Making Peace.

There are several reasons I'm writing this, but the two worth mentioning are these:
1. I feel like I'm at a point of processing where I am ready for the panic to stop and the healing to begin. 2. Maybe those of you reading can relate or share words of healing from your own experiences. I have spoken bits and pieces of this to some of you, but I decided it was time to process it all at once. For so long I've been afraid to say it all because it scares me so much. But I'm about to be a counselor, and I'm about to get married, and it's time to deal with my crap. And I tell people all the time that there is beauty and power in owning our issues. So let's jump in: spiritual abuse.
Those two words don't go together often. Mostly because we don't talk about it. And to say that I've been through it may seem like a hefty declaration. But my journey has led me to the conclusion that yes, I was spiritually abused. Me and many others in the youth group I entered at the age of 12. I am saddened by the fact that we are not able to talk about it together, but if any of you are reading this, maybe you'll remember.
At the same time, I also have to throw in anxiety. I've been an anxious person for as long as I can remember. And putting all of this together leaves me with the old chicken-or-the-egg question: was I predisposed to anxiety and the spiritual issues have made it worse? Or did the spiritual issues urge me toward anxiety? 
Not important now, but my guess is a bit of both.
I grew up being taught about God, about His love, about Jesus and salvation. I didn't grow up learning a lot about discipleship and how to live in the Kingdom of God here and now. I accepted Jesus at a young age and spent the subsequent years panicking, crying every summer at camp, overcome by the fear that I hadn't said the prayer right or that I would somehow end up in hell anyway. I was an intelligent kid, which meant accepting something so other-worldly and unknown extremely difficult. I believed it was true, but I wasn't sure it had worked. I didn't know anything about the person of Jesus or what life was about - all I knew was that if I didn't say the prayer right I was going to hell and that was that. I also had this distinct feeling that Jesus didn't really like me - because otherwise, why would I have all this fear? If He is all-powerful, why doesn't He just take it away?
I think the obsession happened because heaven and hell was all we ever talked about. I wasn't taught how to study the Bible (we memorized plenty of scripture for competition). I wasn't taught how to serve (missions was considered a very high calling for a select few). I just went to church every Sunday and Wednesday where people sang about heaven and I would either panic about not making it there...
...or panic about making it there. But more on that later.
Cue middle school, an incredible vulnerable time of life. In terms of school and friends, I loved middle school. Spiritually, the struggle was real. As I prepared to enter the youth group, part of me was excited. The youth group at my church was somewhat legendary. There were always tons of students there, and I hoped to fit in there and learn. But it didn't take long to realize that I didn't fit and it wasn't because of the other students not liking me or anything like that. I didn't fit because I dreaded going and I usually felt sick the whole time there because I was so scared. 
Because the schedule every Wednesday night was (1) loud, rocking music for the first hour or so, followed by (2) a sermon about hell and/or the imminent end of the world and coming of Jesus. One Wednesday we had "rapture practice" where the youth pastor counted down and we were all supposed to jump on 0. And I never said anything, because it seemed like everyone worshiped this guy (should've been my red flag), and I felt like I was the only one bothered. I felt like the wrong, broken weirdo who didn't get it and wouldn't get it. 
And I can best explain what I consider to be the abuse by these two examples:
1. An older girl who I looked up to (and still do) recounted a story to a few of us. She said that she had been talking with the youth pastor about her desire to go to college and get married and have a family (normal, reasonable, good desires). And what he told her was that those desires were stupid because Jesus would come back before any of that could happen, and besides, wanting anything other than to be with Jesus in heaven is stupid anyway.
2. We had a weekend retreat every fall. On the Saturday night of the retreat, we had a worship service that lasted into the wee hours of the morning (3 or 4am). I don't remember any real point to this service other than more loud music and lots of crying and hugging. But one of those years, in the middle of the night, a woman who I didn't know at all was speaking to the group. We must've looked tired (no idea why) and what she said was, "Guys, if you think this night is long, eternity is gonna be rough on you."
I'm crying now as I type these stories because I see them so clearly and though I have intellectually moved past those beliefs, it still hurts to know that I was taught these things. And I am furious about what these things have done to my views of God and life and whatever comes after.  During my junior year, we got a new youth minister who taught us about the love and goodness of Jesus, about being a disciple and a servant, and about abundant life. The damage was done but I was mostly able to push it down and enjoy. My time at Milligan in undergrad showed me that, hey, people believe differently, and maybe they're right. The damage was done, but I was mostly able to cover it with new friends and new ways of thinking. And last fall, I got to participate in a weekend retreat with some of my grad school classmates and I shared most of the story of my spiritual abuse with them. The damage was done, but I was mostly able to talk about it in spurts and not really divulge the fears.
And that brings me to now. And I refuse to settle into the "the damage is done, but" mentality any longer. I want to dispel the lies and work through this because I cannot go on with the panic and the pain and this wall between me an God any longer. This wall is bricks of lies and fears. Lies are dispelled by truth. And fears are disarmed by naming them.
I was lied to. I was told that it was foolish to want to enjoy life. The picture of God that was painted for me was one of wrath. I heard about the love of God, but that love was very impersonal, very distant and aloof, and overshadowed by everything else. I am learning the truth about God more and more, little by little, every day. I am in a church now that is nurturing and tells me the truth and points me toward God and His overwhelming love. I'm believing that truth because I'm seeing it. But there is still fear in the unseen.
I've had panic attacks on and off since sophomore year of college. I probably had them earlier, but the first one I was able to identify happened then. And they passed, and I forgot, and then around Christmas 2013, they struck with a vengeance and a definite trigger. As I wrapped up my first semester of grad school, we finished our Developmental Psych class, and what comes last in human development? Death. End-of-life issues. And as a Christian program, of course we discussed our ideas about death through that lens. And suddenly, fear. Not of death itself. And not of hell, because I had moved past those fears. I knew that I belonged to Jesus and that I would be in heaven, and that terrifies me. And I wish I could articulate why I am scared of it. My only explanation is that I cannot comprehend it.
On the one hand, the pictures of God and heaven that were painted for me at a young age were not comforting. It sounded scary, like a never-ending staring contest with Jesus. Which sounds terribly boring. Also, if God is mad at me, it's not going to be pleasant. Also, eternity? What does that even mean? And that's where I get stuck. Most days I am able to reason with myself that it will be different there. But on the bad days, the very thought of forever sends me straight to the floor, trying not to hyperventilate, pounding my fists. 
Why the strong reaction? I really don't know. I assume part of it is that I am an intellectual person and faith is hard because I crave understanding. I assume part of it is a desire for control. And part of it is probably the fear that everything I was taught growing up was right.
It feels like an unanswerable question. I just want to be at peace with that. I do not want this fear to rule me or continue adding bricks to the wall between me and God. This fear, this unknowable concept keeps me from living fully and loving well. It is in the back of my mind, whispering that there isn't really a purpose to anything. And I don't really believe that at all. But fear has a lot of power right now, and I need help disarming it. 
The very thing in my life that is supposed to bring me comfort and joy is bringing me panic and confusion. How do I move forward? How do I hope for better? How do I make peace with the unknown? 
Friends who have read to this point, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Many of you have sat with me in these times and listened to me cry. Some of you were there when it clicked that I was not the weirdo kid who just didn't get it and that what was fed to us as a youth group was wrong. And I thank you now knowing that you will continue to be the praying and loving friends that you are. Thank you for reading my story, and I welcome feedback of all kinds! I do not want this to be a simple share and move on moment, I want to talk, and I want to heal. If nothing else, pray for that. And if you have a similar story, please let's talk. It's a real issue and we don't talk about it enough.
You are all wonderful.