The Road To Kingdom Come

I am sitting here on a Saturday afternoon in a moment of relatively clear thinking, absence of panic and only mild stomach distress. (Thank you Jesus and Mary). I have to go back into my files, utter mess that they are, and pull together what I can for tax filing in a few weeks. I am a disorganized mess when it comes to keeping files, records and copies and I have been trying to come up with some type of system or process for most of my life but to no avail.

I found myself reflecting a bit on my history of these episodes of anxiety and depression that have materialized periodically throughout my life. Frankly, they have been hell but somehow, by God’s grace, I have weathered these storms. If you have never been through a severe depression or suffered from crippling anxiety you cannot believe how it will test your faith. If ever God seems non-existent, or even worse, totally disinterested, it is when you are barely holding yourself together and just trying to stay whole, never mind be productive.

I was 19 years old and a sophomore in college when I reached a breaking point. I was in so much pain and inner turmoil that I faked an accident at work that would pull me off the job at least temporarily. It entailed actually cutting myself with razor box cutter that I used to open cardboard cases. When that didn’t get me the relief I needed I actually did it again a couple days later. Soon after, I was clutching a pillow, curled up in a ball at the bottom of the stairs in my parents house, at my breaking point…lost, terrified, alone and seeing no possible end or solution. The darkness that can envelop the human mind can be monstrous. I’ve been there. I’ve felt it. I’ve seen it.

At the time, I was experiencing severe anxiety attacks. I didn’t know it then and neither did the doctors that were treating me.  It simply felt like I was going crazy, losing my mind. I was admitted to a hospital and placed on some pretty heavy-duty anti-psychotic drugs which made me more like a zombie that a calmer, more together person. Fortunately, a new doctor recognized this and lightened up to more appropriate meds like valium.

This was not a regular hospital. Essentially, it was a mental hospital. I was in a “ward” with attempted suicides, depressives, even a couple of poor souls that had been lobotomized. I had counseling, received therapy and built some interesting relationships. In the ward upstairs were those with violent tendencies. At night, I could here the attendants wrestling with severely psychotic individuals intent on doing harm to themselves or others. I would lay there in my room, about the size of a cell in a retreat house, listening to the chaos taking place above me. To add to the macabre experience, there was a pale green light bulb that stayed lit all night above the door of my room. There was a window on the door with a curtain on the outside. This setup was so the night attendants could look in on you during the night and see if you were okay. I will never forget laying in that room, bathed in eerie green light, hearing furniture sliding around and bodies hitting the floor above me. It was like a scene from a cheap horror movie.

I was in this place for 3 weeks. Friends were allowed to visit and, while appreciate there kind attention, I knew it was awkward for them and it was humiliating for me. I was the guy that had the breakdown.

Somehow, someway, I was able to resume school in the Fall and, while there were struggles aplenty, I never returned to that state or that level. Over the years I have gained a better perspective on what actually triggered this episode. Too complex to go into here but there definitely was a trigger. I understand it, but I don’t think I have ever fully come to terms with it emotionally. That requires a deeper level of healing than I’ve been able to attain, even through these last three years of therapy and all that proceeded it.

I know that my brain chemistry strongly contributes to my issues and situations and circumstances in my childhood and throughout life also are factors. But I don’t know what the answer is and can’t seem to find a path towards that answer and that healing.

My wife said something very interesting to me the other night and I have been giving it much thought. She said that this had come into her mind rather unexpectedly and she even felt it was odd that she should be thinking about it. She said that she knew I was praying hard for healing and that she was praying for me. She then said it had occurred to her that many times, when Jesus healed someone, prior to the physical healing, he stated that the person’s sins had been forgiven. She wondered if there was some forgiveness that needed to take place before inner healing could take place. She wondered if there might be something that I was not forgiving myself for that made it difficult to reach that next level of healing.

I found myself thinking back to the group therapy session where I related the story of the nun coming down from the altar to talk to me and how, upon relating this fairly innocent story to the group, I began to cry quite unexpectedly. When asked by the therapist what it was about the nun coming down to see me that was so striking to me, my immediate and unhesitating response was that “it was like God telling me that He cared about me.”

And why would God telling me that bring such an emotional response? Maybe because I don’t really believe that I am worthy of His love. Maybe I have some repressed guilt about something that I have not identified and have not yet forgiven myself for. All my life, when something bad happens, I feel like I am being punished. Even now, with stomach problems and financial stresses there is almost an inaudible voice whispering, “You deserve this. This is happening because of something you did. It’s your own fault.” Then God turns from the loving Father to the punishing Father. He is the God of vengeance instead of the Lord of Mercy.

My brain tells me different. My heart tells me different. But somewhere, deep inside, the message is not getting through.

I’ve been thinking about this for a couple days and I needed to write it down. Years ago, I would have kept it in a journal. Now I post for all to see.

I know God loves me. I know that the Blessed Mother petitions and intercedes for me. I know that the things that are happening (especially the chronic stomach issues) are to be embraced and endured for the sake of the Cross. I pray for the grace and the faith to endure. It is my emotional fragility that scares me the most. I cannot describe what an ordeal each day has become. Holy Mary, Mother of God, help me to endure.

Over a decade ago, when I was living in South Carolina, I was reflecting on the times that I mentioned earlier in this post. The times when I felt lost, abandoned and alone. I tried to place these feelings into a poem. The words don’t reflect what I was feeling at the time I wrote them, but what I had felt at other times in my life. It seems appropriate to share this now as a prayer of Hope. (The image that accompanies this post reflects what I don’t ever see depicted in sacred art…that “Jesus cried out in a loud voice.”)

Eloi

My God, My God
Why have You forsaken me?
Another withered branch
Infected by the family tree.

Drawn to the sun,
Attracted by the light,
Only to be blinded
By the promise of restored sight.

Ask and receive.
Seek and you shall find.
But when the sweet to bitter turns
The good news tastes unkind.

Lead me to the garden
Or help me plant my own.
But do not vow to raise me up
Then not roll back the stone.

Oh Faith, leave me not orphaned.
Oh Hope, thy shelter give.
Oh Love, please heal this wounded heart
That I, once more, may live.