Let's Discuss Mental Health

Mental health, often considered a taboo subject, is a complex topic, especially within families that have conflicting perspectives. One side may have a history of unrecognized mental illness, where sufferers are stigmatized or looked down upon. On the other side, some believe that as long as you have faith in Jesus, mental illness doesn't exist. It's time to share my story.

Writing has always served as therapy for me, providing an outlet for my inner thoughts and helping me address surface-level issues. It's a release—a way to transfer the swirling thoughts from my mind onto paper, freeing my soul from torment and filling the void with light. Writing is a beautiful form of expression that has sadly become a lost art.

Now, let's delve into my personal history to provide context for the journey from where it began to where I am now. On one side of my family, mental illness was prevalent. As a young child, I observed behaviors that seemed strange and unusual, although I didn't fully grasp their significance at the time. My great-grandparents, whom my mother cared for, lived on a property built by my great-grandfather. While I spent time with my great-grandfather, a wonderful man with captivating stories, my great-grandmother remained hidden in the dark room at the back of the house. She seldom emerged, only occasionally for food or a haircut from my mother. Though our interactions were limited, I sensed profound sadness and despair emanating from her.

I later learned that my great-grandmother suffered from mental illness and major depression. My great-grandfather took care of her because she was unable to care for herself, which is a testament to his incredible love but also a tale of great sadness.

After their deaths, my grandmother moved into that house. I found her to be somewhat peculiar, struggling with low self-esteem and uncertainty. She possessed beautiful things—clothes, shoes, and purses—a young girl's dream. I was drawn to her, despite her oddities. It wasn't until my preteen years that I discovered she had undergone multiple facial reconstructions, which left her feeling unattractive and dissatisfied with herself. I remember the house always being dark, with painted windows and drawn curtains. Grandma constantly expressed her depression in conversations, which I found negative and difficult to comprehend. I wondered why she couldn't just "snap out of it" and find happiness. What I failed to understand was that her statements were her way of seeking help—a cry for support that went unanswered.

Grandma always wanted to provide for me, giving me things my parents couldn't afford—dancing lessons, piano lessons—encouraging me to dream. I didn't understand why she took such an interest in me then, but I realize now that I reminded her of herself. After her passing, we discovered old photos of her before her surgeries, revealing her true beauty. Looking in the mirror now, at this stage of my life, I see her face in mine. It breaks my heart that she couldn't recognize her own beauty. We failed to see her torment or her pain. Instead, we labeled her odd and dismissed her. Isn't that how society often treats the mentally ill? It's a painful realization, and I wish we could have approached it differently. She suffered for years, and we turned a blind eye until it was too late.

Before I delve into my personal journey within my immediate family, I need to share the other side—the side of my father's parents. I don't have much information about the generations preceding my grandparents, but they were complicated yet wonderful individuals. My grandfather, a Pentecostal minister, was warm and lovely, always exuding calmness. My grandmother, the preacher's wife, possessed a fiery spirit, played the piano like an angel, and occasionally sang gospel songs. They tried to create a warm home filled with beautiful family traditions. Together, they were a cute and loving couple. I remember them holding hands and Grandma cooking in the kitchen while Gramps patted her behind. At bedtime, I could hear them praying together, their heartfelt devotion sending chills down my spine.

However, anything that deviated from the realm of fire and brimstone, anything outside the ordinary or not solely reliant on God, was seen as weakness. We were expected to conform or be labeled as black sheep within the family. According to their beliefs, God was the ultimate source capable of curing all ailments. Depression, they claimed, was a weakness. Growing up, I found this confusing, witnessing the hypocrisy within my family and the church. It made me question everything I knew. Despite these challenges, my view of God never wavered. God is pure and true; he is my source of strength. Letting go of religious dogma and the hypocrisy of followers, I found peace and the strength to heal within my personal relationship with God.

My childhood home was characterized by mental health struggles, with my mother also battling depression. She tried her best to keep it from affecting her the way it did her mother, but it seeped through nonetheless. I resented her, as her anger was often directed at me. I longed for her love and acceptance. My father, oblivious to the dynamics at play, immersed himself in work, car-building, and social activities. He was a fantastic father when he was present in our lives. However, my parents' relationship was hostile and rife with conflict, which led to chaos in our house.

I faced bullying at school, abuse at home, and later sexual abuse by a neighbor. My escape became my imagination and music, where I could retreat into my mind, dream, and communicate with God. Writing, whether poetry, short stories, or music with my brother, became essential.

As the years passed, mental health issues began to emerge sporadically. At the age of 16, I attempted suicide in secret. However, my will to live was strong, and drugs entered the picture when I turned 18, becoming another escape. Unbeknownst to me, drugs exacerbated and intensified my mental illness for years to come. I wandered aimlessly through life, searching for peace in all the wrong places, surrounded by the wrong people. Until the day I got clean.

God once again became my source, and I immersed myself in ministry and church activities—reading the Bible, listening to sermons, feeding the homeless, and singing in the worship team. However, I still felt empty and trapped in perpetual chaos within myself. Relationships remained hostile, and I never felt like I fit into anyone's mold. I married my first husband during this period, hoping to find purpose within a different family dynamic. I wanted to create my own family, believing it would bring me peace. But it turned out not to be the answer. Due to my own insecurities and self-hatred, I only found more abuse and deeper depression.

Divorce, particularly within a religious family and considering my personal beliefs, made me feel like a failure. But I had to leave. In the midst of this turmoil, I discovered that the person I resented the most—a family member—recognized my struggles and intervened, offering the help I desperately needed: my mother.

Medication and regular therapy sessions became my lifelines for several months. I started feeling alive again, connecting with and loving my son the way a mother should. I felt proud for recognizing my need for help and seeking it out, despite the shame I felt when my mother had to be called to pick up my son so I could be admitted to a mental institution.

The journey back to a semblance of normality was far from easy, particularly when you have no concept of what normal looks like. Growing up in perpetual chaos makes it difficult to establish a solid foundation. However, I had an amazing support team that assured me I was on the right path. I knew myself intimately—the limitations, strengths, and intricacies of my mental health. I was determined to make it, even though it wasn't always perfect and I had moments of weakness.

I embraced healing, self-love, and constant self-check-ins. Eventually, I managed to wean off all medication and find alternative ways to navigate the ups and downs of my mental health. It improved, and the episodes became less frequent. I embarked on the work of truly healing, even in my second marriage.

But mental health can take a sudden turn when involved with a narcissist. Despite my progress, I found myself losing what little I had gained after being entangled with a narcissist. I was back at square one, but this time I ran as fast as I could, leaving with only the clothes on my back. The determination within me ignited a flame that only my brother and sister-in-law recognized. Others gave up on me, watching from a distance, misunderstanding me, and shunning me.

Alone, abandoned, and fighting for my son, I stood up and fought for my life. This time, unmedicated and attending therapy twice a week, I incorporated meditation, prayer, and learning to love myself. While nobody tells you how challenging it is to rediscover yourself after such an episode, I did the best I could. I endeavored to be the mother I should be. I stayed committed to my medications, knowing I didn't want them to define my life. I refused to accept the diagnosis I had been given. I was determined to live a healthy life. Though I faced struggles over the years, I learned to listen to my body, understanding when to seek peace and when to step away from triggers that could send me spiraling. This realization was truly beautiful—a powerful moment of acknowledging how far I had come and accepting that I was exactly where I was meant to be.

As I reflect on my life today and how much progress I've made, I am filled with happiness and pride for the work I've done. Recently, I experienced a peculiar episode where memories, insecurities, fears, and thoughts of losing myself all resurfaced simultaneously. It was a frightening experience but also empowering, as it reminded me of how far I've come, how well I know myself, and my limits, strengths, and mental health needs. I run towards peace but also know when to step back and avoid anything that could trigger a downward spiral. It's a beautiful realization, and I'm grateful to have had that moment—seeing the immense healing within my relationships with friends and family. I no longer take this progress for granted.

The global perspective on mental illness tends to be negative. We look down upon those who struggle, failing to provide the compassion and support they truly need. We need to change our perception of those suffering from mental illness. We must stop shunning them and instead offer love and understanding. We shouldn't jump to providing advice without truly listening to their experiences. By genuinely listening, we can learn about their needs and extend a helping hand that fosters confidence and empowers them to find strength within themselves.

Our world is in need of healing, and it starts with compassion, love, and attentive ears. I firmly believe that mental illness can be healed. Our bodies possess incredible healing capacities, and our minds are powerful instruments. However, we must learn how to use them effectively and make sure that nothing can obstruct their operation. Our minds crave peace, and it is within that peace that healing can occur. Sadly, most individuals with mental illness are deprived of peace. Let's strive to help them find it.