Unlike my patron saint, Therese of Lisieux, I have not outgrown the disorder. When my anxiety peaks, such as it has done in the last six months, I begin to fear everything I say or do will offend God. I panic when I have said something remotely negative about a person, because I am certain that God will punish me by keeping me up all night. I go to bed with a rosary wrapped around my wrist. I repeat certain prayers over and over again and, when a thought interrupts them, I apologize profusely to God. When I pick up a prayer book and it falls to a certain page, I am convinced that God is sending a message intended for me.
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