Anxiety…that bitch

She visits me at least 3 times a week, feeding me bullshit about my life that I’d really prefer not to give my attention to. Bills. Kids need shoes. Groceries. …lack. Constantly this crap is running through my mind throughout the day. My heart is racing, blood pressure rising, hormones ragingID-100182979! She’s an artist too. She paints these really elaborate pictures of all the terrible things that could happen in my life. Someone could get hurt. Someone could get sick. Our budget could go from awesome to terrible in the blink of an eye and there’d be nothing I can do about it.

That’s where I come in, with my “confessions”. Every so often I tell myself that since I believe the Bible, it only makes sense to quote it in these times of stress. It’s something I learned at a young age but only recently began to put into practice; much to no avail. Thing is I’m not the type to speak┬ásomething and believe it right away. So while I’m quoting these scriptures I’m simultaneously stretching my faith to a limit it is unable to reach. I’m pulling that thing like taffy and it won’t go! So, with my head between my legs I reluctantly make my way back to anxiety…that bitch.

Who the hell does she think she is anyway? I’m not required to stress about every hypothetical calamity am I? Who says my life is going to be terrible?! What if I actually get it right? What if God blesses me even though I don’t have the perfect faith in Him? What if he knows my heart and chooses to show me mercy, despite the fact that I curse (in my head) infrequently throughout a bad day? I think it’s quite true. I think he’s a pretty awesome God who isn’t much concerned with the perfection of my faith as much as he is with how I lead my life….and I don’t wanna toot my own horn but – aside from the occasional internal bleep – I do pretty good for myself.

downloadOnce I put down my Bible I sit on my bed and close my eyes. I picture my heavenly Daddy sitting up in heaven on his throne; his long white robe draping the floor. He sees me sitting there in despair, waiting for the dark clouds to pass, and he invites me to come sit with him; similar to how I’d pull up my children onto my lap when they’re feeling down. He pats my back lightly and kisses my forehead. “It’s going to ┬ábe alright,” he says sweetly. And even though my heavenly Daddy wouldn’t dare to repeat such a word, he assures me that “you know who” won’t be around for long. He tells me he’s going to help me get rid of her…and I say thank you, because I hate anxiety…that bitch.

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