When I was 16, I had just gotten my license, and every trip to the gas station was exciting rather than an expensive errand. One day, I read a headline about a man who was pricked by a hypodermic needle someone had taped to a gas nozzle. For months, I inspected every handle thoroughly to make sure it was safe to touch—while most people probably would’ve moved on to the next news story. This is one of the first memories I have of my anxiety playing an active role in my day-to-day life.
Growing up, I was told that I was overly emotional and often overreacted. As a Cancer, I always blamed my star sign for being too introspective and feeling things deeply. I began writing music as a way to sort through some of the messy feelings in my head. While music became an outlet to help articulate my thoughts, it also meant that I carried the weight of my thoughts alone. I would tell myself, “I’m just overthinking, everybody feels this way, it’s not a problem, I don’t need help.”
As a self-proclaimed perfectionist, I just had to try a little harder and everything would be fine.
Anxiety surrounding gas nozzles turned into intruders entering my house, which turned into planes falling out of the sky and landing perfectly on top of me. I would leave a fun night with friends, convinced that they secretly hated me. Sitting in traffic, I’d think to myself, “What if I make this turn and someone runs a red light and hits me?” An endless stream of “what ifs” was constantly on my mind, but I convinced myself that these nightmarish thoughts were entirely normal.
I was 21 when I finally decided to start therapy. I had flirted with the idea of seeing a therapist for over a year, but could never convince myself to pick up the phone. Between juggling an internship, finishing my master’s, pursuing a career as a singer/songwriter, and imposter syndrome thrown on top of the general state of the world, I was burned out and overwhelmed. The idea of starting therapy scared me for a variety of reasons; I would have to accept the diagnostic label of anxiety. I would have to admit that everything was not fine and I was not holding it together. I would have to shed the illusion of perfection and come to terms with my own flaws and self-destructive behaviors. But I didn’t have a choice; something had to change.
My first therapist, while not the perfect fit, helped me face some of the fear surrounding therapy. She helped me become comfortable talking about my feelings. She gave me techniques for grounding when I felt myself getting swept up in thought. Every other week for four months, we dove into thoughts and fears, and I got a better understanding of myself. While the idea of starting over with someone new was intimidating, I knew this was a process I couldn’t give up on. I found a new therapist, who was a better fit, and I have now been seeing her for five years.
While therapy was and is an incredible tool to help manage my anxiety with external factors, my spiraling thoughts reached an all-time high. At its worst, I would compare my thoughts to TV static: loud, indistinguishable, and demanding my attention.
Yet I told myself, “This is how it is, I am fine, it’s not that bad,” and carried on.
It wasn’t until I switched primary doctors and she asked me if I had ever been medicated for anxiety. I immediately burst into tears as I confronted the idea that maybe I still didn’t have it all together. My doctor told me she was going to write me a prescription for Zoloft, but it was up to me whether I picked it up or not.
I called my fiancé (now husband) on the way home and told him I was worried he wouldn’t love me or want to be with me anymore if I had to take medication for my anxiety. I can still hear his words today, he told me, “Lauren, every thought you have is valid, and I never want to discredit your feelings. But I literally proposed to you four days ago, and if you think taking care of your mental health would make me leave you, then maybe you should consider trying it.” After laughing and crying and sitting with the possibility, I started taking the medication and almost immediately felt the static soften.
I often told myself I didn’t need therapy or I didn’t need to take an SSRI. That is true, I don’t need to. I also don’t need to take ibuprofen when I have a headache, but it helps me not be in pain. My life changed when I began to look at these things as helpful tools rather than signs of weakness. If I can do something to make my anxiety a little more manageable, why wouldn’t I? It’s not a sign of failure, but rather an act of self-preservation. There are still days when I check the handles when I pump my gas, but there are also days now that I don’t.
In 2017, I entered a songwriting competition and won a chance to write a song with Linkin Park shortly before Chester Bennington took his own life. After losing such an incredible musician and human, who was transparent and wrote about mental health with such honesty and vulnerability, I was inspired to write a song in memory of Chester. I had the absolute pleasure of working with Mike Shinoda and Brad Delson of Linkin Park to bring that song to life. “Every Little Light” is one of the most personal songs I’ve ever written, and I’m always grateful when I hear how others have connected with the song. Sometimes we all need the reminder that even in our darkest moments, there is light and joy waiting on the other side. “Every Little Light” is available on Spotify, Apple Music, or wherever you listen to music.