Drugs. A time and a place.

My time is now. My place is chronic depression and overwhelming anxiety.

For years I strutted this earth like a baller. I had the thug life of a woman who didn’t need meds. I wasn’t “crazy” crazy. I wasn’t going to a psych ward kind of depressed. I was able to manage my mental health with hopes and prayers. Oh and denial. A boat load of it.

I didn’t doubt myself that I had a problem with anxiety and depression. I just didn’t want anyone to know. And I was in an environment that fostered natural health remedies like St. John’s Wort and meditation. While those help, they can not, in my opinion, get to my inner brain and scream “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”

Many a therapist bit their tongues and sat on their prescription pads waiting for me to see the light. Poor them. A hot-headed hippie I was, who at any mention of prescription meds would rant out a closing argument to a jury of my imaginary peers. See, I wasn’t so much worried about taking pills. I was terrified of the judgement.

For years I suffered for the sake of the neighbours, and friends. What would they think if they knew I was so insane that I had to be medicated.

I lived through my daily anxiety, a bout of post traumatic stress from a car crash, and post – depression with my second child before I finally laid my sword down. It was a counselor who finally said the right combination of words. There is a time and a place. It was my time and place to stop hurting.

Within two months of being on my first ever antidepressants, I was alive. I opened a business, started exercising and tasting life for the first time.

That was seven years ago. Today I can happily admit my strength not weakness in accepting treatment. Losing days in bed, and worrying about other people’s opinions is long gone. In fact, I just added a new medication to my existing regiment and it is boosting my moods more. As I got older, I noticed more changes in my mood. I was raging with pms and the swings were bigger than I could handle.

The difference is this time, I happily asked for help.


Angila has been writing since 1979 when she received her first diary, filling it with boy crazy nonsense and girly drama. It wasn't until the 21st century that she discovered writing was a healing tool to release inner chaos. When Facebook was invented Angila, who is an attention whore reveled in receiving likes and shares. Comments started pouring in that she should write a book. Knowing her lack of follow through and commitment issues, Angila ignored the advice and chose to blog. Detached From Logic is where she currently vomits her creative juices and allows the voices in her head a digital soap box. Her life long dream of having fans came when wordpress announced she had one follower. Unlike the stalkers in her life this one felt acceptable and welcomed.


  1. Sometimes asking for help is the hardest thing to do, but usually yields the best results. I love you, giraffe.

  2. Standing O. Clinical depression and generalized anxiety can paralyze you. I know. Meds can work. If they help, take them. Some people, as you said, have a chemical imbalance. Meds correct that. If you were diabetic would you deny yourself insulin? No. I have been on meds for decades and would never have been able to have kids, write a novel, blog, be who I am, happy, a good mom and a successful member of society. There’s no option for me. So, destigmatize and and get help. It’s out there and there are many options if you are suffering.

    • Love you Jenny…thanks. And now I am adding novel to my long list of things that don’t terrify me.

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