medicine safely, what to do after a missed dose, and which side effects warrant medical attention. Urgent symptoms or thoughts of self-harm require immediate professional help, including calling 000 in an emergency or contacting Lifeline on 13 11 14.
I also want mental health conversations to include people who cannot easily afford private therapy or repeated appointments. Local community organisations, public services, peer support, and community resources can matter when the formal system is difficult to reach. Treatment should not be framed as a luxury reserved for people with flexible jobs and generous healthcare budgets.
Talking openly about my anxiety medication has changed the story I tell myself. I am no longer presenting it as evidence that I failed to cope. I see it as one decision within a continuing effort to live with more steadiness, honesty, and compassion.
The next concrete step is to write down what my anxiety is affecting and take that list to my GP before making any change to treatment.
