I let go of my anxiety by letting go of my need to calm the storm

Anonymous Personal Essay | Illustration by KEARA MULVIHILL

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The winter had been long but on Easter Sunday the sun was shining and the first signs of spring were budding on the trees. For those of the Christian faith, Easter is a day for celebrating new life and hope. But when I woke up that morning, I didn’t have either. Something stole them in the early hours of the morning. What I had in their place was a panic attack. I was not OK.

My heart was racing. What triggered it was nothing more than what triggered the countless others before it-a small little fear that took control of my mind and forced my thoughts and emotions to succumb to its power. Sometimes I fought until I was too tired to restrain its hand. Other times I let it have its way.

On Easter Sunday, the fear used one of its nastiest tactics and descended upon me in those moments between sleep and wakefulness, before I could comprehend its presence. Before I could defend myself.
There was really no reason for the beast to descend upon me. I was a junior in college and my department had just nominated me for a prestigious scholarship. I had a promising new job and offers for additional internships. I was attending a church I loved. I had an adoptive family that lived just a couple of miles away. I had recently started dating a wonderfully kind and gentle man who made me as giddy as a schoolgirl.

My parents and sister had just driven up from Olympia to spend the weekend with me. They had even brought my dog. Life was good and I had no reason to believe otherwise. But the beast crept into the dark recesses of my heart to find whatever deep-seated fear it could, took its form and gave it violent life. Suddenly, a fear of rejection had teeth and claws.

I was experiencing anxiety. If I was willing to see a doctor, they would’ve most likely diagnosed it as a disorder. A pamphlet I found at a counseling center described an anxiety disorder as a condition that manifested in feeling anxious more days than not in a six-month period. I had felt more anxious than not for a year and a half.

Anxiety is the most common mental illness, according to the Anxiety and Depression Association of America. Research has found anxiety affects over 50 percent of college students, according to the American College Health Association. No cure exists for anxiety, let alone an anxiety disorder. Like any other mental illness, ways to manage it range from drugs to counseling to emotional support animals. I found running to be my best option. But neither running or any other method of anxiety management addresses its underlying cause. How could they? Anxiety is fear gone wild.

Anxiety is a predator whose hunger is never satisfied. It cannot and will not be tamed. It silently tears at you physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually until you succumb and the panic sets in. By its power, a sunny day becomes dark as night. Its fury unleashes and you lost control. Its roar sounds like every fear you’ve ever thought, every mistake you’ve ever made, every unkind word you’ve ever heard swarming around your head, like a thousand wicked bats. All rational thought leaves and tunnel vision sets in.

When the panic came, whenever possible, I ran to my room, closed the door and huddled in a fetal position on the floor. Anxiety doesn’t abide by laws of decency. It doesn’t wait to attack when I can wrestle with it alone in my room. It would rather attack when I am in class or at work, surrounded by people and responsibilities, too tired and stimulated to face it, too needed to retreat. I was too proud to admit my smiles were attempts to hide the strain in my eyes or my constant fidgeting was the only release for my racing heart. I was too ashamed to cry out for help. I pretended I was fine as the beast tore away.
Eventually, the panic passed. The release of tension in my body akin to the relief felt after vomiting. But then the process would start over and often turn an otherwise perfect day into a day I’d rather forget.

When my family and I arrived at church that Easter Sunday, I was weary. It was the first panic attack I had had in a while. In my battles against the beast, a victory was an increase in the amount of time it took to reach panic level, to succumb. I worked so hard in the previous year to overcome this beast. I started running regularly, even training for a half-marathon. I became involved in a local church and found a great community. I saw a counselor. I scheduled rest days every week. I took almost a year off dating just to allow myself to heal. The distractions worked relatively well. I’d go days or weeks without feeling particularly anxious. I’d go a month without a panic attack. I thought perhaps this war might be ending, but here I was succumbed once again to the beast’s control.

As the band began to play, my family and I stood to sing with the rest of the congregation. I was angry with God. I had pleaded with him for a year and a half to take this beast away, to set me free. As far as I was concerned, I had done my fair share of the work to make it better. Why did he let me suffer like this?

Therein lies the rub.

It is the question every human faces: Will the suffering ever end? As a race, we often attribute it to human morality; good versus bad. Some believe the suffering is the result of human error against other humans. Others believe the suffering is the result of a deity’s wrath upon the wicked. Scarier still, some believe that deity is testing us, checking to see if we’re worthy of blessing. It comes down to this: if we all did enough good then perhaps our hearts would be safe.

That Easter Sunday, safety was all I wanted. My parents’ lives had been torn apart by abuse and addiction. Their struggle to heal their own hearts wounded mine. Instability was a theme as we moved from city to city, hoping, praying for a fresh start. Whenever my daddy thought he had finally found a stable job and community, inflation priced us out of our home or economic recessions took away our income. As we moved, I tried to make friends, but often found myself bullied and alone. The rejection continued through my teens as friends betrayed me and boyfriends abandoned me.

I often hoped, prayed it was all just a season, one day it would end. I planned everything from my daily routine, to my career, to my future family. I read books and sought counsel. I strived to be the best friend, student, daughter and Christian I could be. My goal: keep anyone from finding fault in me. I believed the suffering I experienced was linked to a fault in my character or my plans, man and God had tested my worth and found me lacking.

It was those fears-relational instability, financial insecurity, rejection, condemnation-the beast hunted down. Like a virus, it took its form. It reminded, accused and laughed at me. Like any addict, I wanted an escape. But instead of turning to a bottle or pill, I turned to my planner. I was neat. I was organized. I was motivated. I maintained a 4.0 GPA. I was well liked. My work was praised by my bosses, my sainthood by my friends. No one saw the beast I was running from or the goddess of safety I was bowing to.

That Easter Sunday my family and I sang to a God I believed could’ve taken away every tear. He could have stopped the pain. He could have provided the money. He could have healed the relationships. He could have slaughtered the beast. But he didn’t.

I stood with my family, with the claws of the beast on my heart, and sang about God’s goodness. That Easter Sunday, I had a choice to make.

I professed to believe in a God that promised to make all things right one day, independent of any of my attempts at establishing peace. Either I chose to believe that or I continued to fight the beast. No other option existed. The beast fed on my hunger to be safe. If I believed one day every suffering would end, then even if all my fears came true, I’d be OK. The destruction the fear promised would never come to pass.

That Easter Sunday, as I stood beside my family, I realized we shouldn’t have been together. With the suffering my dad experienced, he shouldn’t have been alive. With the pain my mom carried, she shouldn’t have stayed. My sister shouldn’t have been as constantly happy as she was. But here they were, singing with joy. My parents were more in love than ever before. My sister and I were loved, healthy and successful.

Our family was stronger than ever.

We were OK, not because we no longer experienced pain, but because we found hope in a promise than everything would be all right one day.

That Easter Sunday, I decided if that hope was enough to heal my family, it was enough to carry me. Even if the fire still burned, the storm still raged and my world kept falling apart … I. Would. Be. OK.

That Easter Sunday the beast received a mortal wound. And as it died, I lived. It was only then that I learned the beast’s name. Control.