The Prison of Anxiety 

I have battled with anxiety for offially 3 years. If I’m being honest with myself, probably my whole life. Anxiety looks different on everyone, but for me, it masquerades as perfectionism. Perfectionism is my prison. When I was younger, perfectionism drove me to be better. The only trigger toward panic would be others biting comments of “you think you’re so perfect.” Actually, I don’t; that’s the problem. Flaws grit at me like nails on a chalkboard. The trigger has only worsened with age. The trigger has led me to react harshly and critically toward the people closest to me. Sometimes it’s easier to avoid others just so that I don’t have to see their imperfections (but mostly so that they don’t see mine). So I isolate myself to avoid my social ineptitude. But the isolation is lonely, and makes the depressive part of anxiety so much worse. 

It’s a tough and seemingly endless battle. I cry that I hate going through it alone. But it’s my reclusive reaction, not others, that is making me do this alone.  

I’m so grateful of the blessed hope (eternal hope) that this is not going to last an eternity. I am thankful that I can cast my anxiety at the feet of Jesus, because he cares for me. I am glad that joy will come in the morning. 

My prayer is that the joy will come this side of Heaven. But until then, I think I finally recognize this battle belongs to the Lord. I just need to be faithful to him, and let him take care of the rest.

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