Anxiety. I have debated long and hard about writing this. I don't know why the Lord has called me to share through blogging, but He has, so I am trusting that He is walking through these posts with me, and helping me to express what He desires me to share. So tonight, with shaking hands, I am writing just a piece of my story, in hopes that others can find encouragement. Including myself.
As I sit here in my living room, staring at my son's deflating football balloon from his second birthday, I am at a loss for words. When something has been a part of you for so long, it's hard to know where to begin. I can't remember a time in my life that I wasn't anxious. I can't even tell you how many years I was experiencing panic attacks without even realizing there was a name for my suffering, but I know it was long enough for me to assume that it was normal to feel the way I did. It would take me so long to describe the triggers which set off my anxiety, so I will highlight what I remember most.
When I was young, it was a persistent and nagging feeling that something wasn't right. I don't think I could've described what wasn't right, but it left me hyper, overly talkative, and usually annoying to be around. As I moved into the middle school ages my anxiety became more consuming and manifested in obsessive behaviors. I can remember a phase of covering my mouth when talking to my friends because I was sure I talked in a "weird" way. I also remember always carrying cough drops because I was terrified I'd have a coughing attack at an inopportune time. The obsessiveness moved into my athletics after I heard drinking milk could give you a stomachache while running. Since I was a cross country runner, I was diligent to not have anything with milk or milk itself during cross country season, and if I accidentally did, I'd obsess over it in my mind for days, sure that something terrible was going to happen.
Moving into high school, the obsessiveness worsened. As I started to excel in cross country, I became more paranoid and started making myself go to bed at 7pm the night before races. This developed into a battle with insomnia and a reliance on Tylenol PM which probably worked more like a placebo than anything else. I would also make sure to get home from school as soon as possible so that I could eat dinner early (cause, ya know, I needed 12 hours to properly digest that dinner) and start my routine of stretching and packing my bag for the next day. I would fantasize about how wonderful I'd feel when the race was over, and console myself with the rest that would follow.
When I started getting into my adult years, I was noticing how emotionally off balance I was. During college, I would have nights that I would just cry for hours, sometimes I'd punch a wall or sometimes I would roam the streets of our small town into the late hours of the night, just hoping someone could save me from me. I felt totally paralyzed when it came to studying, sure that I would fail, anyway, and that there was no use trying. If I wasted one hour of time, I would throw in the towel and give up completely. My battle with bulimia was also at it's worst, and I would frantically binge and purge over and over as if the food could permanently console me, but as soon as I'd finish purging, I felt emptiness like I can't describe, and total powerlessness over myself. Around this time I started thinking more about God, the guy who I always claimed to know but He felt like a third cousin. Someone I knew existed, but someone I felt so disconnected to that it didn't matter He existed.
I was having trouble making phone calls, trouble answering the door, trouble going to the post office to mail a package. I can't tell you what I was afraid of, I was just afraid. I ended up failing out of college and moving in with my now in-laws. During that time I found some healing, I grew in my relationship with Christ (I believe this is when I was saved), and I made a once-and-for-all recovery from my 6 yr battle with bulimia. Sam and I got married and everything felt wonderful for awhile.
Now, as a mother to two, I still feel my anxiety. I felt it when they were newborns and I couldn't make them sleep or stop crying. I feel it when something bad could happen to them, but it doesn't, and I replay what could've happened over and over. I feel it when we've all had a hard day, and I feel like I will ruin the kids, forever. I feel it as the days get darker, earlier, and it seems as if the darkness is an entire world of it's own. Threatening to suck me in forever. I feel it when we all get sick and we're stuck at home for a week, but I'm sure we'll never get out of the house again. I feel it when I have a deep conversation with someone and can't stop analyzing my words. I feel it when I'm on a bridge because I know I won't, but I know I could jump.
I feel it, but it doesn't navigate my life and all my thoughts like it used to. I feel it, but I know that I am a child of God and that He promises He has a plan for me. I feel it, but I know He is in control so I don't need to be. I feel it, but I fight it with verses, and hymns, and prayers. I feel it, but I know I don't need to be afraid anymore.
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