The Weight Within

       The heaviness in my chest is a real weight that pushes me backward every day. It’s a game for me to count the time from when I first wake up to when I notice it. Sometimes it is mere minutes. Sometimes, graciously, it is hours. It may leave when I am distracted but it comes back. And some nights it feels strong like an elephant on my chest and I wither underneath the pressure.

       I know what day it came. It was a Saturday evening last fall and I cried so hard I made myself physically sick. I was gripped with emotional pain that burrowed deep. The next day, I felt the unusual weight creep into my system and I thought I could just run it off. No. From that day on, it hasn’t left. I drive through the winding roads, watching the world pass by in flashes of green and sky blue, existing as if everything is normal. I silently wonder if the pressure in my chest will ever leave. Is it here to stay? Is this my forever?

       The heaviness stays with me even as I read quietly in the comfort of my home. All logic says that a peace should wash over me in a quiet wave, and the stress should be carried off too. But I turn pages and maybe laugh or reflect on the author’s brilliant words; but the force hiding in my chest still feels strong like something undefeatable.

       Or I run through my neighborhood, pumping music between my ears and turning up the volume louder. I will the pain to release through my limbs. I run harder, begging it to exhale mixed with my hurried breaths and drift away from its cage within me.

It stays. 

       I breathe steadily; deep breaths that swallow the air and I wish for the calming effect to travel immediately through my body. But each breath just demands another breath. I touch my hand to the bones that chamber the weight. I touch the pressure that remains.

       Anxiety is somewhat a new thing for me. I know that I am not a severe case, that others cry beneath the weight of worse attacks that I will never know. Maybe it is better called stress, but it feels so much worse than that word encompasses. I have never been a “go with the flow” person necessarily, but I have never considered myself an anxious person or even a worrier either. This probably isn’t fair to write this while I am still struggling, but I feel it the deepest right now. So here I share, as I am still fighting in the tumultuous waves of the ocean as opposed to when I am relieved of this burden, resting on shore. And maybe you feel as if you are drowning in the ocean too. I can’t save you. But let’s tread water together.

       I think about how many trials are allowed in a lifetime? Is there a cap that is set- a limit that one person is allowed to suffer? Trials are the worries that race through your brain when the sun goes down and the house is quiet and deceitfully peaceful. Trials are embodied as physical, emotional, spiritual… painful. They last weeks, months or long, heart-breaking years.

       The weight of the trial is occasionally relieved by the healing balm of a friend’s company. Or the sensible words from the mouth of a counselor. Or a vacation that serves as a welcome distraction. But although your eyes drift away from the root problem for a few precious minutes, the pressure in your chest returns shortly. The trial is still there, waiting to steal away your thoughts and resolve.

       All the while, you wonder internally, “Am I crazy? Am I handling this right? What is normal? Do other people worry about this? How do they handle their stress? How do I learn to let go and actually trust God?”

       I do trust God. I do try and slow down. I do know all the verses about stress and anxiety. But it’s almost like a sick joke that is being played on me. All logic screams for me to work harder, try harder, learn, grow and earn and work work work. My livelihood depends on it. Bills must be paid. Goals must be achieved. The image of falling behind dances wickedly through my mind. I must improve. I must prove. This is what I am here to do. This is the task that I have been called to do. I must do it. I can’t let anyone down.

       And at the EXACT same time, my physical body cries for rest, for slowness, for peace. My wounds ache to be healed. I have looked at the trial through every lens and have tried to solve it on my own for months, and now I am exhausted. I yearn for all the craziness to just stop. I want to stop surviving and start living.

       So what voice do I listen to? What do you do when you have tried everything

 and still fall short?

The brutal truth is that the passing of time is the only sure hope of conquering the mountainous terrain of stress and trials. There is no quick fix. In the wide expanse of sun-up to sun-down, you talk with your wise friends, you cry the hot tears and you cling to your faith. And over time, all these things help you get through each day until one day you find the weight in your chest a little lighter. Your head a little clearer. And your gratitude list a little longer. Somehow, someway, God’s grace sustained you and now you are (albeit, unwillingly) a stronger person.

       In the end, I listen to the voice I trust. The voice that tells me to care for myself because no one else will. Logic will always be there. But this massive opportunity to blindly believe that God will provide no matter what life spits my way? This paradox to “rest and trust” in a shouting match with “work hard and do”? This chance is for today. For right now. For this season. If I can trust Him when NOTHING makes sense, then maybe amidst my doubt… I will start to believe the truth.