God and I hadn’t been on speaking terms for awhile. At least, it didn’t seem as if He had any interest in speaking to me.
Since I was a teenager, I’d struggled with Obsession Compulsive Disorder manifesting as extreme scruples, or the idea that all of what I did, even prayer, was somehow displeasing to God. When I went to college, my mental illness (later professionally diagnosed and treated), combined with being in a new environment and membership in a deeply unhealthy cultish college ministry program, led to frequent panic attacks. Prayer and any practice of my faith became a torture. I remember being in the midst of a particularly bad panic attack and lying prostrate on the floor of the chapel, begging for some sort of relief or peace.
God remained silent.