My Journey with Christianity and Mental Illness

So remember how I (W) gave y'all that list of all the profound topics that I was going to write about now that I've settled in to my new house/job/state and have internet?

Yeah...those are going to have to wait.

My posts on this blog are typically very carefully crafted. I think about my main points, revise for clarity, and otherwise try to make myself look like a well-read, put-together, good Christian. And that's because I like to think of myself as one. But at the same time, those posts are probably not doing any favors for those of you who, like myself, STRUGGLE sometimes. So allow me to bring the nitty-gritty truth to the blog tonight:

I have been on an anti-depressant for the last 4.5 years.

Well, I was. Until 4 days ago. But let's start at the beginning, because I think it's important that someone in the Christian community finally stands up to try to end the stigma of mental illness/mental health issues in the church.

I started having anxiety issues my freshman year of college. It was probably due to several factors, not the least of which included splitting up from M for the first time ever. I developed a severe phobia of cancer, and for about a year and a half was I whole-hardheartedly convinced that I not only had cancer, but was actively dying from it. It got to the point where I started believing each night that I might not wake up the next morning. Did I have any real evidence of this? No. Did I see a doctor about this? To convince me that I did not have cancer and was not dying? No. Did I tell my parents? No. I lived with chronic fear and anxiety for months until a pulled muscle in my chest (furniture moving gone wrong) prompted a chest X-ray which revealed, much to my surprise-- NOTHING.

I started to see a therapist after that. I've seen 5 therapists intermittently during the last 7 years.

Looking back, I was suffering from a classic phobic disorder. Through talk therapy, I slowly got over it and moved on with my life. I treated that whole thing as sort of a weird, isolated episode of who-knows-what. Because obviously well-read, put-together, good Christians don't struggle with stuff like this, so it must have been some kind of fluke.

Fast forward 2 years. I transferred schools, found an awesome friend group, and started dating a much sought-after guy. And then the anxiety came back, and this time it wasn't the crippling fear of a phobia, but the antsy, heart-pounding panic that something is about to go terribly wrong at any moment. I fought it for a while-- praying, talking to M, seeing another therapist, reading self-help books-- and then I started losing the fight. I felt nauseous all the time and I lost a bunch of weight. I had so much anxiety that I would immediately start dry-heaving first thing upon waking in the morning.

I went to a psychiatrist. He diagnosed me with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and put me on Zoloft.

I ditched my summer plans for a trip to Argentina, broke up with the boyfriend, and started seeing ANOTHER counselor. And slowly but surely, I started to get better. I gained some weight back, I started to sleep better, and I decided that instead of being another fluke (...is there such a thing?), this episode indicated that my brain was broken.

Fast forward another two years. I graduated college, moved to a giant new city, and started the worst job ever (for me at least.Teach for America. There, I said it). This time is wasn't the fear or the panic moving in-- it was the dread. It was like carrying a 40 pound weight with me wherever I went. I started to count as a victory any day that I didn't cry at school, because counting those when I didn't cry at all was simply too small a number.

I saw ANOTHER therapist.

I quit my job, moved out of my ant-infested apartment, got married to the best man there is (oh, hey T!) and eventually found my dream job. A year later, I have my dream man and my dream job in my dream house in my dream city. And you know what that means?

I decided it was time to wean off of the anti-depressants.

It's been 4 days since I finished my last bit of the weaning. To tell you the truth? I feel like CRAP. I'm only now realizing how much of a legitimate drug I was taking because I'm truly in the withdrawal stage-- headache, dizziness, occasional heart palpitations, and brain fog. The last four days have been rough. And I'm hopeful that a few days/weeks/months down the line, I'll feel awesome and proud of myself and all that jazz. But today, I feel sick and tired (literally) and also sick and tired of feeling like I can't even tell anyone that I'm feeling so poorly because I don't want anyone to know that I have struggled with anxiety or medication for it.

And I'm telling you this because seriously, no one in my Christian community has EVER told me their story of being put on or deciding to get off of anti-depressants unless I bring it up first. And then they let out a sigh of relief that someone else will offer support and not judgement.

This is my testimony. That I am a Christian, and that in certain periods of my life, prayer and community groups and self-help books were not enough to keep me in a healthy, productive state of mind. That I believe treating mental illness with medication is no less holy than treating diabetes with insulin or a broken leg with a cast if all other options have been pursued and come up short. That God STILL made me perfectly even though I have this thorn in my side, and that this thorn keeps me closer to Him than anything else in my life.


I'll keep you updated about the process of becoming medication-free. In the meantime, you're prayers are welcome, and your understanding (about my struggles, and about the reality of the issue of mental illness within the church) is encouraged.

And that is the nitty-gritty truth.