If anyone comes speaking in the name of the LORD Jesus Christ, it is imperative that their lives become an open book. That is because having intimate knowledge of the author’s life allows people to have a better perspective and sense of discernment about what is written. For this reason, I feel it necessary to share not only about the strength of my faith with the reader of this collection, but also…about my weakness.
I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at a young age in life – my 9th grade year in high school. One day I began to physically shake in my gym class. I don’t remember that. I only remember being escorted to the school office, where the general consensus was that I had been “doing drugs.” There I suffered a brief interrogation about my would-be drug connections, for which I had no coherent answers.
I sat, bracing for the impending wrath of a militant anti-drug regime and whatever authorities would be called…you know, for BACK UP, against this wily and decidedly baked honor roll student. Fortunately, only my mother was called. She could be plenty frightening in her own rite, but at least she didn’t carry a gun—usually. (You must realize, this all happened in Texas. And Texas is a state where signs forbidding firearms must be posted on the doorsteps of convalescent homes.)
Eventually I was taken to the local emergency room, and from there I was ultimately sent to a hospital cities away from home. I would spend the next few months in that private hospital which focused on treating various conditions in adolescents such as: substance abuse, mental illnesses, eating disorders, and so forth.
Despite one doctor’s firm diagnosis of bipolar disorder, otherwise known as manic-depression, the staff ran with an initial diagnosis of schizophrenia. Lithium, the most effective drug used for bipolar disorder in the 1980’s, had certain dangerous side effects that other drugs did not have. So, to ere on the side of caution, the hospital’s medical majority ruled and they began to treat me with drugs that were typically used for schizophrenia.
That is when my ordeal only became worse. I have vague memories of ambling around in circles and squares with my arms mounted at my sides like some robot. I have other foggy memories of angry faces demanding that I take a shower. But I didn’t know how to make the water warm; it was always cold. And it hurt to be in the cold water.
I was alone. There was nothing familiar in that place. Sterile, generic furniture—the same in every room. Strange faces, strange voices. I would crawl through a maze of confusion and anxious feelings all day, every day—unaware of space and time, stumbling around in concentric circles or rigid squares like some lab rat unable to find an exit to the winding hallways…or from my existence.
I remained in that disoriented state for some time until the private hospital was about to have me transported to a state hospital. But just before my scheduled transfer, the hospital staff finally acquiesced to the first doctor’s insistence that they treat me with medications for bipolar disorder. Nothing else had worked, so they had no room to argue with him.
And voila—within ten days of being on that medication, I could, at least, function to some degree. I could shower myself and speak coherent sentences. A few more days later, and my old personality had mostly returned with the use of Lithium.
But treatment with Lithium had to be monitored closely in the initial trial. This required
frequent blood tests to determine how much of the medication was in my bloodstream. The doctors had to make sure that this medication was at a therapeutic, but not toxic level.
Every morning from that point on, I would rouse to the jarring clicks of the door handle to my little room being opened. The dim light from the hallway, eclipsed by the nurse’s figure, would soon spill onto my face as I laying squinting upward in effort to discern which staff member was on duty this time. I would then wake fully to the sound of rubber gloves snapping into position, and unknown fingers pressing into my arm to find a vein. I remember the shiny sight of their supply kits, which was about as comforting as the metal tray of tools that dentists must lay out before you. The instruments were a subtle reminder of who is going to be in charge for the next few minutes. Then would come their gentle preparation with the words, “This is going to stick a little.” And in would go the needle, a tiny rod held firmly in soft tissue until the blood was drained. Then would come the cumbersome jolt as the nurse would replace the full vial with an empty one; sometimes a total of three vials were taken at one drawing. Upon discharge, my arms were blackened and bruised beyond belief. My veins had been torn so much that blood had spilled into my skin creating dark purple and blue blotches several inches above and below each elbow. But no matter—the word “discharge” was all I needed to know.
Or so I thought.
One last level, and no more to come for six months. Hallelujah. Since it was now “slim pickins” among the veins in my arms…the discharge nurse determined that taking blood from my hand was the only viable option.
So first came the cold, sterile stench of rubbing alcohol and the dreadful angst in my stomach as packages were being opened in a hurried rustle. Of course the experience would not be complete without the sinister glint of fluorescent lighting that flickered off the newly exposed needle tip. This would be a way of life from now on, like diabetes, they said—no point in complaining.
As I watched the tiny spearhead of the needle pierce the top of my young hand, it was in that moment of faint Christ-like imagery that I, oddly, felt most comforted. A strong, empowering notion bore down on my young soul: I BELONGED to Christ, I was safe with Him, I was here for His purpose, He would always be with me – even here, in this tiny small town lab room.
I was just a child, around 14 years old. All that really interested me was eating my fill of brownies and listening to Madonna. I was just one of a million other misfit Raggedy Anne and Andies who frequented that rehab unit, and a small and seemingly insignificant one at that. So these notions seemed extraneous, illogical.
And what purpose could come from such a broken life?
I had made my decision for Christ right before my parent’s divorce the previous year after reading His Gospels, but still had very little knowledge of the Bible, and could only count on one hand the number of times that I’d been inside a church as a small child.
So how could I, in my ignorance and eccentricities, be of worth or of use to anyone—much less to YAHWEH…the Supreme Being of the universe?
I did not entertain those questions. They were good ones, but simply not strong enough to penetrate the warmth and joy I felt from this new sense of divine inclusion. Rich, red blood had filled the vial. The sample was complete. I flinched at the exiting needle, and smiled with my LORD. Little did I know, that such lives…are His specialty.
You see, in decades to come…I would suffer three more manic episodes that would, again, require hospitalization each time. And even to this day, I must manage this illness with medications through proper psychiatric care. Just as the Apostle Paul would always have the thorn in his flesh; this illness, it would not go away. But what I have found in Scripture, is that the Apostle was actually blessed to have his thorn. Clearly, the Christ told Paul, “…My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” (2nd Corinthians 12:9)
When we are stripped, and broken, laid bare by this world and its fallen state as manifested in our own human weakness and frailty…the less when can rely upon ourselves. And the more we must cling to His grace, the closer to Him we become. I believe this is what led Paul to further proclaim in 2nd Corinthians 12:9-10, “Therefore most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in needs, in persecutions, in distresses, for Christ’s sake. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”
Since that first manic episode, I have married and given birth to three wonderful children, one of whom has severe Autism, Intellectual Disabilities, and Diabetes. Through it all my husband and I have been married for over 29 years. And by God’s grace I am able to carry on. But how is this all of this even possible after all that I have been through?
Clearly, the medications I take are necessary to ensure the stability of my moods, rest, and even sanity. I won’t argue that.
However, they are NOT what (or Who) has…quite literally…restored my soul.
Truly, a person can be completely “sane” and simultaneously miserable – defeated, humiliated, and disgraced. But by the grace of God, I am none of those things anymore. Everyday, I have my challenges and my struggles as we all do…but there is a hope in me; there is JOY; there is life. And these attributes are not my own.
I know this because of times when I have drifted from the LORD, over the course of my life thus far…and I know the painful consequences of falling into that separation: angst, worry, arrogance, hatred for my fellow man over the slightest infraction, impatience, greed, covetousness, and the list of sins go on and on.
But when I take in the Gospel, and know that all these sins which separate me from the Holy God have been crucified with Christ in His perfect sacrifice for us on the cross…a joy feels me, a relief, a new found freedom stirs in me with the knowledge that nothing I can do or have done is of merit; that I don’t have to “earn” my own salvation, that rather – it was given to me as a precious gift.
As it is written in John 3:16, “For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have everlasting life.”
It is then that I know where to credit this peace that surpasses all understanding! It is not derived from a trial-free life of ease and comfort. Nor is it to be credited to the local drug store, that much is for sure—and certainly not to myself.
But when I bow in daily repentance, in turning from my sins, to the Omnipotent, Almighty God…YAHWEH, the Ancient of Days…through CHRIST, He lifts me from my knees so that I can mount up on the wings of eagles. (Isaiah 40:31) He restores my soul. (Psalm 23:3) When my heart threatens to fail…He becomes the strength of my heart and my portion forever. (Psalm 73:26) And most importantly, I am reborn! (John 3:1-8)
This is because unyielding truth and amazing grace have been embodied together in a Living Man, Who is the Living GOD. His name is Jesus, the Christ. And only He…can set you free. (John 8:31-36)