Drawing Back the Curtains on Anxiety

The cats woke me up ravenously meowing for food as if they’d never been fed. The cats always wake me up, just about four am every day. I don’t bother putting my glasses on before shuffling downstairs to the kitchen because I know that I can do without and because I know that if I can actually see, I’ll have a harder time falling back asleep for my last two hours of rest. I placate the beasts and am just pulling the single sheet back over my body when I realize that the center of my head is a knot of pain. When I had gone to bed the night before there was just the slightest inkling of foreboding and now that inkling has exploded into full blown realization.  Normally, when I encounter a headache, the way I cope with it is to relax myself as I were going to sleep, as if I could just lose consciousness. Now however, I am only filled with pain. My skin is sweaty. I worry that my forehead is warm. Can I take medication this early in the morning? On an empty stomach? What will its results be? Am I just going to vomit the medication right back up?

The ocean waves that I listen to get to sleep are still droning away from my tablet but they bring no comfort behind the wall of panic. In the darkness my sleep-addled brain plays out a dozen sickening scenarios none of which lasting long enough to stand up to reason but potent enough to cause me to start shifting my body spasmodically as if finding comfort in the friction. My breath comes out in frantic spurts even though I am aware that I need to be taking deep breathes. I mutter to myself phrases like “I should be able to handle this” and once or twice beat my fists into my thighs out of frustration because I know that this is not simply a headache but rather anxiety causing my body to writhe and rave. I know it and still I struggle. My lips form themselves into a pained pucker and I feel the unwelcome twinge at the back of my cheeks. I gasp, as much as to prevent myself from vomiting as it to fill my lungs. I feel the water with which I washed down the pills vividly in my stomach. Though my wife lies next to me I am alone in the darkness, yet I still want to escape, to run away, as far as I can go.

There is no reason.

There is no pursuit of facts.

Oh, there is part of my mind that knows the truth:

-          This is just a small headache

-          The AC was out at work last night and I didn’t drink much water.

-          The headache is likely simply from a lack of water.

-          The darkness of the room makes my mind focus on the fear.

-          If I just turned on the light or put on my glasses and breathed deeply the anxiety and nausea would pass in time.

-          Headache medication doesn’t care if you’re asleep or awake.

All of it is like a voice calling out on a distant seashore overshadowed by the agitated waves.

None of this is new.

I know all the methods and techniques and yet every once and a while, often in the dark of night, the surge of anxiety blinds me to reason and prayer.

If I’m honest, as a Christian I am doubly troubled. I know the joy and healing that comes through Christ. I know that that healing doesn’t guarantee a life free from trouble but that joy and help will be found in the midst of a broken and fallen world. The joy is that in the midst of our suffering Christ meets us. I know that the New Testament authors said that we should cast our cares on the Lord and that we should be anxious in nothing but make our requests known to God. Yet in the suffocating darkness, none of it seems intelligible. Only darkness, fear, pain, and yes, shame, shame in knowing the proper methods and the Truth of Scripture but not being able to grasp and apply them.

At the same time, I cannot simply chalk it up to calling it a ‘sickness’ as if I have no role in its appearance or longevity. To do so simply abdicates my own responsibility in battling it and ultimately seeks to paint myself as the pitiful victim in the throes of anxiety. That pity might bring shallow comfort but it is not ultimately helpful.

There’s a level at which anxiety will always be something that happens to me AND something that I contribute to and perpetuate. A lesson that I learned long ago (yet still struggle to appropriate) is that through the power of Christ and through proper techniques I can control the length of such attacks. That is my responsibility. Anxiety is not a banner to be waved to elicit pity from others but, like everything else, it is an opportunity for Christ to be glorified.

So we strive and struggle.

We struggle to apply what we’ve learned.

We struggle to look past the darkness (both literal and figurative).

We breathe the best we are able.

Please understand that I don’t write this to draw pity but to accomplish three things:

1.       Acknowledge that Christians struggle with anxiety (even if we don’t talk about it)

2.       Encourage myself and others to persist in the battle and to seek the Spirit of God in the midst of the fight.

3.       Help others understand what their friends or family might be going through.