Anxiety.

I thought about various other titles - ones that were not quite as straightforward, ones that seemed to sugarcoat the topic a bit.  But there it is.  Anxiety.  This post is about anxiety, and I do want to give into the guilt about writing that.

It always seemed a bit much to share on the Internet.  The last thing I wanted was more people who meant well, giving me advice via the comment section.  There is something about typing out a thought that makes us think we can say anything, without considering the consequences.  We don't have to see or hear how people on the receiving end react, and as a result, our words can come across in a million ways other than how we intended.

But if we can share our ultrasound pictures, news of a cancer diagnosis, the things that make us laugh, cry, smile, and get angry for all to see, then perhaps this story has a place too.  I am tired of the lie that you must have your life completely together, and that anything less is shameful.  I wish people reacted to mental illness in the same way they react to other illnesses, with prayers, with support, with GoFundMe accounts, with T-shirts.  That would be the true sign that the stigma has been lifted.  We still have a ways to go.

Some of you may be thinking, what is she even talking about??  I want to share a little bit about my own struggles, in the hopes that maybe someone out there needs to hear this.  That maybe someone else can read this and say to themselves, I thought I was the only one.  My friend, you are not alone.  I know that does not fix the problem, and yes, the road is painful and ridden with obstacles.  But there is hope.

When I was in college, I began to have panic attacks.  At first, I did not really know what was going on, and just attributed it to stress.  I attempted to get more sleep, exercise more, and decrease stress levels as best as I could, but my efforts were in vain.  The panic attacks intensified in frequency and quality, to the point where it became difficult to function in the most basic sense.  With the encouragement of a friend, I sought out both medical and psychological help.  Without going into the many details, the three years that followed were incredibly difficult.

I began counseling.  I had a counselor tell me that I was "hurting her heart" and she started crying during the session.  I got a new counselor.  Then it was summer so I had to get another one.  I ended up seeing 5 different individuals, each time having to start at square one, telling my story again, trying to build trust and rapport.  

Therapy alone was not helping the symptoms.  I was having panic attacks almost daily.  Performing basic tasks, like going to class or eating a meal, was becoming difficult, and the people around me were frightened and concerned.  I made the difficult decision to start medication, though I knew it would take weeks to even know if it was effective, and worse, knowing it may get worse before it gets better.  It took about 2 years to find the right drug combination that helped more than it hurt.

As the weeks turned into months, my anxiety gave way to depression.  Constantly feeling like the world was crumbling apart, night after night of panic attacks - the hyperventilating, the chest pain, the nausea, the crippling fears, the thoughts in my head telling me I was not worth it and People would be better off without me.  Eventually, I started cutting - as a physical release of the deep emotional pain.  I was becoming the person I read about in my psychology book.  I was becoming the person I just could never before understand.  I was hitting rock bottom.

In the midst of all this, I was in nursing school.  In a lot of ways, life continued on - just a double life that became almost normal.  It was an awful normal, but somehow, day after day, I trudged along.  I owe a lot of that to my friends.  Patient, loving, grace-filled friends who did not know what to do for me other than love me and be there.  It is hard to express my gratitude to those people who were there, sacrificing their own emotional energy, sleep, study time, to ensure my safety.  To ensure that I had just enough hope to propel me to the next morning.

This is the reality of mental illness.  I never thought it would be me.  Never.  And then it came into my life, and turned my world upside down.  Everything changed.

I really cannot exactly pinpoint how things got better.  It was multi-faceted, what I believe to be a combination of finishing nursing school, starting Imani, getting on medications that helped, and finding a therapist who was really good at what she did.  And the answer to the prayers of many people over a long period of time.  Over time, I no longer needed therapy or medication to function, though I know they are still available should I need them again.  I used to have so much shame about that - being on psych meds, going to therapy.  But it is the reality.  And if I ever hope to see a world without stigma, then I must do my part in being honest and open too.

Things are a lot better three years later, and I am grateful that anxiety is not a part of my daily life.  Yet it is still something I struggle with.  It did not magically disappear, and I still have to face the monster.  Sharing my story has helped.  I still have issues with guilt and shame, but each time I share about it, I take away some of their power.

For whoever needs to hear this, it is okay to not be okay.  It is okay to struggle, even if it has been the same struggle for a long time.  It does not define who you are, but it does shape who you are becoming.  God can redeem it to be a beautiful part of your story.