For months, the Zoloft prescription sat on my desk gathering dust. I didn’t need it. I stubbornly thought I could beat my anxiety disorder without it. I didn’t want to break down and have to go on medication. Month after month I valiantly battled anxiety. I read books, talked to friends, prayed, binged on worship, and refused the help my doctor had offered.

Finally, declaring defeat. I broke down. I filled the prescription.

I will never forget how ashamed and weak I felt. I could preach on a stage, but I could not pack for a vacation without my heart racing. I could film videos and mentor young women, but I couldn’t potty the dog without a mental Everest.

What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I be normal?

We berate ourselves up with the “Why can’t I just…?” questions. Why can’t I get past this impenetrable grief? Why can’t I be happy with my appearance? Why can’t I just lose these last 15 pounds of baby weight?

I felt like such a failure. I had to stoop so low to take medication just to make it through my day.

A few days later, I confessed to my speaking mentor, Susan Ely, that I decided to “break down” and fill the prescription my doctor gave me. I will never forget, sitting in my car in the parking lot in front of the cleaners, when she replied:

“Perhaps, Lisa, instead of breaking down, you are reaching up for help.”

Perspective is everything, isn’t it? I viewed myself as a failure who couldn’t defeat a mental illness on my own. My wise friend Susan viewed me as someone brave enough to reach out and ask for help.

When Adam and Eve sinned in the Garden of Eden, the sin of pride entered the world. And pride has kept humans from asking for help for millennia.

Before we had GPS on our phones, I know you knew a man who refused to stop and ask for directions when he was lost. Just sayin.’

Asking for help seems like weakness, like we aren’t smart enough or strong enough or brave enough to leap over life’s hurdles in our own strength.

After two years on medication, and feeling great, I found myself at another crossroads. After an intense period of travel, helping family, and seminary, anxiety got the best of me again. My heart raced even when I was doing those things that are relaxing and enjoyable, like making note cards or creating garden art.

Once again, I needed help. I had toyed with the idea of finding a therapist for months, but my pride, my stubborn human mantra of “I can do it all by myself” prevented me from reaching up for help.

It took a slap in the face to provoke me to action.  In a moment when I was really struggling, I was confronted with someone’s sincere belief that people had anxiety because they did not trust Jesus.  I think because stress and anxiety and fear are often lumped together, many people don’t differentiate between “anxiety” and “anxiety disorder.”

There is a difference between stress before you take a test (which can be called anxiety) and a debilitating mental disorder, also called anxiety, which prevents you from doing simply, daily tasks.

As a result of this confusion, many believe that if those of us who struggle with anxiety had more faith, we would be okay.  In lots of life’s situations, we believe that problems will go away if those who are struggling would try harder.  The depressed are encouraged to choose joy.  Those who are poor are encouraged to count their blessings.  The anxious are told to just trust Jesus.  And these are all good things to do, but when you are in a pit, being told to “just try harder” can feel counterproductive.

In reality, NO ONE KNEW just how hard I was trying to function.  My response to the equating of anxiety with faithlessness was to cry my eyes out and take to my bed for hours.  I was trying so hard hard and I was exhausted.  The enemy heaped condemnation on me and I just wanted to give up.  Thoughts of suicide crossed my mind, and that scared me. To be victorious in this battle, I conceded that I needed more help.

The next day I made an appointment with a therapist.

I reached up for help. And this time, instead of feeling like an overpowered failure of a person, I was so proud of myself…proud of myself for being brave enough to admit my weakness and ask for help.

I defeated pride and independence and reached out to another human who could help me.

I literally gave myself a pat on the back.

What about you – are there areas where you need to reach up for help?

Do you need to let some friends know about your struggle with suicidal thoughts?
Can you call your pastor and ask him or her to pray for your debilitating depression?
Can you make an appointment with your doctor to talk about your own struggle with anxiety disorder?

Wherever you need help, it is not a sign of defeat or weakness or failure to ask for it. Rather, asking for a help is an act of brave humility, a confession that these human bodies and minds that we inhabit are frail and imperfect and broken.

I know that ultimately, my hope is in God to heal me, but if He chooses medications and a therapist, who am I to argue?

Blindly,
boldly, and
bravely I follow His leading.
Not a failure.
But a wise woman who knows when to ask for help.

It’s been three months since I made that important phone call to see a therapist.  Although my life is not completely anxiety-free, I am having so many more good days than bad days.

All because I humbled myself and reached up for help.

Where do you need help today, my friend? Be brave, and ask for it. I’m right there with you.

If you want to know more about this journey of mine, enjoy this video that I made about it:

PS If you enjoyed reading this or it helped you, please take the time to comment, share, and spread the joy. Your comments and shares are very important to my ministry to struggling women. Thanks in advance. 

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