This is the story of how anxiety became a huge part of my testimony.
How it began:
Looking back, I remember a strange feeling that came over me at seemingly random times growing up. I don’t have an exact name for it, but it was similar to listlessness and a heaviness of spirit. I couldn’t figure out why I felt this way, but it usually occurred during the summer, at times when I didn’t have a set routine, when something out of the ordinary happened, when I was suddenly expected to go somewhere without knowing ahead of time, or when I was asked to do chores without having time to mentally prepare. Generally this feeling didn’t affect my life too much.
Fast forward to high school graduation and moving away to college. Within the first week of being away from home, I suffered uncontrollable anxiety unlike anything I’d ever experienced. However, I still didn’t know that was the name for it. There was this heavy feeling in my chest that I can only describe as despair. Panic attacks came on suddenly, whether I was on my dorm room floor, hiding in a corner of the student center, or walking through the woods on campus. When I think about what caused the anxiety, I believe it was a combination of several different factors. I was definitely missing home and family. I was also very lonely, despite being surrounded by more people than ever; they were all strangers, and no one knew me or cared if I were dead or alive. I was also suffering from syllabus shock and experiencing difficulty adjusting to the required workload. I had an intense fear of failing, especially because I had tested into advanced writing and Spanish classes. There was also the constant fear of the unknown: would I ever make friends, was I where God wanted me to be, would I be able to graduate in four years? I dreaded going to class and couldn’t concentrate on homework. I also skipped meals because I didn’t want to sit alone in the cafeteria. During the panic attacks, I sobbed and rocked back and forth, sometimes pulling at my hair or trying to scratch my skin off. Sometimes calling my mom helped calm me down, but sometimes it didn’t. The panic was unbearable and came upon me several times every day. This went on for months.
I know this sounds bad, but praying didn’t help. Let me explain. When this all started, I was confident that God would take the panic away. In between classes I looked up Bible verses about comfort. During the panic attacks, I cried out to God—sometimes screamed out to him—begging him to take the pain and fear away. I would put off homework to read my Bible, searching for a cure. But as the weeks went on and I wasn’t getting better, the confidence I had that God would heal me started to slip away. I began to put up walls, guarding my heart against him because I didn’t think I could trust him anymore. I had faith, but for the first time faith seemed to fail me.
Eventually, after my first semester of college, I became used to the workload, more comfortable with constant changes, and started to make some friends. The heavy feeling in my chest started to lift, at least enough that I could function. However, it returned at the beginning of my sophomore year. At that point, I was angry that I was feeling this way. I didn’t want to, I knew I didn’t have to, but I couldn’t control it. There was a disconnect between my thoughts and my feelings. It got better within a few weeks, so I didn’t dwell on the feeling too much.
How bad it got:
That takes us to about halfway through year three when things got really bad really fast. I’ve tried to think about what was different this time. For one thing, I had been accepted into the education program, so school was taking more time and effort. In addition, I was starting to pull away from the church I had been going to because of some things they were teaching and they way certain people were treating me. I wasn’t able to see my friends very often, and I couldn’t go to Bible study because I was babysitting during that time. I think all these things contributed. My feeling of despair came back, and this time it got hold of my mind in a way it never had before. I couldn’t shut my brain off. It was constantly running theoreticals, probabilities, “what ifs”. I kept imagining my family members dying. I kept thinking about ways that I could die. Everything—education, sleep, having children—seemed pointless because soon we would all be dead. I was struggling with understanding the concept of eternity, and I was determined to figure it out. I felt connected and personally responsible for everyone on the planet, including those who have yet to be born or already have passed away. I was experiencing the world at an atomic level. I couldn’t eat or sleep, I missed classes, I was in an endless black hole. My mind strayed to suicidal thoughts. I don’t think I was ever in danger of following through with them, because I immediately could identify these thoughts as lies. It was scary and strange to not have control over my own thoughts and feelings. It was at that point when I sought medical help. For the first time, my monster was given a name: anxiety. And that was the beginning of healing.
How it got better:
I called the hospital, picked a physician at random, and made an appointment. The doctor asked me a ton of questions about the nature of my errant and overwhelming thoughts and feelings. It was hard to put words to what I was experiencing, and I half expected her to tell me that I was crazy and should just quit overthinking everything. Lord knows I’ve heard that more than once. I’ll never forgot how I felt when instead my doctor gave me a hug and told me that I wouldn’t always feel this way and that she could help me. It was the first time I felt validated, like someone really understood what I was going through. Even just the action of seeking help provided relief. After consulting with a psychiatrist at the hospital, I was prescribed a medication, Sertraline/Zoloft. Luckily for me, this first medication I was put on helped tremendously, which isn’t always the case. In a couple weeks, I was noticing that I felt lighter and looser, like I could breathe again. My brain settled down. There are a couple side effects I experience from being on this medication. I can get irritated and lose my temper easily, which is hard to deal with sometimes. I also have some jitters, like I need to be moving constantly. I think it’s worth it to not feel mentally tortured like I was before. I did some counseling with the psychiatrist; mostly it was through appointments over the phone where she gauged the effectiveness of the medication.
Something that has helped is to identify triggers. The following is a list of things that set off my anxiety and that I should be aware of and avoid if possible: isolation, inactivity, lack of daylight, overstimulation, conflict/arguments, chaos, lack of sleep, miscommunication, feeling unprepared, running late, large crowds, violence, lack of community, grief, guilt, overcommitment, and sickness.
What it’s like now:
This year, my anxiety has been tolerable for the most part. It flared up a few times due to overwhelming stress. I am especially susceptible to regression if I forget to take my medicine. I’ve had days of listlessness and a few panic attacks. My mind can convince me that my life is falling apart if someone misunderstands my intentions or what I was trying to say. Because of an emotionally damaging situation at work, I woke up every morning for several weeks with a feeling of dread. That was frustrating because I used to have a deep love for my job. When I experience anxiety, it poisons every good thing in my life.
So I’m not completely healed. I still struggle at times, and I probably always will to some extent. I might have to be on medication for anxiety my whole life. Now that I’m aware of what anxiety is and how it affects me, I have strategies to deal with it. I’ve also learned to be an open book about mental illness because people need to know what I’ve gone through. Being honest about my struggles can help others with their journey, and it also allows my friends and family to be understanding and supportive of me.
Ultimately, I have realized that I failed God, not the other way around. I held a grudge against him for years. I couldn’t even pray at times because I was so hurt, confused, and mad. I didn’t understand why he wouldn’t heal my mind. But on the other side of it, I recognize that he used medicine to heal me. Could he, in his power have worked a miracle to heal me? Yes. So why didn’t he? Probably so that I can share my experiences with others! I don’t know, but that’s good enough for me. I have learned to trust him now in a way that I never could have before when my faith was unchallenged. I truly feel that I have come to the point when I can be thankful for the hardships because of the fruit that they have produced.
What you can do:
If you struggle with your mental health, seek help. Open up to someone close to you about it. It might be the hardest thing you ever do, but it’s so worth it to experience the healing that will come. If someone you know struggles with a mental illness, know that it’s okay to not understand, but it’s not okay to not be understanding. You don’t need to know what it’s like to have a mental illness to give love, grace, and comfort. Most of us will experience a mental illness at some point in our lives. We need to share in each other’s suffering, lift each other up, and remind those around us of the hope we have.
Thanks for following along on my journey, even before my World Race begins. Your encouragement and support mean more than you know.
x Em
