I gave it a name. Anxiety.
All the better to introduce it to people.
Hi, you might remember, Anxiety, you met that time. No, I’m fine. I’m fine.
Anxiety had a problem, I was fine.
Anxiety was a person, living in me. Anxiety was sick but not me, not me.

Eventually I decided to fight. I would prise its fingers from my neck, one by one by one. I set my heart against it and expected it to run. I trusted the power of my own will, the very will whose choices helped it grow. Anxiety is a liar I know. I repeated back its lies and claimed them as my own: I was winning, I was well, I could fight me by myself.

I knew I needed to talk to someone. About me, anxiety whispered through my brain. The only thing that matters is me. I would finally find community. I would build that community on anxiety. So we met when we were able and shared new ideas for how to treat anxiety. How to wash anxiety. How to clothe anxiety. And we had each other, so long as we had anxiety.

Before all this, I didn’t have anxiety – no, I felt sure I had discernment. Every anxious thought was an insight. I wasn’t an overthinker. I was a protector. I was fine. I was steady. I was fine. I was steady.

Anxiety is not the god of me, I said. I chanted it. I wrote it on my doorposts and wore it on my wrists. I read it out of books and sung it once a week at the top of my voice. I tried to replace anxiety with busyness. Or hobbies and interests. Or love. But you can’t replace a part of you with love – love always asks for more. He doesn’t even ask.

You see, Love was a person living in me. In me but not me.

He didn’t nod when I explained to Him every anxious thought. It’s not that He didn’t care or didn’t listen to my prayer. His silence said my worry didn’t matter, His words said I did. His Truth, the love of love, separated the parts of me bone from marrow, word from sound, life from blood.

Sometimes I look away. Sink like Peter. Run like Lot. Hide like Jonah.

But He gave me a name. And it wasn’t Anxiety.