Anxiety

It's always worse on productive days. I wake up early. I make coffee and tea and oatmeal and assemble Joe's lunch and send him off to work with kisses. I do the laundry, read emails and Facebook, play a couple computer games, and eat lunch.

I go to Costco in the afternoon to pick up groceries. At Costco I can't decide which checkout line to stand in. I might pick the wrong one, or I might get the person who forgot an item on their list so they send the employee out to get it. As soon as I pick a short-looking line, someone else swoops in front of me. Panicking, I choose the line closest to me, even though it's long. I bet people are staring, wondering why I would pick such a long line.

My heart is pounding as I run the groceries to the car. I feverishly toss them in the trunk, slam it, return the cart, and get in the car. My right leg is cramping with the anticipation of gunning the gas; every part of my body wants to get home. RIGHT NOW. I breathe and I breathe and I breathe, sometimes too fast and sometimes too slow, and all I think is, Amber, you're fine. You're fine. I'm not, but I know I have to deceive myself for now.

I pull into the driveway, pop the trunk, remove the perishable groceries only because I'll get the rest later, and close the trunk. My hand is shaking as I struggle with the key and I turn it the wrong way. What if the key doesn't work anymore? But the door falls open and I stumble inside. I dutifully put away the groceries with shaking legs, then I turn on the computer and play games for hours. My stomach closes down; I have lost my appetite completely and I skip dinner.

Joe comes home at 10 PM after being gone since 8 AM. I close my game and immediately the shaking starts again. I bounce my knee up and down to help control it. "Are you okay?" Joe asks, and I am so afraid, because my knee bouncing isn't enough. The fear is just going to spill out of me all over Joe.

"I feel nervous," I say in a wooden voice.
"Why do you feel nervous?"
"I don't know. There's no reason."

Then he hugs me and I turn into a piece of wood that can't move. It takes about a minute and then I start jerking in silent, frightened sobs that I don't understand. I hyperventilate until I'm too dizzy to stand, then I lie on the floor with my knees pulled up to my chest because otherwise, I might get hit in the stomach. I don't know why I think that.

Joe sits and worries, and I feel sad because I know he feels helpless. I am sad that Joe has to deal with me like this, after working a full day. I am also sad because this panic attack means my medicine isn't working. I hate that I'm a gasping, tearful mess on the floor, surrounded by used Kleenex.

Either the Zanax or the exhaustion finally hits, and suddenly my muscles give up. I am stone tired. My jaw can hardly move from being clenched. My head is buzzing with pain from a fresh headache. I want to enjoy the rest of the evening with my husband, but I can barely brush my teeth and fall into bed

Confession: I have an anxiety disorder. This isn't a sin, but sometimes it makes me confused and through that confusion I lose track of truth, and then I sin. I lash out at strangers; I lean on my husband instead of God; I forget that I am Yahweh's daughter and I grovel in a lack of self-worth.

I am weak. Being weak isn't a sin. Not admitting you're weak is. And that's why this is a confession.