Crisis of Fear

I've gotten a few emails from loyal readers asking why I've been neglecting Modern Molly Mormon as of late. And I've been so hesitant in answering. Despite overcoming many of my personal mental issues, including many fears, some remain. A lot of it has to do with just how my brain works. Mostly because my brain works in a way that says I need to do things alone.

Over a year ago, I started having severe pain. Unaware that I had kidney stones, I went about my days doing what I could to get by. Doctors were too expensive, and there was nothing - save unconsciousness - that would get me into an ER. Strong pain killers put me to sleep just so I could make it through the day. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't cook for my husband, I couldn't clean my house, and I certainly couldn't leave to go anywhere. Many friends had natural advice, "Go to the doctor", "Get a priesthood blessing", and "Call the Relief Society President".

But the same thing sounded off in my head whenever I heard things like that. I thought, "Other people are worse off than me." Likewise I imagined that perhaps I would go to the doctor when I felt a little better. I needed to handle it on my own. Naturally, it was a miserable few months of absolute pain, fear and agony. But it taught me something about how I want others to view me.

Despite opening up to the world about my battle with OCD and depression, there's one thing I've still held off talking about. My struggles with faith.

Very recently, someone close to me was diagnosed with cancer. Stage four lung cancer that had spread from other areas of the body. After their first few rounds of chemo and a surgery to remove some of the cancer from other areas, fluid collected in their heart and both lungs collapsed. Doctors worked hard to repair the damage, and because of a special hospital located in my city, I was able to go and visit them.

We'd not seen each other in years. And I'm not sure what I expected to see when I walked into the room, but I know I was not prepared. They assured me they were feeling great, that the doctors and nurses were kind and hard working, and that they were really pulling through. While all of that may be true, I saw the physical pain, the bandages, the side effects. And it scared me to death.

This person is just a few years older than I am.

And unlike so many faithful people I know who say that even if they were to die tomorrow, they could be happy, because they believe in heaven, a better place - I feel alone in my fears. Most of it is because of my OCD, but that doesn't make the thoughts any less frightening. My crisis of fear is sucking the life out of my faith.

Despite the tears brought to my eyes anytime I hear "A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief" - despite the fact that when I am sick my first thought is, "A blessing would make me better" - despite the miracles I've witnessed first hand, with my own eyes - despite spiritual gifts that I myself possess that cannot be explained by any other science or logic . . . I am afraid.

I am afraid of death. I am afraid of not existing. While death may come to others slowly, affecting the elderly, or the less known, death infects my family like a contagious disease. Uncaring for age, gender, relation. Death claimed my mother in a brutal car accident when she was twenty-one. Death took my aunt by a planned car crash, her murderer walked away. Death took my Grandmother when I was only fifteen. Death took my cousin, murdered in cold blood. Babies, children, parents, uncles, aunts and cousins. For so long I've been numb to the news of it all.

And it's this fear of death that keeps me from living. From having that close relationship with my Father in heaven and Jesus Christ. I had it before - but now it just feels . . . gone.

I'm reminded of 2 Nephi 28:30 -

For behold, thus saith the Lord God: I will give unto the children of men line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little; and blessed are those who hearken unto my precepts, and lend an ear unto my counsel, for they shall learn wisdom; for unto him that receiveth I will give more; and from them that shall say, We have enough, from them shall be taken away even that which they have.

I know my mistakes. And I know I need to correct them. How much I wish I could just start over from the very beginning. Learn everything over as though it were brand new to me. I miss that feeling. I took for granted the experiences I was going through at such a young age, only fifteen years old. Things I didn't think much of back then I regret not participating in. I wished I had been able to go to Primary. I should have gone to girls camp. I should have gone to EFY. I regret never graduating from Seminary. I wanted to go to Institute. I wish I would have gone (or at least applied) to BYU. I wanted so badly to go on a mission . . .

I'm certain I know the answers. Just like I knew that I should have gotten a priesthood blessing, I should have called the Relief Society President, and for crying out loud, I should have gone to the doctor. But sometimes it's hard to really look at the answers and say, "This is exactly it."

And for so long I've been saying, "I'll fix this before I go back to the blog." But one of my mistakes has been pride. Of not being able to ask for help when I need it. So I will.

Help.