I lived with an anxiety disorder for thirty years.
Anxiety is the belief that something bad will happen, even though it rarely does. It thrives on “what ifs,” leading you to avoid situations, people, or anything that might cause pain, loss, or harm. Because, what if?
My anxiety began when I chose to travel by train instead of by plane because it felt safer.
Anxiety wasn’t happy with my one phobia. It hollered to other phobias, “Come over here. She’s open.”
In addition to airplanes, I soon avoided elevators, parking garages, any road that required me to driver on a bridge. A picture of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge struck me with the kind of heart-racing terror a swimmer feels when seeing a shark’s dorsal fin closing in.
I convinced myself that my behavior of avoiding potential danger was my special way of handling situations that other people wouldn’t understand.
However, my special ways made my world feel small. It didn’t allow for a trip to Paris or even to Astoria, Oregon where a 4.1-mile-long bridge spans the Columbia River.
I developed illnesses that doctors couldn’t diagnose, so they ran test after test in search of answers. Many were for serious diseases, and I often had to wait a week or more for the results, which only deepened my anxiety. Yet the verdict was always the same: benign. Even a gastroenterologist could find no biological cause for my symptoms. “I think there’s an emotional component,” he said.
That’s when I started to understand that my special way made me sick. I needed help.
I asked my husband, Jerry, to help me overcome my fears. He said, “Let’s pray about it.”
Jerry suggested we go to the hospital—not because I needed a doctor, but to practice riding the elevators. “We’ll just push the button and watch the doors open,” he said. “You don’t have to get on.”
I didn’t see the point, but I knew I could do that much. We drove to the hospital, and I pushed the elevator button and watched the doors open. It felt empowering to know I didn’t have to get on. After doing that several times, I realized I could probably ride up one floor if Jerry came with me. He did, and before long we were riding up and down together. The fear began to fade.
That was the beginning of my healing. It’s how anyone begins to heal from a personal struggle. Whether the struggle is fear, addiction, or childhood trauma, there is no special way around it. Left unchecked, it will control you. When I turned my grip on control over to God, a door opened and freed my heart to begin living in peace. Even while driving over a high, suspension bridge.