Many, many years ago, I was struggling with anxiety and depression. My father, with whom I was very close, died suddenly at the age of 51. That depressed me beyond words. Two years later, my cousin died of the same thing at the age of 41 - and we found out that there were other such young deaths in past generations. Long story short, there are genetic ties, which made me incredibly anxious on top of the depression.
I went to therapy, which was very difficult for me as I'd been raised to pull myself up by my bootstraps, so to speak, and we surely never talked about feelings! Even then, i continued to resist using any medication.
After almost a year of this, my psychiatrist finally asked me if I would be so reluctant to take medication if I had diabetes, or a heart condition, or ... any number of physical ailments. I said no, of course not. He pointed out that depression and anxiety are no different than other illnesses that we accept treatment through drugs for, but there is a stigma around taking something to help with anything that is considered to be a mental illness.
I started taking an antidepressant right after that. Side effects made it hard at first - many actually increase anxiety until the body gets used to them. I had to literally force myself to take it the first week or two.
After a couple of years, I stopped taking it and thought all was well. I didn't even realize I had changed until one of my daughters said, "Mom, you don't smile anymore". Yikes. Back on I went, and I now realize I'll probably take something for it for the rest of my life. It's a very small dose now, a maintenance dose if you will, but if needed, I can have it increased.
No shame. My brain doesn't make/use some of the chemicals needed, so I'm supplementing with a prescription. If that's what someone is going to judge me on, they aren't worth being part of my life anyhow.