I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S WRONG with me.” It was about the tenth time in three months I’d sent some version of that text to my boyfriend.
![Self-care Didn't Work For My Anxiety. Medicine Did](https://magarticles.magzter.com/articles/8860/315276/5bfd47b28ac43/Self-care-Didnt-Work-For-My-Anxiety-Medicine-Did.jpg)
The time prior to this, it was 8:00 P.M. on a Saturday. I’d just binged a whole season of Criminal Minds and placed my third order on Seamless that day. I knew I should cook, but even making SpaghettiOs (my go-to depressed “meal”) was impossible. This time, on an uneventful Monday morning, I was getting ready for work, and just putting on pants felt like too much. I was sitting there, sobbing, jeans pulled halfway up my thighs, and out of options. I knew I needed to go back on my meds, but I so desperately didn’t want to.
This story is from the January 2019 edition of Glamour.
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This story is from the January 2019 edition of Glamour.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
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