Catching Your Breath

by Steve Austin

  Steve Austin knows the wounds of hell about which he writes so movingly in this book. In the case of every wound he knows, he has turned that wound into a source of healing power. That is why Steve is one of the most mobilized, energized, walking witnesses of new life I have ever known. Now, fasten your seatbelt and prepare for a hefty dose of new life for yourself in his words.

  Ed Bacon

  Birmingham, Alabama

  April 19, 2018

  Introduction

  Hey, God? I sure could use some grace today. Make it messy. Sloppy. Overflowing. Spread it all over my worn-the-hell-out brain. Remind me that I am loved beyond anything I can comprehend. Because today, nothing much makes sense or helps.

  Anxiety is eating me alive. It feels like it is corroding me from the inside out. I know most people think it lives in the brain, and while that may be true, my anxiety likes to vacation in the deepest part of my gut.

  And I hate it. I hate it so damn much.

  It feels like the inner lining of my stomach has been filled with battery acid and eroding away since Tuesday morning. That’s five full days of misery. One hundred and twenty hours and counting of sweating palms, chest pain, and a knot the size of a man’s fist just below my sternum.

  No, this isn’t a heart attack. It’s a panic attack.

  I didn’t know a panic attack could last five days until this one. Anxiety has been my faithful, though unpredictable, tormenter since I was 18 years old. I remember sliding down the wall in the hallway on a field trip, humiliated and afraid I might be dying. It’s no less humiliating at thirty-five.

  Anxiety takes all my hard work from the past six years and shreds it in an instant. And God, if You’re actually listening and find Yourself thinking just how sad this sounds, that’s because it is. When the three S’s show up—silence, stigma, and shame—

  it

  shuts

  me

  down.

  I don’t think I can do this anymore!

  I’m supposed to be a professional. An Amazon best-selling author. People know me as an in-demand speaker and life coach, a self-care consultant, and a recovery expert. All of those things are true, but when anxiety shows up, I feel needy and frail, like an infant. When it strikes, I feel incapable of caring for my own family or even myself.

  One last thing, God—when my heart is overwhelmed, when anxiety paralyzes my mind, when a thousand tiny “maybes” and “should-haves” fill my thoughts, be my peace. Forget all those doubts I speak of so boldly as of late. Ignore the theological dissertations and questions that make me rage. What I could use right now is a friend that sticks closer than a brother. Please be bigger than the smoke and mirrors of man-made religion and show up for me today in the midst of this chaos. Come to me like calm and hold me while I quake.

  Amen.

  The journal entry you just read was the most overwhelmed I had felt since the day I nearly died by suicide. I almost didn’t include this desperate prayer, for fear of scaring away potential readers with the rawness of such a confession.

  But how can you write a book titled Catching Your Breath and not share the moments that knock the wind right out of you and leave you gasping? After all, I’m not alone in this. We’ve all had those moments. We’ve all had terrible days that left us wondering if stress and exhaustion will last forever.

  The good news? They won’t.

  I think the reason I felt embarrassed once I regained control of my emotions that day was that I usually pride myself on the stories I craft. Maybe I haven’t won a Pulitzer yet, but I have figured out how to tell a story. That particular week took all of my mindfulness and consideration and crafting and threw it out the window.

  When life is tragic or just difficult, my inner chaos usually first presents as a stomachache. The day I wrote that journal entry, I thought I had a virus. It took me twenty-four hours to realize I was anxious, frustrated, and overwhelmed.

  During this spiral, I missed two days of work because I felt like I was drowning. I vacillated between wanting to vomit, wondering if my gallbladder was inflamed, and blaming anxiety. After a few days, a couple of trusted friends helped me understand that beneath the tension was a current of anger. And not just any kind of anger—rage.

  I’d recently had an opportunity that was so good I could hardly comprehend it. I desperately wanted to take it. However, after talking it over with my wife, Lindsey, we decided it wasn’t the wisest decision. So I declined.

  I didn’t realize just how disappointed I would feel over the next few days. Turning down the opportunity was the right decision, but it wasn’t easy. And that disappointment decided to manifest as rage.

  Have you ever been baseball-bat-to-the-television angry? I’ve been there a handful of times in my life, but I had never learned how to connect and deal with the anger until I wrote this journal entry. I can easily empathize with others’ emotions, but recognizing, processing, and verbalizing my own still requires a lot of work.

  Rage scares me, so I’ve always internalized it. I grit my teeth, swallow the flames, and force that fire down into my belly. But anger always stems from something else that needs to be dealt with. And being visibly pissed off is perfectly acceptable when handled in a healthy way.

  Once I was able to acknowledge and connect with my anger, you know what I did? I pulled over on the side of the road, texted my wife, and said, “I’m safe. But I’m going to be home a little late. I need to deal with this anger so that I can be my best self when I get home.” Then I pulled back onto the highway and started to scream at the top of my lungs. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t controlled. It wasn’t scripted. It was honestly pretty damn scary for someone used to avoiding anger. Thankfully, it was well after dark so nobody could see me completely losing my shit behind the steering wheel.

  Hot tears ran down and soaked my shirt while I told God just how much the situation sucked. “Will my life always be this way? Will I always have to pass on great opportunities? Where is the grace? When do I get to move forward?! Do you even give a damn?! Could you just give me a break?!”

  Through my years of ministry, recovery from a suicide attempt, and work as a life coach, I’ve learned one valuable, but sometimes sad, truth: I am not alone. Countless people are overwhelmed, suffering the shameful lashings of their past, holding onto gut-wrenching memories, unable to catch their breath in a world that tells them just to keep pushing. If the pressure of fear, pain, anxiety, and anger simmer and grow, sooner or later they’re going to explode.

  We have lost bright lights to this suffering. People like Robin Williams, Anthony Bourdain, Kate Spade, Chester Bennington, and even my friend Amy Bleuel, founder of Project Semicolon, have all succumbed to it. Despair is no respecter of persons. Mental illness doesn’t give a damn about your pedigree or future plans. The treachery of hopelessness, the stigma of depression, and the harsh pain that lies to us, convincing us that suicide is the only answer; these things don’t just rob us of celebrities and heroes. They killed my aunt and murdered a friend of mine when we were only children, leaving his twelve-year-old body hanging lifeless in his bedroom closet.

  Despair is a literal killer. I wrote this book because so many people tend to just “fake it ‘til you make it,” but that is the worst thing we could possibly do. We don’t have to shove the anger and disappointment back down into our gut. We don’t have to pretend everything is okay while we’re silently imploding. We can (and should) tell the truth, admit we’re hurting, and ask for help.

  People say time heals all wounds, but that isn’t completely true. Sometimes, when we’re going through a difficult time, we can’t just keep moving. Just keep pressing through. Just keep slogging through the mud with all that weight on our backs. I love the movie Finding Nemo, but when it feels like we’re drowning, we can’t “just keep swimming.”2

  If we want to heal the deepest parts of our souls, it do
es take time, just like with any physical wound. But I know from years of personal experience that it also takes medication, therapy, self-compassion, stillness, a safe community, and willingness to take actionable steps to get better.

  The world is full of overwhelmed people who are just trying to fake it till we make it. I wore the mask of performance and perfection for many years. But honesty and vulnerability have brought a new kind of strength, healing, and energy to my life. I don’t ever want to go back. Maybe we can fake it till we make it, but it’s a rotten way to live. And really, is it even living?

  If it seems like more people are dying by suicide lately, it’s because they are. The numbers are rising. The overwhelming sense of inner chaos leaves many feeling hopeless and alone. And diagnosed mental illness is a kind of life sentence no one would willingly choose.

  I know, because I’ve been there.

  I’ve been consumed with shame and bogged down by depression. I’ve been spun-up by anxiety and thrown into the damn wall by PTSD. I know what it’s like to rest the Bible in my lap in a hotel room while writing “goodbye letters” to all my closest people.

  When loneliness mixes with mental illness, shame, and a generalized sense of hopelessness, it’s a cocktail that can destroy everything. Most importantly, it can ruin you. I know what it’s like to think it would be better to die than to face tomorrow. I’ve walked through that living hell.

  And I’ve faced tomorrow. And tomorrow isn’t always more comfortable. The sun doesn’t always come out right away. Things don’t always miraculously change and improve overnight. Anyone who tells you just to do a particular something and suddenly life will make sense doesn’t have a clue what on earth they’re talking about.

  Remember the scene in Forrest Gump where Forrest and Jenny are kneeling in the cornfield, praying, “Dear God, make me a bird so I can fly far, far away from here”?3 I wish life worked that way. Like we could just rub Buddha’s belly on the way out of the restaurant or throw a penny in a wishing well and suddenly get what we want. We wish God were some kind of celestial Santa Claus or the genie in Aladdin’s lamp, just waiting to grant our every wish.

  But God’s not like that. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. And life just doesn’t work that way. Don’t let any televangelist or snake oil salesman deceive you. Life can be hard, uncertain, unfair, and unpredictable. But with the right resources, professional support, and self-care, the sun will come out eventually, or you’ll learn to dance in the rain. Things do get better, bit by bit.

  All we have is the present moment and each other. And we need each other! I need you to hold onto me just as much as you need me to tell you, “This will get better.” This book is a call to treat ourselves and others with kindness, patience, presence, and compassion. Let’s decide to show up and ask the difficult questions and tell the truth even when it feels like it will rip our beating hearts from our chests.

  If you’re reading this and it feels like life just plain sucks, I’m sorry. Please know you’re not alone. It will get better. I promise. Please don’t give up. Don’t leave. This will get better. I don’t know how or when. But if you are desperate to believe life won’t always feel this way, this book can help. I know that hard days can seem unthinkable at times, but in my experience, they don’t last forever.

  So hold on. And let go of all the things that are weighing you down. If it feels like your ship is sinking, throw all the excess cargo overboard and hold on. Hold onto these words. Hold onto hope. Hold onto memories of better days. They will come again.

  When the church or culture at large tells you to keep pushing, ignore your feelings, discount your needs, demonize your weaknesses, avoid your doubts, and just keep swimming, this is your invitation to come up for air and breathe again. This book is one big-ass permission slip: you can slow down and take a deep breath.

  On The Use Of Religious Language

  I was born into a family that had been “wowed” by Jesus. Dr. Wayne Dyer wrote the book, There’s a Spiritual Solution to Every Problem4, but I think my folks would have written something like, Jesus is the Solution to Every Problem. In fact, I heard countless sermons on that exact theme. I believed it, too, until a suicide attempt in my late twenties forced me to start asking questions that didn’t sit well with my church.

  These days, I see many solutions to most problems and many avenues to Ultimate Truth. I see more questions than answers. My faith is more fluid than ever as I look for practical, actionable steps in the midst of chaos. It doesn’t mean I don’t pray or meditate or seek wisdom from the Bible—I do—but I heard a long time ago that “some people are so Heavenly-minded that they’re of no earthly good,” and it’s true. I’m more interested in cultivating compassion and understanding in this life than I am about finding the quickest exit strategy to get to the “Pearly Gates” or whatever actually happens after we die.

  If you find comfort in well-worn patterns of religious tradition, you are welcome here. And if you get lost in all the Christian jargon, you are welcome here, too. I’ve spent time in both of those camps. As a result, instead of offering you something like Seven Simple Steps to Utopia, I want to share practicality and a little hard-won wisdom I have gained along my journey.

  There are several places in this book where I refer to deities like “God” and “Jesus.” Please don’t let it scare you away. If they don’t fit your religious narrative or spiritual journey, that’s okay. I believe that the Universe is big enough to handle our limited explanations. Those deities just happen to be the way I have most often experienced things like Divine Love, Hope, Peace, and Joy. I’m a big fan of Gandhi, Buddha, and Mr. Rogers too. So try not to get tripped up on names and labels.

  I’ve struggled with those labels, too. When it came to religion, it always seemed that if it’s not perfect, it’s worthless. I exhausted myself, attempting to live up to every unrealistic expectation of religious leaders and armchair theologians. So, for a while, I became an angry deconstructionist.

  Maybe you’ve had a similar experience, stubbornly seeking the approval of the institutional church, but only becoming more disenfranchised and disillusioned. I get it. If you have more questions than answers, me too. I have been angry, frustrated, and worn out.

  I’ve walked through six years of intense deconstruction of my own personal religious narrative, then reconstructing and moving forward. This is not a book about religion or even intertwined with specific religious ideology. Sure, we’ll talk about spirituality here and there, but this is a book about overwhelmed people, desperate to find peace in the midst of chaos.

  So this is a book for Christians? Sure. It’s also a book for atheists, agnostics, Protestants, Catholics, non-religious Jews, mystics, blacks, whites, straights, gays, transgenders, and everyone in-between. In this book, I’m not here to argue sacred vs. secular or Sunday vs. Monday. I’m less concerned with a need for theological rightness and far more passionate about kindness. I’m here to encourage everyone who shows up, from all walks of life, to keep on keepin’ on in the constant push and pull of a life that is rarely ever easy.

  This is my invitation to you, whoever you are: come and rest. I encourage you to bring your exhaustion, doubts, frustrations, and disappointment. In the midst of a sometimes-chaotic life, it’s normal to feel breathless. This book is the journey I’ve taken to cultivate calm. Join me in embracing authenticity, silencing your inner critic, calling out the lies you believe about yourself, and getting your life back. I pray (hope? cross my fingers?) that it is helpful and hopeful for you.

  You’re safe here.

  Steve Austin

  One:

  Drowning

  Who is he?

  A railroad track toward hell?

  Breaking like a stick of furniture?

  The hope that suddenly overflows the cesspool?

  The love that goes down the drain like spit?

  The love th
at said forever, forever

  and then runs you over like a truck?

  Are you a prayer that floats into a radio advertisement?

  Despair,

  I don’t like you very well.

  You don’t suit my clothes or my cigarettes.

  Why do you locate here

  as large as a tank,

  aiming at one half of a lifetime?5

  —Anne Sexton

  When I was a little boy, my dad was my hero. One summer when I was 5 or 6, we took a trip to Nashville for a few days to visit my dad’s best friend. The hotel had a pool. I distinctly remember standing on the stairs at the entrance to the shallow end when Dad said, “Okay, ready to count? Let’s see how high you can count & how long I can stay under.”

  My dad, the career firefighter and marathon runner, held his breath and slipped beneath the surface of the water. I watched him swim away, toward the shallow end, turn, and slowly make his way back.

  For the first few seconds, it was so cool, but to a kindergartener, staying under past the count of ten seemed either impossible or superhuman. He didn’t come up for what felt like forever, and I was getting nervous. You know, 60 seconds seems like an eternity if you’re a small child.

  When my dad finally emerged and took that first gasp of fresh air, I was both relieved and amazed. I cheered, “Dad! Oh my gosh! I counted to 60! How did you do that?!”

  As awed as I was to see my dad’s trick, I always felt better when my hero was near me. The water was an uncertain thing to me: I knew I couldn’t hold my breath and swim for it like he did. And I didn’t like feeling alone.

  It’s interesting, children can’t hold their breath as long as adults can. But the older we become, the longer we teach ourselves to hold it in. The same is true in life. Countless people are holding their breath and fears, just waiting to exhale.