Becoming God’s Generalized Failure
Developing Generalized Anxiety Disorder as a Christian
I sat in the waiting room, thumbing through magazine pages to distract myself from my impending doom. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help imagining the words “heart disease” in my doctor’s voice. I envisioned the operating table I’d eventually lay on and the incredible force required to crack my ribcage open.
I worried for myself a little bit, but mostly for my parents: I couldn’t bear the thought of leading my family into the nightmarish world of bloody scalpels and machines that pump yellow liquids through flesh.
“Tiffany?”
The nurse led me from my dark imagination to an exam room where I awaited my family doctor for sentencing. Sitting on the exam table’s crinkly paper, I felt myself morphing into a medical experiment as Dr. Fole appeared and stuck little pads and wires all over my chest. A moment later, he was examining the results. I held my breath.
“Well, this looks okay! It’s heart palpitations.”
“Wait, heart what!?!? Aren’t those bad??!!”
“No, no. They’re not a big deal. Here’s what I want you to do: Quit caffeine for six months, get more sleep, and relax. Okay?”
“Okay… yes… okay… So no coffee for six months, sleep more, and relax?”
“Yes. What are you doing until school starts?”
“I don’t really know yet… um…. I just got back from Croatia, and there’s not really enough time to find a job or anything, so I’ll probably just hang around at home.”
“Oh, good! So you can relax, then!”
“Yes, I can do that.”
“Great, see me in six months, then.”
“Ok.”
My stiff shoulders melted and I fully exhaled for the for the first time since the palpitations started. Unfortunately, though, Dr. Fole and I were both wrong about something.
My Puzzling New Normal
Despite my open schedule, the sunny days, and the pool in my parents’ backyard, I couldn’t relax, and rejuvenation was out of the question. Something was wrong with me besides my palpitating heart, but it was a peculiar and elusive sort of “something” — there were no words for it.
It was a cramped, constricted throat; it was tingling fingers, and a new version of breathing — shallower and somehow sharper than usual. Several times a day, I felt some mysterious chemical burst in my throat and seep into my chest with a cold burn. I couldn’t make sense of it — I didn’t feel sick — I just felt “off,” and didn’t have words to describe my symptoms. I just didn’t feel like me.
Worse than the physical anomalies was the shift in my emotions and thoughts. I was on edge constantly. Jumpy. Restless. My thoughts were disjointed. I was unable to concentrate.
What I remember of that summer between my freshman and sophomore year of college is not the events, but the feelings: I remember my nervousness as I paced across my parents’ squishy living room carpet. I remember the sleek black shine of my sister’s grand piano as I puzzled at my new state of being.
Spiritual Complications
I remember the cold tightness in my chest as my mom and I glided along the freeway to Ikea. I remember my heart pounding as I tried to convince myself that God wasn’t utterly disappointed in me for redecorating my bedroom instead of spreading the Gospel. I felt like I was failing my savior and derailing eternity for the sake of a duvet cover and curtains.
Worst of all though, my communion with God changed. Thanks to my amazing high school youth group and turmoil at home, I had a rich prayer life and a deep intimacy with my God early on in life. Late at night, I’d lay on my bed and stare at the stars from my open window as I communed with their Creator.
But that summer, although my spiritual practices and devotion remained the same, my emotional distance and ability to focus were perplexing. I couldn’t meditate on God for more than a couple minutes, and it felt forced. I tried to read the scriptures but I couldn’t concentrate — and I couldn’t figure out why or how to fix it.
I went to all the church things. I prayed and pleaded with God to restore my soul. It wasn’t a matter of spiritual highs and lows — my emotions and intellect were out of order.
Confusing Anxiety for Sin
Why did I feel so far from God? Why so hard to connect? I was desperate for answers, desperate to fix it.
Knowing nothing of anxiety disorders, I arrived at the only logical conclusion I was afforded: my unexplainable physical and psychological torment must be what “feeling convicted of sin” actually feels like. Having been taught about the distance sin creates between people and God (Is. 59:2), I searched my soul hard to dig up that deeply-rooted sin — whatever it might be.
The good news, I figured, was that repentance would return everything back to normal. I just had to figure out what I needed to repent of. Fervently I prayed, I read, I journaled, I cried out, I listened — I submitted to Him — but weeks passed by and I still came up empty. The state of peace in which I once lived was gone.
God’s Generalized Failure
For lack of a well-defined sin to repent of, I started to feel like God’s generalized failure. I felt guilty constantly.
Because I’d heard respected Christians say that “God gives us peace when we’re following His will,” I figured that I must be failing a lot.
I second-guessed my every move. The divine voice I once felt say, “You’re my daughter who is incredibly loved” somehow morphed into, “You’re a failure who is ruining eternity.”
Instead of knowing God as my gentle, powerful, compassionate Father, I felt like He was the stereotypical 1950’s dad — cold, distant, and hunkered down behind an impenetrable Sunday newspaper. All I really wanted was his approval. I wanted him to peer over his sports page and watch me do a somersault and smile at my attempt to make him proud.
But my exhausting efforts only got me tight-lipped nods of disapproval. I kept letting Him down. He’d retreat behind his newspaper again. Distant. Impossible to please. But not his fault — mine. I was quite a disappointment to my beloved Father. I had become, in some whack abyss of my anxious mind — His little failure.
Trying to Please God
Longing to make my Father proud and live in His peace, I sought out “eternally meaningful work”: You know, obvious stuff like serving others and saving souls.
Naturally, I looked to Refine, the college and career group at the church that organized the Croatia trip. Sadly, all they offered were social gatherings. I took some initiative and approached the leadership about adding some service or outreach to the events calendar.
The kind elders explained, “When people want to do service or outreach, they just do it.”
I guess I was supposed to pull a Nike and “Just do it,” but I was only 19 and didn’t have the know-how to recruit a team and start a ministry on my own. A little guidance would have been nice. The lack of it probably had to with me being a girl, and girls aren’t supposed be leaders outside of children’s or women’s ministry.
Shoulding on Myself
So I stepped away still obsessing over what I should be doing to please my Father. Somewhere in the whack abyss of my mind, God’s approval of me became contingent on… well… me, and my ‘roided out purpose-driven life.
Having failed to find or form a team to minister with, I considered venturing out solo:
Should I be evangelizing to strangers? The Apostle Paul did it, so why shouldn’t I? Is that what God’s trying to tell me to do? Will I feel better then? Will I stop hyperventilating? Will I be able to focus again?
I felt the seconds of eternity ticking by. I thought about the souls melting away because I wasn’t acting, because I clearly wasn’t following God’s will. I thought about Jesus’s call to “Go into all the world and preach the Good News to everyone” (Mk. 16:15).
I frantically asked, “Is that what He wants me to do — to go into our affluent downtown and strike up conversations with strangers about God?”
I was too paralyzed in my anxious state to even try. I decided against it. The guilt lingered. No matter what I did, how I spent my time, I “shoulded” on myself:
I should be making the most of every moment because eternity depends on it.
I should be feeling joyful. I should “rejoice in the Lord always” (Ph. 4:4).
I shouldn’t be wasting time redecorating my room. It’s just vanity. I should invest my time and energy into things of eternal value — stuff moths won’t eat and water won’t rust (Mt. 6:19).
Deep in My Bones
Underneath it all, I never bought into my newfound economy of legalism. On an intellectual level, I knew that God accepted me because — Jesus. We are saved by grace alone. Grace, not works.
Salvation cannot be earned. That’s what sets Christianity apart from other religions. But I sure felt that condemnation in my chest, in my lungs, in my palpitating heart, and mostly in the fact that I had no clue why any of it was happening.
It wasn’t until five years later, when my anxiety disorder fully onset, that I learned why all of those things were happening to me. I was experiencing the symptoms of Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
The American Psychological Association gives us hope regarding early detection: “Learning about developing symptoms, or early warning signs, and taking action can help. Early intervention can help reduce the severity of an illness. It may even be possible to delay or prevent a major mental illness altogether.”
This is good news. But it didn’t reach me in time. In fact, that summer, I was given the opposite news when my pastor firmly denounced anxiety and depressive disorders from the pulpit:
“Scripture is the only weapon needed by the faithful believer to win the fight against depression and anxiety! Believers need not look to worldly sources like secular therapy and medication!”
“Anxiety and depression are spiritual ailments that need spiritual remedy!”
He explained that anxiety is the product of not trusting God, and depression is the product of induling in self-pity instead of focusing on God.
A Call for Truth
These things are so far from True, and much Truth needs to be shared by many about what it’s really like to be a Christian (or any person, with or without faith) with mental illness. It is so nuanced and stigmatized and difficult to talk about for so many reasons. I don’t care anymore, though. So world — here’s part of my story. Peace, friends. Thanks for reading. ❤
