It’s frightening to be diagnosed with something real. It’s more frightening to stop eating and sleeping and know you should both eat and sleep, but not feel the hunger or the exhaustion. Still more terrifying, is to have felt a moment of sheer joy…
And lose it in a chemical cocktail… The first prescription locked me out at the top of the range of emotion and focus and energy. The second, has me locked out at the bottom.
I can’t think about myself. I sat in a conversation the other day, and I couldn’t take the question: “What is God emptying you of and what is He filling you with?”; and apply it to myself. I could understand the answers others gave, but I couldn’t answer it for myself.
I apologized to my sisters for sitting in silence in a very personal and vulnerable conversation(as I am typically a sharer, a feeder back and a verbal processor); because I didn’t want my silence to be attributed to anger or offense. And I began to cry. Well, now. If I can’t complete a thought as it applies to my own heart, mind, and spirit. What am I crying about?
Fear? There is actually no middle ground between mania and misery. I can understand you, but I am a stranger to myself. I can’t connect.
Anger? This is the very reason I’ve avoided doctors and diagnosis for years.
I go to the auditorium. There, waiting for the good stuff to begin, is a new friend– the one I just wanted to get to know because she’s raised such remarkable children. She stopped me and asked me how I was doing.
I broke down. I was so embarrassed. I am still today, 4 days later. So weak. So out of control. At this point, so ugly, as this was my second cry in an hour.
She understood. She knew what I was going through.
She took me by both arms and stared me in the eyes and said, “God is with you. He is with you.” Over and over.
I locked on her eyes.
I’ve seen them all week, when I’ve heard her words.
I can see them now.
It was only this morning(or last night, I’m really not sure. It was dark.), that I understood them.
I cannot feel anything. I cannot do any higher order thinking. I cannot connect on anything deeper than surface level (Hi, you are wearing a red shirt today.).
God is still here.
He hears my hunger for connection. He knows I remember the spiritual moments I had when I could feel thankfulness, intimacy, and delight. He knows that the memory is slipping away. Even though, I can’t even think or reason or decide or pray–He is still here and still actively protecting me and providing for me and the ones I am supposed to be caring for who shouldn’t be having to take so much care of me.
He is here. He knows my thoughts and my lying down and my going out.
He is here with me, right now.
It turns out she understands better than I do myself.
She’s been through it and had to learn that the hard way, I guess.
So I stare back in those sparkling eyes. And drop into her aching arms.
To wait until My Deliverer passes by.