Back in my late twenties, I eagerly enrolled in a course that promised to help me manifest my dreams through the power of positive thinking. At that time, I had a decade of relentless optimism under my belt. If there was a motivational mantra out there, I would recite it endlessly. If someone was feeling down, I’d urge them to “take a deep breath.” And if there was an essential oil with a claim of everlasting happiness, I’d drench myself in it.
The course tasked me with an ambitious assignment: meditate for an hour each day for a month. Now that I’m a mother, I wish I could go back and advise my younger self on the futility of spending a whole hour with my eyes closed, not actually sleeping. Yet, no amount of logic could deter my late-twenties self; I was utterly captivated by the fleeting euphoria that meditation provided and had no intention of stopping.
My relentless pursuit of tranquility might have seemed admirable, but if someone had confronted me about my true motivations, I would have likely spiraled into chaos. On the outside, I appeared to be the epitome of health and happiness. However, beneath that facade lay a shattered child who felt perpetually inadequate. I had endured years of physical, emotional, and mental abuse during childhood, and my chronic state of forced positivity was merely a band-aid over deep-seated wounds.
This obsession with maintaining a happy exterior came at a significant cost: it left no space for anger or sadness. Consequently, when negative emotions inevitably surfaced, my body and mind reacted violently. I found myself in explosive arguments with my ex-husband, followed by self-destructive behavior. I was locked in a constant struggle with my body, trying to attain an unrealistic ideal in an industry that scrutinized my appearance and personality.
In truth, my fervent attempts to meditate away my pain only exacerbated my struggles. While it allowed me to function in society for a while, it also led to desperate outbursts as I sought to be recognized and rescued. When my first marriage fell apart, so did the fragile self-image I had built.
Fast forward: I remarried and became a mom faster than I expected. After welcoming my daughter, the positivity techniques I relied on began to falter. I was swept into the turbulent waters of postpartum challenges, and my whole world shifted. Panic attacks emerged, coinciding with the physical and emotional toll of motherhood. I initially thought these episodes were a result of losing my pre-child identity, but the reality was far more complex. I began therapy, sometimes twice a week, seeking answers for my daily tears, self-harm, and suicidal thoughts.
It was during this time that my therapist revealed a diagnosis that would alter my life’s trajectory. I had been unknowingly grappling with complex PTSD for years. My relentless optimism and meditation were merely masks for perfectionism and a desire to please others, both of which stemmed from a deep need to avoid pain. While I seemed happy to everyone else, I was in profound distress—something I hadn’t even acknowledged myself.
All the meditation in the world couldn’t shield me from confronting my painful truth. My past traumas were silently steering my life until they pushed me over an emotional cliff. From that low point, I began to hear the little girl inside who was ignored while I focused on projecting happiness. For the first time, I truly listened to my body, which I had fought against for too long.
Despite the challenges, motherhood has become the most significant catalyst for profound change in my life. It compelled me to shed unhealthy coping mechanisms that only appeared to work on the surface and forced me to confront my old traumas.
Just last month, I bravely walked into an ER for a psychiatric evaluation. My panic attacks had escalated into debilitating muscle spasms, and I knew I needed help. Following that visit, I consulted a psychiatrist about starting medication. Initially, I was hesitant, worrying about societal stigma and the fear that it might numb my emotions. Ultimately, I left with a prescription for antidepressants, and I’ve been on them ever since.
To my surprise, medication has significantly improved my well-being. Since starting antidepressants, all my PTSD symptoms have subsided, and I no longer contemplate disappearing from life. Instead, I now feel a strong desire to engage authentically and vulnerably with the world.
I don’t want to dismiss meditation entirely; it undoubtedly helped me survive until it no longer served me. It works for many people, and that’s fantastic. But for my healing journey, it wasn’t enough to address the unhealed wounds I was unaware of. That doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned meditation; rather, it’s just one tool in my broader toolkit for well-being.
Through therapy and medication, I’ve realized that I’ve been skipping essential steps toward true wholeness. I couldn’t discover it while zoning out on a yoga mat, as there was too much chaos within. I needed to clean up my inner space before I could find peace. Most importantly, I had to stop pretending everything was okay when it wasn’t.
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Summary:
In my late twenties, I believed in the power of meditation to cure my emotional turmoil, but it only masked deeper issues stemming from childhood trauma. After facing postpartum challenges, I sought therapy and was diagnosed with complex PTSD. Realizing my previous coping mechanisms weren’t effective, I began antidepressants, which have since transformed my mental health. I now understand that healing requires confronting my past and embracing authenticity.
Keyphrase: Medication for Mental Health
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