Anxiety

The other night, after about two hours of sleep, I awoke with a nagging, uncomfortable dread that I have come to know all too well. Since the age of 20, I have suffered from the occasional panic attack. In the beginning, they were mild and infrequent, but as time went on they became a common occurrence and yet each seemed, to me, more scary than the last. I visited the Emergency Room three times over as many years, convinced each time that I was having a heart attack. EKGs and chest x-rays revealed nothing despite searing pain in my chest and shortness of breath. By the time I reached 30, having several attacks a week was not uncommon. It is almost as if there are two voices in my head during these times. One insisting, "Everything is fine, we've been through this before, just breathe." and the other screaming, "WE ARE DYING!!!". AT times, these attacks became so debilitating that I didn't want to get out of bed. I have prayed over this so much over the years. I could not wrap my mind around the fact that I believed in and trusted God who allows me to give Him all of my worries and cares and yet, I was not ABLE to give Him this. I know that worry and stress are useless (Luke 12:25), so why did this consume me? Why, with all of the things that I gave to Him during the day, could I not also give Him this anxiety that seemed to have no real cause?

After some time, I found that my dad and his mother have also dealt with these same symptoms for most of their lives. While it helped to see this as a genetic problem, it still brought me no closer to understanding.

Late last year, I began seeing a new doctor. The same one who treats my dad. He prescribed medication that has decreased the frequency of the attacks, though, as tonight is evidence, it has not stopped them completely. This medication also brought with it another problem. I became concerned that I was leaning on medication when I should have been leaning on my Lord. No matter how much I prayed over this, I could not figure out what this meant for my life.

Thankfully, my dear Kenya helped me to put things in perspective. Obviously, if I had a broken arm I would see a doctor to repair and set it. While I would certainly pray that God would help me to heal, no one I know would think it wrong to seek medical attention in this situation. The difference, I think, comes with the stigma of mental disorders.

Having spent so much of my life working with foster children, I am no stranger to the varied and terrible effect the mind can have on the rest of the body and I can attest that we, as a society, tend to be afraid of anything we do not understand and we are FAR from understanding the diseases of the mind.

But God isn't. He knows everything there is to know and He certainly knows that my anxiety disorder is no sign of my lack of faith in and dependence on Him. He gave man the knowledge and ability to create medical treatments. In 1 Timothy 5:23 (NIV), Paul encourages the young Timothy to "take a little wine because of your stomach and frequent illnesses". In their time, water was certainly anything but pure and water-borne illness was rampant. It is not to be missed that Paul was sure to include the word "little" here; he was absolutely not advocating that Timothy depend solely on the wine. Is that so different from my medication? If this helps me to focus myself, sleep better, be a better wife and mother and, in the end, be able to live my life the way God would want me to. As with Timothy, it cannot become my crutch or addiction, but it can be a tool that God has provided me so that I can better live for Him.