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I’ll never forget what the first one felt like. I couldn’t breathe, the room was spinning, my hands were numb, my stomach felt like it might burst open, and I was convinced I was dying. Lying on the bathroom floor, I yelled to my husband in the middle of the night, hoping not to wake my two sleeping children. He ran in, and I told him to call 911. I was convinced that something horrible was happening in my body and that I needed immediate medical attention.

From a young age, I knew I wanted a religious life. Though not frum, my family had a strong, proud Jewish identity, so I knew a bit about Torah. I was born with anxiety, back before it was a thing, before doctors were well-versed enough in its symptoms to spot its diverse manifestations. But I sensed that Torah gave life purpose and meaning, making sense of the seemingly random, anxiety-inducing events that so overwhelmed me.

I will never forget him. I will never forget the first time I walked into his room during morning report. Every surface was adorned by another bouquet. Wow that’s a lot of flowers! A blonde-haired women — the patient’s wife — slept in the chair next to the bed. I turned to my patient to introduce myself.

It was as if I were being buried alive, sinking in quicksand, unable to find my way out. That's how I felt after the birth of my sixth child. I was irritable; I cried; I was exhausted, yet had trouble sleeping. Getting through each day seemed nearly impossible. My own children avoided me; my husband tiptoed around me. I was convinced that my family and the world would be better off without me.

Did you get the medication??? The text is from my husband, his urgency expressed by the three question marks. His timing is perfect because it’s just minutes after the pharmacy delivered it. I hold the small amber-colored vial in my hand, feeling equally relieved and embarrassed. Lexapro, 10 MG. To be taken once daily. I can’t believe I’m back here, in this same humbling and humiliating place. I thought I was done with this. But once again, I’m turning to these tiny white tablets, seeking help for the anxiety that has taken over my life. I sigh deeply, hesitating, not wanting to open it.