Broken Human Reality

I ate shrimp on Monday
and I didn't die
and this is a big deal because I have avoiding shellfish for years
because I've been standing in solidarity with my grandmother who is allergic to shellfish
and I've been living in the anxiety instilled in me by a friend who also has become allergic to
both shellfish and mushrooms...

A little over two years ago, I began having panic attacks when I ate.
At the time, I didn't know what was happening.
All I knew was that I was afraid to eat for fear that my throat would close up and I couldn't be able to breathe.
After a month of living with this fear and cutting out about half of the foods I ate because so many were attached to that feeling of
tongue swelling, throat closing, chest hurting, head floating, skin sweating, and lungs gasping,
I went to the doctor.
I was convinced that I, like my friend, had suddenly become allergic to shellfish, mushrooms, and most of the rest of the food in the world.

After sitting with the doctor and sobbing for ten minutes,
I was relieved when she kindly looked at me and said,
"1) Let's change your acid reflux medicine because sometimes reflux can cause things to feel weird in your throat.
2) I'm not sure that you're actually allergic to any foods, but let's do a food allergy test to make sure.
3) We need to adjust your anxiety medication. I think it's stopped working! It sounds like you've been having panic attacks and those are horrible. So until the new meds get into your system, I'm going to give you something to take when you start to feel like this again. It should act immediately to calm you down."

I've not yet had to take that emergency medicine.
I hope that I never will.
Just being able to name what was happening as panic attacks--
being able to speak it out loud and have someone carry the weight with me--
has helped me be able to talk myself through them when they start to happen:
whether it be while eating alone, eating in crowds of people, eating with individuals for the first time,
walking through large crowds of people, walking through the mall alone, singing or playing an instrument with a group, or any other time I've ever felt those feelings of getting ready to die.

Looking back, I realize that I've had panic attacks
(some minor, some more severe)
for over half of my life.

Am I proud of this fact? No.
Is it difficult to admit that I'm on medication for anxiety--that when I don't have medication in my system my brain chemicals flow out of control, irrational fear and worry seize my mind, and depression begins to creep into my soul? Yes.
Is this embarrassing for a recovering, people-pleasing perfectionist who places her faith in a God she believes not to be a God of worry and fear? Absolutely.

And yet.
This is my broken, human reality.
And I'm okay.

Actually,
I'm more than okay:
I am created in God's image,
and I was deemed good, though far from complete,
and I am chosen and dearly loved,
and so are you, my friend--
so are you.