OCD: Mind-Weary

a tiny glimpse inside an invisible battle

Thank God, no one threw up last night. What if one of the boys does today? What if we have a stomach bug? I know _____ has it. We probably picked it up too. What if I walk in to find vomit in his room? He coughed last night in his sleep, what if he threw up? We’ve not been hit with the stomach bug yet—surely it will happen soon. What if I throw this meal up? What if one of the boys throws up in the car? That car is probably pulled over because they’re sick. Don’t look at it. He says his belly hurts. What if he has a stomach bug? What if he throws up at the store? His hands are in his mouth after touching that cart. It might have norovirus on it. It will get on my hands and my phone and the carseat and the steering wheel and the doorknob and our clothes. Nothing is safe. They drank after each other. We probably have a stomach virus. He’s not as hungry today. Is he feeling ok? What if he has a stomach bug? His belly hurts again. What if he throws up? Is this ham still good? What if it makes me sick? What if he throws up during nap time? My stomach feels weird. What if I’m sick? It’s been years since I threw up—it has to happen soon. What if there’s e coli on this chicken? What if I didn’t wash my hands well enough to get it off or I don’t cook it correctly to kill it? Romaine lettuce is often a culprit for food poisoning. This might make us sick. I love this snack. I hope I don’t throw this up tonight. The kids are in bed. What if one of them wakes up sick in the night? What if they have a stomach bug?

Every day, I am at war. You wouldn’t know it if you passed me in Target or sat next to me at church, but I am in a war for my mind, my sanity, my peace. I awake groggy to immediate assaults. From the moment my eyes open until I finally find rest at night, I am assailed. If I awake in the night, they find me there. Even my dreams are intruded upon. I am mind-weary, mentally exhausted, spiritually fatigued. 

There are images too, from my past memories and of others who have shared their sickness stories with me (please, I beg you not to). Sounds and sights fly into my mind like darts from an enemy. I cannot for the life of me bring into words this struggle, this fear, this horrible phobia that torments me—how I’m scared to leave the house, touch doorknobs, host play dates. Sometimes, it’s like I’m a branch frozen in solid ice in a never-ending winter. I fear I might snap.

Because the thoughts are always there, haunting me, reminding me that at any minute my fear could become reality. And it will, one day. Because you can’t hide from sickness. But I try.

It feels like I’m hiding under my bed, breath ragged, looking at the boots of an intruder, waiting for them to grab my feet and pull me from safety. Except, I’m not safe under the bed either, not truly. Because fear itself haunts me. It hovers over my heart with a darkness that seeks to steal all the joy from my life—the laughter of my children, the sweetness of my marriage, the joy of friendship, communion with God. This is the hardest fight of my life, and it’s an invisible one.

They tell me it’s due to childhood trauma, and I believe them. But I have so many questions. Like, why? Why did my brain break because of circumstances I had no control over? Why do I have to live with the consequences of the actions of others? Why did God allow this? Why won’t he take it away—free me of it? I know he can.

I don’t have the answers to these questions. But of this I am certain—I do have the God who carries me through them. He is the God who holds me as I shake in terror, who draws near to me when I weep over my broken mind, and who will never leave me alone in my questioning and every fight against unbelief. He’s the God who shows me through his Word that he can be trusted—that even this will be used for my good. He’s my Savior who suffered on my behalf that all my suffering would be rendered momentary in light of the glory that awaits. But when it doesn’t feel momentary—when it feels unending and unrelenting—he sustains my faith. When I am weary, and I am so often weary, he is strong, holding me up in the battle and fighting on my behalf. 

In this hope I stand: Though my mind was broken long ago by tragedy, God has saved me and he will cling to me every day until I see him face-to-face. His love for me (for you, if you are in Christ) is unending. His pursuit, unrelenting. 

Fear
is hunting and
haunting and
hating you with red-hot hatred.
You hide,
watching from under the bed, this intruder,
this joy-thief,
this monster,
whose boots tap, tap, tap, across the floor of your mind.
Hand over mouth, you brace yourself.
“I don’t want to be alive like this, Lord. Not like this.”
You run.

But Love,
Love’s pursuit of you is even more relentless
than your anxiety.
Love slipped on flesh,
put on “boots,”
and ran after you.
Tap, tap, tap—and suddenly,
you’re caught.
You still hear fear’s panting, but
you’re carried.

---

ICYMI
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