This is what anxiety looks like

I take 7+ loads of laundry to the laundromat—because we have become overwhelmed with the amount we have piling up week after week. I get all of it in the washers and then wipe down my hampers and Ikea bags with an antibacterial wipe since I will be putting the clean clothes back in there. They start to finish up, and I begin piling them into the hampers and bags. As I wheel a rolling cart back over to my little corner, I notice a little splatter of something on the wall that i swear looks like blood. I stop. My mind begins racing with terms like “blood-borne pathogens.” I keep moving, acting like nothing’s wrong, folding my clothes and putting them in my Ikea bag. I stop again and look at the stain. I think about taking my phone out of my pocket to Google “shelf-life of HIV in dried blood” or something. I decide I don’t want to know the answer. I continue getting laundry folded. I realize that none of my clothes would have touched the wall. Relief. Then I realize my clothes are being put into things that have been sitting in carts that were up next to the wall. I continue folding, but begin to consider rewashing all of these clothes. I see that a pair of my underwear had fallen on the floor; I throw them away. I notice that the splatter is actually bigger than I thought. Maybe it’s just barbecue sauce. Why did I have to come to the laundromat? Why did I have to use this corner of the store? Why did I have to notice this? Did I notice it because I needed to see it, so that I knew that I should rewash everything? I get another load out of the dryer, careful to not let anything touch the outside of the dryer or fall to the floor. Come on, Katie. Are you using these clothes as bandages for open wounds? Even if it were blood, you’re fine. What if Nate gets a cut when wearing one of these shirts and there was bacteria from that blood and then he gets sick and dies? It would be my fault for being too lazy to rewash this laundry or for just washing it in my house in the first place. I keep folding. People are using this place and these carts every dang day. What if you didn’t have a washer? You’d have to do laundry here. Just start stuffing things in bags. Would someone without anxiety even think twice about this? Priviledged woman who has the luxury of a washing machine in her own house with so many clothes it’s overwhelming when they’re all dirty at the same time. I finally get everything in a hamper or bag and in the car. I sit. I send a picture of the splatter to my husband, my mom, close friend...and ask what they would do. Am I being crazy? Everyone tells me that they get it, but that they wouldn’t rewash the clothes. I’m fine. I don’t need to worry. And as I sit in my car, I begin to cry because I live in so much fear everyday that Nate is going to die, and it is going to be my fault. This is what anxiety looks like. And I feel helpless because then I realize that the lie my anxiety is telling me is that if I am aware of everything and can control everything, then nothing will ever happen to Nate. But I can’t control everything he touches or everything that touches us. I just can’t. Anxiety is a lie. And the only hope I have in this moment is that Jesus is sovereign and that He is good. He loves Nate even more than I do. And He’s not angry at me for my anxiety. He sees every tear, and He is not silent. He weeps with me over this fear and sings over me with His love. And we are rejoicing together that this pain and fear are not forever and that one day we will feast in the house of Zion. And now it is time to go inside daycare and pick up my sweet little boy who is so loved by me and by the Creator of the Universe and hug him tight, and maybe go get ice cream instead of proofreading this “sit in my car and type through tears” blog post. (Side note: I am quoting from a song I highly recommend—“We Will Feast in the House of Zion” by Sandra McCracken)