“Have no anxiety about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.” —Philippians 4:6

It hasn’t been a good few days. I feel guilty saying that, because it’s been a great few days: I spent the weekend with some lovely and dear friends. At RCIA, we bombarded our favorite priest with difficult questions (sorry, Fr. B). But mentally, I’ve been strained. Unmotivated. Fearful.

I don’t like discussing mental health, because there’s still a stigma surrounding it. You can talk about having the flu or going into surgery or any physical ailment you want. But when it comes to illnesses of the mind, people turn away. They may be supportive, but they’re also thinking, “No big deal; just get over it.” Like St. Paul says to the Philippians, “don’t be anxious.” Thanks, Paul. I’ll get right on that.

So let’s come out with it: I have anxiety.

It’s mostly under control, but when it’s not, it’s definitely not. Like chronic physical ailments, it flares up. It’s not something to “get over,” mostly because I don’t know when it’s there. My body will sense it first, in an accelerated heart rate or an inability to breathe. (Who ever said mental illness is all in the head?) It was years before I could put a name to it, because there was “nothing wrong with me.”

But St. Paul goes on: Don’t be anxious, because God is with you. Many of the flare-ups are the result of the crushing fear of loneliness, curling into a ball and crying because there’s an unfillable emptiness inside. But. “Let your requests be made known to God.” God knows what’s up. He knows what you’re going through. Talk to Him. Even though, in the moment, I’d rather reach out to my fellow imperfect human beings. Or I’m embarrassed by my weakness and don’t want anyone, let alone God. But only He can fill that emptiness.

“Cast all your anxieties on him, for he cares about you.” —1 Peter 5:7

St. Paul had an ailment that he prayed about constantly. We don’t know what it was (some suggest cataracts), but we know he struggled with it his entire life. God never took it away from him, no matter how much he pleaded. God does this sometimes. We’re imperfect, because it proves again and again that we need Him. Where we are shattered, only He can fill the cracks. If I were happy and worry-free all the time, I wouldn’t depend on Him nearly as much. We all have some imperfection we try to fill by earthly means (food, drugs, companionship, whatever), but these are temporary fixes.

Friends have recommended therapy. I’ve tried. Several times I’ve sat on a couch in a comfortable office, listening to a serene-faced therapist suggest ways to cope with anxiety. It feels like a lie. Because no matter how deep we dig, they won’t dig deep enough to comfort me. It’s the dark part of my soul that I barely even acknowledge, because I don’t like to admit it’s there. Only God can reach it, because only He understands it (not even myself), and no human being—professional therapist or not—is going to say anything profound enough to reach that darkness. It’s there, it exists, and I don’t like it.

(This is not a jab against therapy. It is a good and admirable service; I once wanted to be a therapist myself. But like everything, it may not be for everyone.)

Remember His goodness. Remember His love. You are never truly alone. I am never alone. I may never be healed. But I get stronger with each panic attack, because He’s the one lifting me back up. The bad spells last days rather than weeks, because He guides me through them. He cares. And He loves. And He listens.

“Cast your cares upon the Lord, who will give you support. He will never allow the righteous to stumble.” —Psalm 55:23