For the past four months, I've suffered from panic attacks. They feel like this: a thin blade of fear in the gut, unbidden. Tingling hands, a fierce heat in the face and chest, a curling inward of thought and vision — and then SLAM. Wave after wave after wave of terror. Adrenaline adrenaline adrenaline. Pounding heart, gasping lungs, spinning rooms, drop-away floors. A long fall into nightmare.

Triggers? None, as far as I know. Or, well. There have been recent deaths in my extended family. Childhood traumas are always clamoring for another round of attention. Raising two teenagers is stressful. And the larger world is ever pressing in. Climate change. ISIS. Gun violence. Donald Trump.

Beneath all of this, I probably have a genetic predisposition towards fear; I come from a long line of worriers, and I've always had a "sticky brain." I was the kid who begged for a night light well into elementary school, and suffered insomnia for a month after watching "Psycho" at a junior high sleepover. To this day I'm jealous of airline passengers who blithely munch their pretzels and sip their Cokes through plane-rattling turbulence; I won't breathe if the captain switches on the "Fasten Seatbelt" sign.

Maybe the "why" isn't important. What I know for sure is that fear has unhoused me — pulled me out of "normal" life into a desolate, distorted landscape where all is shadow. What I also know is that my fear is coated in shame. Specifically, a shame rooted in the "Fear not!" Christianity that raised me. 

What's "Fear not!" Christianity? It's the Christianity of perpetual conquest and victory. The Christianity that punishes the unfinished. The Christianity of Happily Ever After or Else.  If you're not familiar with it, it sounds like this:

"Fear Not" appears in the Bible more often than any other imperative. Which means it is a commandment. Which means fear is a sin.

And like this: "Perfect love casts out fear." If you're afraid, it means you're not leaning into the perfect love of Jesus.

And like this: "For God has not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind." Which means your fear, your apparent unsoundness of mind, is not of God. What is of God is power — all the power you need to exorcise this evil thing that has pulled you away from your Maker.

And also like this: "Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus." If you're anxious, you're not praying enough. Pray harder. Pray more. Pray until the peace that surpasses understanding fills your heart, because it will. Because it must.

I wish I were exaggerating, but I'm not; I've heard or read all of these "devout" responses to fear — at sermons, in my Facebook feed, in Christian books, and from well-meaning friends and relatives. I'm neither a theologian nor a psychologist, so I won't pretend to understand where religion and brain chemistry intersect. But I know for sure that "Fear not!" Christianity hasn't helped me. As heretical as it feels to admit this, neither my faith nor any combination of my most-cherished spiritual practices have managed to knock out my panic attacks. Prayer hasn't lessened my anxiety. Bible reading hasn't filled me with surpassing peace. Reminding myself again and again of God's protection and Jesus's companionship hasn't brought my revved up nervous system back to baseline.

What can this mean? I'm not trying to disparage faith, but when did the absence of fear (or depression, or chronic pain, or severe doubt, or any other inconvenient human experience) become the litmus test for a robust piety? When did shadowland experiences become anathema to followers of the Christ who bled fear in Gethsemane? What if expecting Christianity to work like a magic wand (or an SSRI) is as harmful as tossing a drowning man a Bible verse instead of a flotation device? Dare I say it? Real life doesn't work that way.

Turns out, the best way to diffuse panic is not to deny it, fight it, or flee it, but to lean into it. To accept its ebbs and flows, receive its wisdom — however imperfect or fraught-- and allow it to dissipate when its work is done. No easy task for someone who grew up equating fear with sin, and praying past exhaustion to "conquer" anxiety as if it were an unholy enemy.

But I'm trying. Because fear isn't always an enemy — no human emotion, created by God, is always an enemy — and flattening out our emotions in order to declare spiritual victory is not faithfulness; it's lying. Sometimes, I've discovered, fear is a brisk, sharp-tongued friend, waking me up, shaking me up, reminding me to live fully in the only moment that's guaranteed to me — this one.

Fact is, we live in a scary and unstable world. In the Age of Anxiety. With uncertainty all around us. If anything, fear tells me that we were not created for the mess we've made — we were intended for a just world, a merciful world, a peaceful world. What if fear is my heart's cry, echoing God's? My body's way of yearning for the very things God yearns for? What if fear can motivate me to work for that better world — "on earth as it is in heaven"?

I won't lie; the panic attacks are NO FUN AT ALL, I hope I won't have to live with them for much longer, and I'm getting all the treatment help I need. But I would be lying if I said the experience hasn't been instructive. Living with panic has brought me face to face with my fear of death. It has revealed my unhealthy obsession with control, my tendency to live in my head and ignore my body, and my reluctance to confess need and vulnerability to the people I love.

On the flip side, panic has flooded me with gratitude for this life. Gratitude so rich, sensual, and sweet — look at that flawless sky! This ancient redwood tree! That jewel-chested hummingbird! This smile on my son's face! What a shocking gift to be alive here, today, now, to witness this! — I almost can't bear it. Best of all, knowing deep fear has given me compassion for people whose psychological experiences don't fit into the tidy Christian narratives I grew up with. God is in the shadowlands. Biology isn't sin. And "fear not" is an invitation, not a commandment. God beckons gently, and his call is gracious, reality-based, and patient.

For me, the invitation feels three-fold: It's time to wrestle with my fear of death. It's time to embrace vulnerability in ways I've been too defensive and wounded to attempt before. And it's time to honor and listen to my body, instead of demeaning it.

What will it look like to accept the invitation? I don't fully know, but I imagine that whatever God and I do next will be new, unscripted, and surprising. I suspect it will lead me to the kind of Christianity I've longed for since I was a little girl: an integrated Christianity — one that's roomy, savvy, and subtle enough for the world I live in. Firm enough to guard my heart, but flexible enough to hold the real-life contradictions I embody.

So yes, I am a Christian and I am afraid. Both. Here I am, unmasked. Here's the fear I carry, messy as it is. And here is the mysterious God who abides with me in the shadowlands, whether or not I'm able to grasp his "Fear not." Here we are.