In the Face of Anxiety

I feel very out of place.

All of the other students – 5 of them, 3 girls and 2 young men – sit across the waiting room in lounge chairs. They all look either unconcerned or absent-minded as they stare at their smart phones. I remain alone, in a row of chairs outside the double-door opening through the middle of the room, staying as far away from them as I can.

Both of the men are called back relatively quickly, one at a time. The first one disappears out the nearly opaque glass door with a woman in her mid 40’s, the second with a man who looks like he’s in his late 30’s.

I look back down at my phone, trying to ignore the fact that even though everyone here has some sort of important reason, I feel like the only one who can’t handle life.

I know that’s not true. But it feels like it.

-- I’m going to die.

The anxious notion hits me and I pull my knees up in the chair and wrap my arms around them.

-- Cassian. Your life belongs to the King.

“Uh, Miss Cassian?”

Hearing my name, I look up. A man who looks about 65 is waiting for me in the open doorway.

“Here,” I say, picking up my backpack and slinging it across my shoulder.

“My name is George*,” he says when we’re out in the hallway.

“Cassian,” I answer, offering a hand for him to shake.

“So, I read your form with the basics about why you’re here,” he says once we’re in his office. “I’m hoping that you’ll fill me in on all the details.”

And so I begin telling him the crazy past two weeks of my life…

See, I’ve been having panic and anxiety attacks for the past two weeks.

The first one that started it all came during one of my classes a few Fridays ago. It was the worst panic attack I’d ever had, and is still worse than any of them since them. My head buzzed. My thoughts jumped up and down and for the life of me I couldn’t make complete thought trains. My heart raced faster than it does after a long, hard soccer game. I think I was shaking. The edges of my vision started blurring and I knew I was about to loose consciousness. But somehow above all that, above even the lost trains of thought, I “knew” I was about to die.

That’s a sobering thought.

Since then, the panic attacks have been lesser, but they’ve kept coming.

One of them ended with me curled in a ball on my bed, cheeks stained with dark mascara-tears. One day I almost didn’t get on the bus to go to school, because my anxious thoughts were working to convince me that the bus was going to crash. One morning my roommates were talking about bacterial meningitis symptoms, and I burst into tears for “no” reason.

Back in the softly lit counseling room, George prompts about my past experiences with anxiety. As I’m talking, he asks questions, and memories from nearly my whole life begin trickling into my mind.

Last fall I had several long weeks of anxiety, prompted by school, the way a few different guys were treating me, scaring me, and playing games with me, and, of course, major sleep deprivation (ugh, college).

I realize now that I had anxiety problems during high school, even though I thought that it was depression at the time.

Until I was 12 or 13, I hated leaving my parents’ side in public, because I was convinced that I would get lost and left. (That doesn’t reflect on my parents, by the way. I didn’t say much about it when I was younger because I knew with my mind they would never leave me, so it felt silly that that knowledge never translated to my emotions.)

I remember a specific time when I was 7 or 8 and freaking out during a science class. The instructor was talking about liquid nitrogen and how if he stuck his fingers in it, they would freeze and probably fall off (or something like that). I couldn’t deal with the thought of him having black and/or blue fingers like that, and started crying.

George and I talk for a while longer, he points out a few things about my personality, asks to see me after Thanksgiving, and then I leave.

My visit with George was on Thursday. As I’m writing this, it’s Saturday, two days later. I haven’t really gotten to talk to anyone about a lot of the things I’ve started to realize about my life, even though I’ve really needed to with a few of my closest friends in particular. It’s not their fault; it’s that point in the semester when everyone’s overwhelmed with school, has their mind on the holidays, and I’m scared to ask them to sit with me and listen. So writing – writing is good.

I’ve realized two things about me, and God has revolutionized my thoughts on living life.

The first thing is this:

I’m highly empathetic.

I’ve never seen it in me before because I don’t respond out of sympathy very readily. I feel really bad about it sometimes; I’ll be in a discipleship meeting, a girl will be pouring out her heart and talking about a hardship she’s in, and I won’t feel “sorry” for her, or feel whatever quantifiable emotion describes sympathy. Actually, if anything external, I’ll try and help fix or mend the hardship (apparently most people – especially girls! – don’t like that, by the way). People seem to see sympathy and equate it with compassion. Because sympathy isn’t a strong thing for me, it would seem like compassion isn’t either.

I think that that’s not the full truth about compassion. The reality is that my heart is so with her that I myself am feeling the emotions she’s feeling or that I would feel in the situation. My heart breaks when hers breaks.

Taking on emotions from others is a natural thing for me.

That’s a hard place to be in. Slowly, I’m learning that my whole life my heart is going to be broken daily, and that God will always be there to pick up the pieces and put them back together in a shape that is slowly looking more and more life Him every time it’s reassembled.

The second thing is harder to quantify:

“Do you think you’re more prone to anxiety when you don’t feel safe?”

The question George asked is still running around and around and around in my mind while I work through my thoughts and feelings on the manner.

The short answer: yes.

The long answer: I’m still realizing the extent of how deeply it runs.

A boy in high school taught me that guys aren’t safe. The girl who bullied me taught me that girls aren’t safe. A bus feels unsafe because it might crash. Friendships aren’t safe because I’ll love the person with passion and depth, and they’ll walk away from me. Showing compassion to people isn’t safe because they might respond harshly to me. Life isn’t safe because there are so many things that can claim my life so quickly and so easily.

And slowly, as I thought about safety and how it plays into my life, God spoke more deeply with each passing emotion.

He began revolutionizing my view on life.

I have huge enthusiasm for life. I love being alive. More than that, I love walking with Jesus in life. The fear of dying hit me so strongly because the truth is that I’m not ready to die. I’m holding on to my own life, with the conviction (whether right or misplaced) that God still has more work for me to do. I’m also holding on with the things I still want to do. I still want a degree and a job. I still want to get married. I still want a family. I still want a long life.

I’m not about to speak against wanting any of that, but I think we all need a perspective shift.

Existing in the face of death (real or perceived) will change you.

It’s changing me.

Suddenly I realize the intensity of the truth that I’m depending on the grace of God for every breath I breathe. He’s beautiful and loving and pours out life on me, and in return asks only that I live for Him.

If I were truly about to die, would I go out glorifying His name?

If my days were numbered, would I have loved enough? Had a heart compassionate enough to tell people about the Best Person? Sacrificed enough to produce disciples of Christ with hearts filled with passion to carry on the Good Work?

Life on earth is so temporary.

God is eternal.

I want to spend every moment that I’ve been given with one thought: giving it back to Jesus.

*Name has been changed