*For When You Just Can’t*
In an effort to make myself a little accountable, and to be obedient to that Still Small Voice, I’ll be sharing excerpts from my working first draft of “Anxious With Jesus.” This is an intro to a section I’m dubbing “For When You Just Can’t.” Feedback is so, so welcome. ❤

I made it through church without a pang of anxiety. But as my husband and I ducked into our car, heading to a friend’s party, I felt it. Involuntarily, my muscles tensed. My heart skipped some beats. I felt my legs starting to burn red.
Crap. It’s coming. Why does this keep happening to me? God, help me.
My husband drove as I gazed out the open passenger window, replaying the last 20 minutes in search of a trigger. But nothing turned up. I closed my eyes and tried again. Nothing. I was just on edge, without a reason why. Since I couldn’t fight whatever subconscious thought threw me into flight or fight mode, I attacked on the physical front. I inhaled to the count of four, held it for two, and slowly exhaled for seven, then repeated the process over and over. It made my shoulder muscles melt a little. Then, I attacked the anxiety from another angle. I acknowledged and accepted its presence while yelling myself, “It’s okay that I’m feeling anxious. It’s just a feeling — I will let it have its way for the moment, and then it will leave just like it came. It’ll need up to 20 minutes to work its way out of my system, so I’ll just wait.” To my surprise, that had actually worked a few days before (which is odd, since it contradicts Cognitive Beahavioral Therapy). I told my husband, Patrick, about my anxiety. We decided to stick to our plan and go to the party: I was tired of letting anxiety call the shots, I love connecting with my humans, and I was hopeful it would fade away like it had a few days prior.
But it followed me into the party, and it refused to leave.
I did all the things that are supposed to work:
When people politely asked, “How are you?” I answered honestly: “Fine… a little anxious, though.” It’s too bad that people — espeically reglious ones — don’t really know how to respond to that.
So I laughed at this and that, tried to get past small talk to real talk, but nothing stuck.
Not sure where to perch myself and comfortable nowhere, I decided to hover awkwardly over the food table, picking away at pizza slices and hoping for some conversation to spark and distract me. But nope.
My heart was still pounding, my throat constricted, my thoughts and breaths still shallow.
I sat with people whose names I had yet to learn so that I could un-tense my spazzy muscles and count 1–2–3 as I inhaled, and 1–2–3–4–5–6 during slow exhales. My heart calmed a little. But then the pounding palpitations returned.
I tried progressive muscle relaxation,
I tried positive self-talk,
I tried prayer, again: Lord, take away this thorn… I received the same answer Paul did: “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.”
The anxiety itself wasn’t so bad in each moment. It was bearable. But apparently, it compounds. By the time Patrick and I finally buckled our seatbelts two hours later to drive home, I teared up. Not because I was full of worry or dread. Not because I wasn’t trusting Jesus. But because I was stuck — I was harrassed by my own body, my own brain. For two hours, joy and fellowship taunted me — I was an outsider looking in — it was just beyond my reach. All I could do was feel my pounding palpitations, my restlessness, my muscle tension, my inability to focus, my strangely shallow breaths. Add those together, and I just felt awkward. I was hijacked, and yet no one could see it. That’s the crazy thing about this disorder — rarely is it visible on the surface. I appeared perfectly fine.
When I got home, I couldn’t collapse fast enough. I swooped my journal from the coffee table, floated upstairs, and chucked myself onto our guest bed — crumpled, crying, and useless, like some soggy, balled-up piece of tissue. Anxiety did it to me — my own body turned on me. The desperate tears started to run wild.
I’m usually not one to ask God, “Why?” but that afternoon, I did:
Why do I have to be the one at the party with the crazy insides?
Why does my heart need to pound so hard?
Why must I stand by and listen to exhaustion pounding itself into my atria and ventricles and vessels and arteries? In ten years, my cardiovascular system will surely be spent. I’m going to die early because of this — because of this stupid, incurable plague.
Why can’t I just get over it?
Why can’t I always live in the resurrection?
I guess this is some of the death — for now, we carry both.
Why am I even anxious anyway?
What I learned in CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) feels futile now — pointless — because my body’s gonna do what it’s gonna do.
It’s been three intense hours. I’m supposed to feel better by now, and because I don’t,
I never will.
I am an utter failure. I let You down, God. What good am I? Why can’t I just get over this? Is this my fault? Ugh, I’m so sorry, God.
Cue the chest-chokes: I collapse at His feet. I cry. Hysterical isn’t a wrong adjective. My heaving chest and my wet, reddening eyes cry out to Him. The Holy Spirit, beyond words, tells Him I’m exhausted. And even though no one else understands, He does, and He soothes my soul with His Truth. and as always, His presence — it comforts me.
I tell Alexa to play the songs that sooth my soul: Lately it’s been Mumford and Sons’ “There Will Be Time” and Brave Saint Saturn’s “Gloria,” “Daylight,” and “Invictus.”
This section [of my book in progress, “Clinically Anxious with Jesus”] is dedicated to that moment. This section is the consolations and the Truths that Jesus has given me to keep me going — for when the pain is hard to bear.
I’ve had great months that have been almost anxiety-free. But I’ve also had horrible weeks that compound into tough months. For those bad days and weeks and months when it feels like anxiety has taken over, I need Truth, badly, because anxiety obscures it, and like Jesus says, the Truth is what sets us free. Being knowingly trapped by lies day after day gets depressing. It kills hope; it stabs the spirit. So I’m devoting this section to reminding us of what is True. I hope I end up with something that refreshes our souls with hope, truth, and most importantly, nearness to Jesus Christ.
