I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder a year and a half ago, and since then I have struggled daily to keep my life functioning at the very least. At that time, my daughter was 4 years old, already working as a freelance journalist and spent two years of the pandemic between caring for the house, daughter and work.

The first crisis was in the mall one day or another, but I remember that on the way there I already felt a little strange, restless. In the food court, the feeling of congestion was accompanied by symptoms of tachycardia, wheezing, and a sense of death. I also remember looking at my daughter and thinking about how she felt and imagined when she saw that my family was helping me.

Brazil has the world’s largest population with anxiety disorders – Credit: Pexels/ND

Since then, the first thought upon waking up has been: “Will I have another crisis like this?” and I obviously had, because that is anxiety, suffering in anticipation (by the way, in 80% of cases what is predicted does not happen), but since my glass was already full, positive thinking no longer worked.

Anyway, I sought medical help and was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder or generalized anxiety. The use of medication and weekly therapy was recommended. I confess, I was shaking, but I understood that there are times when only drugs can save. And saved.

It was in therapy that I understood the thought that persists at the beginning of a crisis, especially when I am alone with my daughter. My mind creates scenes like a helpless child who is afraid to ask for help because the mother feels bad, I pass out, and the baby is lost, not knowing what to do, and so on …

And this for me, as a mother, was (I confess, still remains) unthinkable. Because it is the mother who helps, the mother cares, protects, the mother does not want to injure her offspring. Is that not it? At least that’s how it’s been hammered into our heads, a mother must be perfect, a mother must be able to handle it, imagine a mother who has a lot of work, what a horror! So what is it…

Mental illness is still a taboo in society, the diagnosis is sort of like a certificate for a madman, I felt it myself. But every year the number of people with problems of anxiety and depression in the world is increasing.

For example, Brazil has the largest population with anxiety disorders in the world. According to the latest WHO (World Health Organization) map, 9.3% of Brazilians suffer from pathological anxiety.

According to the WHO, the Covid-19 pandemic still caused a 25 percent increase in the incidence of mental illness among the world’s population. I am part of this bet that, in addition to two years of social isolation, I still bear the entire burden of a woman / mother, unresolved issues and traumas that arise during my life.

The drug treatment lasted a year, now I keep the therapy up to date, exercise daily, do not drink coffee as before and try my best to sleep well. I began to pay more attention to the signs of the mind and body, I realized what provokes me to a crisis and now I know what to focus on so as not to pay so much attention to negative thoughts.

However, I have never been the same. The drastic changes brought about by motherhood weren’t enough, now I had a second twist in my life’s plot. Even if my therapist says that five minutes ago I’m not who I was, I suffer a little because of this.

The mother who walked with her daughter every day, even if it was on the playground, the mother who came up with various programs to study on weekdays and weekends, the mother who really enjoyed walking alone with her child, she does not exist anymore. Now I think twice before I leave home. If with a daughter, I think three. Guess what all this has to do with it? Guilt.

Despite everything, I see something positive in all this. Today I know who I am, how I work, what I want and what I don’t want, because to say “no” is a gift and most importantly: I am not a diagnosis. Anxiety doesn’t fail me. By the way, I know that a lot of what I’m aiming for comes from the flaws of a social system that produces crazy mothers, but I’m taking this up in another column.