It was my sophomore year of high
school when I took a Health and Fitness class through my online school. It
taught what the school deemed important for students to know about health
issues that impacted society. I recall one chapter, specifically, about mental
health. It went over depression, anxiety, cutters, ADD, dyslexia, eating
disorders, and schizophrenia and bipolar. I became intrigued with
schizophrenia. I dismissed bipolar as someone whose emotions were out of
control, and surely that could never be me since I was closer to being a
sociopath than an emotion roller-coaster.
However,
I became intrigued with what it was like to hallucinate. And what exactly was a
delusion? In a car ride with my mother, I started talking about what I was
learning in Health and Fitness class. “You know how Jill* was hospitalized
recently?” my mother said. I nodded. “Her family isn’t telling many people, but
she was diagnosed as schizophrenic.”
*modified name to protect identity
We
spoke more as I considered this information. Jill and I weren’t biologically
related, and biologically, I had never heard of a family member having a case
of schizophrenia or bipolar. I began to think how I would never understand this
group of people. Never having had a mental disorder myself, I realized there
would be a barrier of understanding between myself and someone with a mental
disorder, specifically schizophrenia or bipolar. I vaguely understood
depression from someone outside looking in. I vaguely understood eating
disorders as someone outside looking in. However, as someone outside looking
in, I understood just enough to know I didn’t understand schizophrenia’s
complexity.
And
stupid me prayed, God, you know I don’t
understand this. I can no longer relate to Jill. I want to understand this.
Teach me.
***
Waking
up, I remembered where I was, who I was, and why I was there. That was it. I
looked up at the clock on the wall. It read 7:32. Somehow, I knew it was
evening despite there being no windows. A nurse walked in. “What day is it?” I
asked.
“Wednesday,”
he replied. Wednesday… okay… I suddenly realized that I didn’t know which day
of the week I had been admitted. Had it been one day? Two days? A week?
“How
long have a been here?” I asked. For some reason, I was sitting on the ground.
“Two
weeks.”
My
heart felt heavy. Two weeks of my life were wasted and hazy in my memory. What
little I recalled seemed like a nightmare. Surely, that hadn’t happened.
Surely, I didn’t do that.
Then,
I fell back away.
My
memory regained itself only a few minutes later. Or was it a few days later? Or
had this happened before the last? Somehow, I was lying in the ground, sobbing
for a reason unknown. I did what I had trained my mind to do since I was a very
young girl. As a young girl, I would have vivid nightmares. I eventually
trained my mind to pray in the middle of the nightmare, and God would either
change the nightmare to a peaceful dream or wake me up.
I
prayed in the middle of my nightmare, “God, what is this? Help me! Help me!”
It’s
difficult to explain what happened next. You know how painful an excellent
massage can be? Imagine that type of painful ache, but in your soul. And from
that ache in my soul, exhaustion flooded my body. Every one of my tense muscle
relaxed.
I
opened my eyes and got up. Passing the clock on the way to bed, I saw that it
read 7:45.
As
I slowly started to become myself once again, I started to get bored. I would
leave my room for only three things; meals, singing time that the Chaplin would
hold, and to get shower supplies. I spent most of my time playing the flute
(“You’re really good. Everyone can hear it everywhere… like… everywhere.”) and
reading. I tried to memorize different scripture passages. One of the few
things I recalled from my two weeks of missing memory was that the staff could
not find a single Bible in the entire ward. My parents brought my Bible from
home.
For
one week, I had nothing that I had to do, or really could do, but read
scripture and play a joyful noise onto the Lord.
Once
I went home, I gained a mentality; I
don’t need the meds to keep me sane. God will keep me sane. I trust in God.
I relapsed. And this time, I wasn’t going to let anyone take my delusion away.
“I’m
praying for you.” Very simple words, but they were the needle needed to pop my
delusion. The person who said these words to me had no idea that this simple
phrase could insert the right amount of doubt into my mind.
Well, maybe I’m not God. Maybe there is
something wrong with me.
I
came back to myself. It has been two and a half years, and I haven’t relapse
since. Why? There are a few reasons, I believe.
One
reason is that I am taking the medication that I’m supposed to. Yet, I do not
believe that it is the medication that’s keeping me sane. I was right to think
that God would keep me sane, but wrong to stop taking the meds. This hast to do
with the fifth commandment; honor your father and mother (Deuteronomy 5:16). It
was the desire of my parents that I take the meds. Therefore, why would God
bless me with sanity when I’m not taking them?
However,
I will not depend upon the medication to keep me sane, but always trust in God.
For example, with the passing of my past psychiatrist, there was a period where
I had to suddenly lower my dosage amount because there was only so much still
prescribed to me at that time. But I trusted in God, and I was fine.
I
haven’t relapsed because of the prayers of the Church. Recall that I came to
myself around 7:30 on a Wednesday night. There’s nothing magical about 7:30 on
Wednesday night. However, that it the time that my church has set up to gather
together to pray for the needs of the Church. I heard latter about how much my
church was praying for me. The youth group was praying for me. The main
congregation was praying for me. I have several friends and random church
members I vaguely know come up and say that they’re still praying for me!
I
had the pleasure this past summer to join the prayer time Wednesday nights.
During the schoolyear, I would work Wednesday nights, but this past summer I
had a class starting at 2pm. It wouldn’t make sense for me to work Wednesday
nights.
God
listens when you pray by yourself, but there’s something about praying with
other believers that God really answers. Perhaps, it has something to do with
the passage, “Again, I tell you truly that if two of you on the earth agree
about anything you ask for, it will be done for you by My Father in heaven. For
where two or three are gathered in My name, there I am with them.” (Matthew
18:19-20).
I
had a very small experience with bipolar disorder, and I’m not sure I’m
finished with it. Although, through it, God has revealed to me much of Himself,
and has raised many questions I otherwise wouldn’t have thought. Thank God, I
recall very little of the worst parts of it. My mother during that time
recorded in a notebook everything I did to give to doctors, if they needed it.
At first, I wanted to read it. I wanted to know what all I did. Now, I have no
desire to know. It’s behind me, and only serves to grow me, and perhaps through
my testimony, others closer to God.
