Thorny Things

    *** I should probably start this out with a disclaimer, so here goes: I am not a medical professional. If you struggle with anxiety, please seek professional assistance.***

This is/was me, 2001, my senior year of high school (the other person in the picture is covered with post-its to hide his identity).

     I hate this picture. Oh, how I hate it! I am no longer that little thing who could hardly squeak out a  "thank you" to the cashier at CVS. I am no longer the girl who could not talk to someone they didn't know without my overly white skin turning to a lovely shade of hello-I'm-shy red. I am not the girl who was voted "shyest" by my senior class. Yet, I am still that girl.

     Hello, my name is Jessica and I struggle with anxiety.

     I first thought about writing this two or three weeks ago, when my anxiety levels ramped up to high. Anxiety is not fun to talk about. It's admitting something about yourself that you wished wasn't true. It's forcing yourself to look it in the face when you'd rather pretend it's not there, because most days, I can. I can pretend that I don't deal with this when my anxiety is low or not bothering me. That doesn't make it not exist, and it certainly doesn't help me deal with what has been a lifelong issue, and a very real thorn in my flesh.

     Growing up I was always told I was "quiet." If I had a quarter for every time someone told me I was "shy" or that I didn't "talk enough" (what does that even mean!?) I would be out shopping as we speak. As a kid my anxiety mostly revolved around social situations and anything that veered out of routine (please, no surprises!). What most adults considered shyness was, for me, very real fear and panic. No amount of telling me things were fine made me feel fine. No amount of speech giving in English class made it any more bearable than the last time. Each fearful scenario created just that, fear.

     For many years "fear" is the term I used to coin what I was dealing with: worry, panic, the need for order. It wasn't until I reached my adulthood, that I realized I have anxiety. That thing in me that makes me feel like I'm going to explode isn't something to just get over. It isn't a matter of simply growing out of it. It's more than that.

     For a long time, it would immediately throw me into the flight side of "flight or fight." Oddly enough, it took an extremely anxiety-ridden event to even nudge me in the fight direction, and mostly out of sheer desperation.

     After going through what had to be the most emotionally horrific experience of my life, I've learned a few things. I've learned that I have anxiety. This is important because I can put a name to what feels very similar to what Frozen's Elsa called "this swirling storm inside" (thank you, Disney). Secondly, I've learned how to start identifying what triggers my anxiety. In the past, I've been blindsided by it. It's nice to be able to anticipate. Most importantly, I've discovered tools that help me personally. They don't always work, or work perfectly, but they can help bring me back to center. This is where the fight part comes in. I can pick a tool from my emotional tool belt, practice some self care, and at least take the edge off.

     Some of these are: writing three positive things in my gratitude journal, prayer/Bible reading, laughing (cue a funny show or Pinterest's humor section), working out (endorphins!), eating a healthy meal, music, posting scriptures and positive sayings around the house, etc.

(One of the things taped on the mirror in my closet.)

     I have to be intentional. I have to decide what I'm going to do and take action, a far cry from the shy kid who would rather blend into the wallpaper. I have to go, "Okay, I don't want to get up. I want to sleep in. But I feel bleck. So I'm going to hit snooze until X time. Then I'm going to pull out my phone and read my devotional, get up, pick out something pretty, and face the day."

     Sometimes if I face it, even an inch at a time, it gives me the courage to wrestle that thing into submission. I have to pause, take three controlled breaths (because gosh golly, I feel like I can't breathe and my heart's going to pound out of my chest), turn up my Christian rock music and belt out the lyrics. I have to fight. I have to push. It's a choice. It doesn't make the yuck go away, but it condenses it into a manageable size. 

     If I had to explain anxiety to someone who doesn't deal with it, I think I would need to tell you a short story. Once, when I was in the bathroom at church, someone turned the lights out when they left. "Okay," you're saying. "So what?" I was still in there! I was in the complete dark. I had to navigate my way out the stall door and through two other doors to get out. I couldn't even see my hand in front of my face. I was a teen at the time but that made it no less scary. I could not get the door open. I was in the dark, alone. Trapped. I literally began screaming and pounding on the door (no one came) until I found a tiny key chain light in my purse that helped me see the door knob and which way to twist it. 

     Having anxiety is similar to me being in that bathroom. You're some place familiar and safe and suddenly . . . The. Lights. Go. Out. You're alone. You're trapped. You're screaming and no one can hear you. You're not thinking clearly because all you want to do is GET OUT. You calm down just enough to escape. And when you do, you're looking around to see if any one saw you act like a complete lunatic. No one did. No one cared. You're heart is pounding in your ears. And the next time you go in that bathroom, they'll be a bigger light in your purse. You'll be studying every detail about those doors and how they open, and paying attention to what everyone else in that bathroom is doing.

     I say all this, not to gain pity but to bring awareness. I want people who don't deal with anxiety to understand those who have it. More than that, I want people who have it to understand they are not alone. You are not alone! I recently read an article by Wil Wheaton (wilwheaton.net) entitled "My Name is Wil Wheaton. I live with chronic depression, and I am not ashamed." It's a little long, but worth reading. I also came across two authors who admitted to struggling with anxiety and/or depression. Upon reading these, I felt so much better. To know that others struggle with what I struggle with helps! To know that I'm not the only one whose mind can be a super highway of fears, "what-ifs," and panic brings a level of calm.

     So that's why I'm sharing today. I want others to know they are not alone. I want to face my struggle head on and say, "You will not control me!" I want to inform my self-doubt that who I am in Jesus is so much bigger than what rages inside. I am more than a conqueror. When I am weak, then I am strong! To God be the glory!

Love, J 💙