Boastful confessions

I'm working tonight on a longer post about supporting someone with a mental illness (hopefully to be up soon), but there is a jubilant, victorious wind blowing through my mind that I must acknowledge. And actually, this does have a lot to do with support.

Someone dear gave me a wide and generous complement today. It gave me the extra boost to make this evening's challenge less heavy. She told me I was brave. Everyone has fears she said, but most people can ignore them. J faces hers every day. Her words warmed and strengthened me, and then...

...I cooked hamburger for supper! Heh heh. And I did it with no OCD behaviors. Or at least very few. I've been working up to this high bridge-walk for a long time. My psychologist and I decided that this was the week, and I am to cook hamburger every night for four or five nights. Tonight was the first. It was hard, but the shaking and the crying and the paralysis didn't happen this time. Whew. And Jem was proud of me. That felt so good. And Lily-girl DEVOURED the stuff, with obvious pleasure. That felt good too.

I find I am enjoying myself, despite my fear. Another quick little anecdote before I sign off:

Last week I went to a visiting author's lecture at the downtown library. A special treat made possible by Jem, who stayed home and put our girl to bed all by himself. I sat next to a fellow who, I learned, was doing his PhD in English--of all things (imagine sitting next to someone who tells you they own a chocolate-making business). He asked me what I did. I don't think I had been asked that question before, and I don't think my next words had yet passed my lips:

"I'm a mom."

I found I said it with pride, and felt just the same as if I had modestly confessed to being a rocket scientist and a computer programmer in my spare time.

It's no big deal. I'm really good at it. ;-)

Lily's Birth Day

I walked home today in the sun with my one-year-old. My one-year-old. I have had this gorgeous creature's company for a whole year, and I am bursting with gratitude.

Her birthday was two weeks ago now. We celebrated with Kleenexes and baby Tylenol and a store-bought cheesecake with grandparents and an aunty who came over to make tea for the sickies. Poor baby--to be sick on her first birthday!

Notice the baby Tylenol on the counter?

She's showing you how old she is!

But then last Sunday we really celebrated: with balloons and paper streamers and cake and pink lemonade and "champagne"! I loved planning the party.  I was heady with the excitement of getting to show off this darling daughter to friends, to celebrate her, enjoy her and the amazing fact that God has allowed me a whole, delightful, precious year.

A friend put it beautifully in an e-mail to us after the party: "How do you fête a daughter like Lily?" It was indeed my joyous conundrum. His answer was our best effort: "With strawberries and books and Grampa's champagne!"

But my fête isn't quite complete: I wish to follow suit after Christie in recalling the searing victories and triumphant pains of my daughter's birth story.

It began with two little words you never want to hear from a medical professional, especially if you have an anxiety disorder: "Uh oh." It was the day after my due date, and we were at our *last* (we hoped) prenatal appointment with the midwife. We'd finished discussing measures I could take to get labor going, if I wanted to, we'd heard our Pipsqueak's heart beat, and the midwife was taking my blood pressure. I've always had great blood pressure readings--typically on the healthy low end. But that day, it had sky-rocketed. So, my wonderful midwife straight-away rocketed us all off to the hospital, where I was hooked up to a fetal monitor for an hour, had multiple tests done, and was diagnosed with pre-eclampsia and subsequently induced for labor.

I was strangely calm. I think I understood the gravity of the situation: the reality was, without medical intervention, both my baby and I could have died. But something--or Some One--told me that everything was going to be okay: I had my midwife, she had caught it in time, my mom was there, my Jem was with me, the doctor would do everything necessary, the hospital staff could handle this situation, and Pip (the name we used for her before she was born) would soon be in my arms!

Things went smoothly, though intensely after that. The labor pains were very soon hard and fast on top of each other, so that there was often barely time to breathe deep in between them. But I was, as I had imagined, just grateful for the physical pain that replaced the mental anguish of the months of waiting. My mother coached me, Jem comforted me, my midwife instructed and encouraged. A pediatrician and team came in to be there when baby was born.

Then suddenly, her warm, wet, wiggly, beautiful body was on me for just a moment. They whisked her away to make sure she didn't inhale meconium, and checked her all over, with her daddy holding her and letting her suck on his finger for comfort. I held her again. She looked deep into my eyes with her new ones. I recognized her, named her.  But I could not name the feeling that coursed through my torn and tender body--a love beyond words. My mother recognized it though, and in her arms, with my daughter in mine, I was just so grateful to her and for her.

I had torn, but not nearly as badly as Christie. Later on, I could only admire her gratefully for the wisdom and kindness and restraint that kept her from telling me the details of her birth story until after I'd had my own experience. Once I'd been stitched up, my mom gently helped me into the shower.

It may sound silly to most of you, but that shower was one of the most memorable experiences of my life. How to explain? For months, showers for me had been compulsive, exhausting, terrifying. Many days, there were two or three, often hour-long showers. I would finish shaking and crying and freezing (I nearly always ran out of warm water), never sure I'd done it "right". Washing my hair, which I did typically twice every day, I would hold my breath and close my mouth tight, afraid dirt and germs or chemicals from my hair and shampoo would run into my mouth and affect my baby.          

This shower was different. I was shaking yes, not from anxiety but from the effort of the labor that had brought a healthy baby into the world. I felt the warm water course over my body, and I opened my mouth and let the water run in, and it tasted like freedom.

There followed three days of joy and almost complete freedom before I plunged back into the darkness and terror. But I thank God who in his kindness gave me those three wonderful days of relief with my Jem and my mom and my new little Lily.

And now He's given me a year. A year of joy and wonder and new, growing freedom, and indescribable love and gratitude for God's gift of grace.

I wrote in my diary on her birthday: "I really can't believe it's been a year--a whole year since that night of ripping pain and insane strength and uncontainable joy. The first time her soggy new skin landed slippery on my tired, stretched-out abdomen, she looked at me, deep in recognition. She still looks at me with the same dark, wondering eyes and the same tiny fingers curl around mine and I can't believe I've had a year of this and where have the moments gone and don't let them slip away and please give me more years of this! I've never known such purpose or such joy."

My dear little Lily,

"On the night you were born,

the moon smiled with such wonder

that the stars peeked in to see you

and the night wind whispered,

'Life will never be the same'

Because there had never been anyone like you...

ever in all the world!"

(Nancy Tillman, On the Night You Were Born, 2005)

And here you all, is Lily's contribution to this post!:

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<sb                                                      c

(I'm just so proud of my little budding writer!)

Looking back

You finally get to hear from me, J again. I'm ashamed its been so long since I've written! I wrote the following post just after Christmas, so I will put it up before I go on to what has been happening more currently:

I've been quiet this Christmas season--just soaking up family time, creative giving endeavors, baby-enjoyment, and delicious aromas and flavors of the season.

For me, all of the Christmas trappings seemed to joyfully whisper the reminder: "This is not last year."

Last year was, as a dear one put it to me, a "very strange Christmas." Indeed it was. For one thing, I nearly spent Christmas in the hospital. Most of my family and friends, even I myself, had been convinced that I needed some serious help, probably hospitalization. I was at the point when I was too terrified to prepare food or drink for myself--I just didn't trust myself to prevent contamination. There were days when Jem would come home to a starved and desperately thirsty pregnant wife, and literally have to spoon-feed me because I was too afraid to touch the spoon with my 'contaminated' hands. I wasn't gaining weight properly and I was dehydrated. But most of all, I was feeling utterly hopeless, often close to hysteria, the thought of death as a welcome escape never far from my mind. My psychiatrist didn't see a place for me in the hospital however, and perhaps if she had sent me to the hospital my anxiety would have simply been un-manageable (in my mind, the hospital was the very most germ-y and dangerous place to be!) So I was sent home, appointment after appointment, with a little increase in medication and the platitude: "You'll be okay."

A week or two before Christmas, a public nurse came to visit me. She saw no other alternative than to send me to the hospital, but Jem and my psychiatrist rescued me from a hospital food Christmas dinner. It was too little, too late. Jem was angry. He felt I had needed the hospital months ago, not now, not instead of family and love and a Christmas at home. So I got to go home, and I saw my husband really angry for my sake. That felt kinda good.

Rather than the confinement of a hospital then, I spent Christmas in the confinement of fear-paralysis. My dear family spent Christmas trying to anticipate my fears and keep my anxiety down.

Nonetheless, I held on for dear life to the Christmas message of peace on earth. I longed--I still do long--for that peace, as all of creation longs and groans in expectation (Romans 8:22). For some reason, God wanted my family and me to feel that groaning more sharply last Christmas.

And for some equally strange reason, a year later He has given me a tremendous measure of freedom. This year I didn't walk miles around the Christmas poinsettias for fear of the potting soil being contaminated. This year, I didn't cry for hours after someone brought home fruits and vegetables. I didn't come to the Christmas meal with my freshly-washed hands up in the air, surgeon-like, to keep dirty water from wrists and arms from running down to my fingers. This year I savored Christmas cookies in my fingers, dipped in milk. This year I sat on the floor with my baby and helped her open gifts. This year I held a healthy, happy, beautiful baby in my arms, gift of God's grace. This year, I really celebrated.

Birth story - Part 2

I guess I've sort of built this post up a lot. So I should let you all down slowly... This post isn't going to be as exciting as it initially may have sounded. That being said, this post is very important to me. To be honest, this isn't something that women typically talk about. It's okay to talk about long and difficult labors, c-sections, hemorrhaging, NICU stays for infants, and the complications that follow these types of deliveries. It seems to me, however, that our society is less comfortable talking about what I went through. And so, in honor of this blog - talking about such forbidden things (mental illness) -  and because I think that this was one of the triggers to my own depression, I'm going to tell you about what happened after our sweet baby girl was born.

When my doctor spoke next she said "Christie, you've torn. I need to check you before I get the gynecologist on-call to do the repair." This didn't really surprise me, I always knew I would tear. I figured it would be a second degree tear, but the fact that she would need a gynecologist to do the repair surprised me.

"How bad is the tear?" I asked.

"Third degree," she replied.

Okay, worse than I thought, but not as bad as a fourth degree tear, I can live with that. The gynecologist came in and examined me as well. That's when my second "REALLY? NOW?"-moment happened.

"I'd like to give you some Fentanyl while I repair your tear," She said after examining me.

"REALLY? NOW??" I've just gone through my whole labor and delivery without a drop of analgesia, and now you want to give me a pain-killer? I thought about how stupid that was: I'd specifically gone through labor without anything, for my child's sake. Now it was going to be all for naught, because they wanted to give me a strong narcotic that would pass into my breastmilk - albeit in very tiny quantities - anyway. I tried to say "no" but they insisted that it would be very painful and that a narcotic would be beneficial. "Aren't you going to give me a local anaesthetic anyway?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied "but it isn't going to help very much at all"

I gave up and let them push 100 mcg of Fentanyl. She was right. Even with the Fentanyl on board the pain was excruciating. Maybe worse than labor, maybe not quite, I can't really remember, but worse than I ever imagined.

As she started the repair, the gynecologist started to give me instructions, "Now, with a fourth degree tear..."

"I thought it was only a third degree tear," I interrupted.

"No," she replied firmly, "it's definitely fourth degree." I must have heard incorrectly.

The repair took an hour to complete. I didn't have to go to the operating room, likely because of the gynecologist's expertise in this area. I was very blessed to have her. She was actually a locum doctor from Calgary, the very best pelvic floor specialist in all of Alberta. She "just happened" to be on-call in our town that morning. I marveled, in weeks that followed, that God would have me tear so badly, and then provide the very best person to do the repair.

I barely got to hold my daughter during that time, even though I asked for her over and over and tried to convince them that the pain would be less severe if I could have her to distract me. I think that they were concerned the Fentanyl might have made me too loopy and drowsy to hold her without the potential of dropping her tiny fame. Trust me, any potential loopiness from the Fentanyl was strongly counteracted by the severity of the pain I was experiencing. I didn't even make it through the whole repair before I was asking, please, for another dose of Fentanyl. They gave it to me willingly, and that dose, piggy-backed on the previous one, relieved the sharp edge of the pain.

Perhaps worse than the length of the repair was the fact that throughout the whole procedure both physicians were giving me a ton of information on this type of tear. They talked about caring for the tear, follow-up visits, possible complications, the need for pelvic-floor physiotherapy (who's even heard of such a thing!), and even touched on what the next pregnancy-labor-delivery might look like for me. Here's a bit of information on 4th degree tears, if you're curious http://brochures.mater.org.au/Home/Brochures/Mater-Mothers-Private-Redland/Recovering-from-3rd-or-4th-degree#5

The general consensus had been that my daughter's shoulders had caused the tear, due to the fact that I had been unable to keep my body from pushing through that final contraction. I felt so guilty, and I kept apologizing... to A., because I'd felt like I'd ruined my body; to my whole medical team who had coached me so well throughout my labor, for not being able to do the one thing they'd asked of me; and to the gynecologist, because I'd taken up her time and because I could not stop my legs from shaking uncontrollably.

I cried a lot, for days, after that. I don't think that I can explain, in a way that would make sense to anyone, why this was so unbearable for me. The months, maybe years (we have yet to see), of healing ahead of me overwhelmed my mind. The guilt hit hard whenever I thought of that moment when I said "I'm not, I'm not... I'm not pushing!" The idea that I had forever ruined my body kept coming back to haunt me, even when A. and my mom assured me I


hadn't. I hurt. A lot. Nursing my daughter was harder for it. I couldn't sit up, so I had to learn to nurse her side-lying right from the start, and not having as good control of her head from that position made learning an already difficult skill, that much harder. I believe that this was also the beginning of my depression. Not that it was the complete cause of it (it's just not that simple), but that it was the start of the cycle of guilt, anxiety, pain, remorse.

I discovered a few weeks later what the look of horror had been on my doctors face: She is a fairly new family practitioner, and had seen only a couple severe tears during her residency. One such tear had spontaneously dehisced (opened) weeks after the repair. She was likely shocked by the extent of the tear and reminded of the severity of potential complications.

One thing I was glad of: The birth of my daughter and the fourth degree tear I had endured remained completely separate in my mind. I had given birth to a beautiful baby girl. I had torn very badly. Those two things, the good and the bad, did not coexist in my mind. Because of this, I never once blamed her - her abnormally large head, her shoulders, or her weight (8lbs, 6oz)- for the tearing of my body.
 

Little N's Birth Story - Part 1

Today is Baby N's 1st Birthday. I can't believe how much has happened this past year and I am so happy and blessed to be this little girl's mom. I thought I'd do a special little post about her birth today. It comes in two parts (you'll understand why in my next post), so here is part one:

My due date was January 22, 2013 and I was sure, throughout my pregnancy, that our baby was going to come early. Finishing up my preceptorship was stressful enough, and I had been having mild contractions every day since about 28 weeks gestation. So when my due date came and went I was frustrated and very anxious to finally have my baby in my arms. The fact that my Canadian Registered Nurse Examination (CRNE) was scheduled for February 6th did not help my patience, either. We kept busy though, and A. and I made a ton of giant cinnamon buns just days before Little N arrived. Can you say nesting?

My mom had planned to come about a week earlier, but because I wasn't showing any signs of going into labor, she decided to stay in Edmonton a little bit longer to help my grandparents. She arrived on the 26th and I am convinced that had she come earlier, Little N would have also made an earlier appearance: My mom wasn't here more than 5 hours before I knew I was in labor.

And that's the way I stayed, contractions coming every 5-7 minutes lasting anywhere between 30-90 seconds for about 18 hours. My sister-in-law had given me a recipe for an at-home induction method, and I had cleared it with my doctor. I went into labor on my own, but after 18 hours of "bule bule" contractions (my mother's Swahili term for meaningless contractions) I decided to take a third of the recommended cocktail. Hoo-boy did that get things going: About 22 hours after early labor had started, the contractions were coming hard and strong at very regular intervals and, at around 2330, we headed to the hospital.

When the nurse initially checked me I was 3 cm dilated - not as far along as I wished I was, but enough that they considered me in active labor. The first two hours were manageable enough, I spent that time in the tub, my mom reading a funny little book called A Book of General Ignorance and A. pressing on my back through contractions and giving me sips of water. Eventually, though, the tub just wasn't soothing anymore and I needed a change. At 0300 the nurse checked me again, and I thought "if I can be at 5 cm, I think I can do this." Sure enough I measured at 5 cm. The worst part of my labor was the following 2 hours. When Amy, my nurse, did her assessment, she also put me on the fetal monitor for a few minutes and noticed the baby's heart rate was high, about 170-180 bpm. But neither she nor the on-call physician could tell if baby's baseline HR was that high with some decelerations (a bad sign) or lower with lots of accelerations (a good sign). Knowing my daughter now, how active and excitable she is, I'm willing to guess it was the latter. To be safe, they kept me on the fetal monitor and gave me a bolus of 1L of fluid. I was stuck lying on the bed in what is, I'm sure, the most uncomfortable place in the world to labor, with cords and lines attached to my body. It was miserable. I did try some nitrous oxide (laughing gas) at one point, but it didn't help the pain at all. It only made my mouth dry and my head spin. At one point I looked at A. and said "I don't think I can do this." He was amazing and so encouraging. Both my mom and A. were wonderful. My mom pretty well stayed at my back pushing on it through all of my contractions - I had terrible back labor- and A. stayed at my head, stroking my face and encouraging me through each contraction. I had been leery of having two support people, but they worked so well together, didn't get in each others way and did exactly what I needed them to do. I went through labor without any drugs and no major melt-downs, I believe solely because of their support. Our physician checked me again at 0350 and again I thought "6 cm, please 6 cm." That's the way it was throughout my labor, I would wish for a number and be spot on.

I have talked to a number of other moms and it seems like there's a moment in every labor when things get so ridiculous that you just want to shout "REALLY? NOW??" I had two such moments. I'll share the second one in Part 2, but the first one happened at about 0500 in the morning: I had gotten up a couple of times to use the washroom, but just before 0500 I felt like I had to empty my bladder again. I got up, the contractions were right on top of each other at this point. "Transition" I thought with both relief and fear. Much to my chagrin I couldn't seem to void. I was half-dragged back to bed, doubled over with the pain of another contraction and I suddenly felt like I had to push. Of course I knew what they would say, "not yet, let us check you first, before you push." I knew it was a bad idea to push against a not yet fully dilated cervix. But the urge was so strong I thought "I'll just push a tiny bit" and as I did my water broke, gushed really, all over the floor. The clear fluid another signal that Baby was likely not in distress. They helped be back into bed, our doctor checked me again, I was just barely shy of 10 cm dilated. She told me that before I pushed she wanted to make sure my bladder was empty, and before I could say or do anything she was inserting a catheter. "REALLY? NOW???" I didn't say it, but I wanted to shout it. I did ask, incredulously "What are you doing?"- not that I didn't already know. But I barely got the words out before she was done, so really, she did a very good job.

And then I was ready to push. For me, pushing was a relief. I felt productive. It helped the contractions feel less intense. Pushing was good. I was finally off the fetal monitor, so I was able to try out a variety of positions, which was also wonderful. I kept hearing the nurses and the doctor saying "Wow, she's strong." "For a first time mom, she's really pushing well." It wasn't just meant to be encouraging. It seemed to me that they were honestly quite surprised and impressed. I don't think anyone in the room thought it was a bad omen, I certainly didn't. As I progressed through the second stage the doctor reminded me "When the head is delivered, you need to stop pushing, I'll let you know when you can start again." The last ultrasound, just the previous week, had shown a nucal cord. So I knew our doctor would want to get it untangled before the body was delivered. "Okay," I nodded. The nurses and the doctor talked easily throughout this stage, encouraging me through each contraction. The doctor remarked that our baby had a lot of dark hair, and I thought "She's lying... has she seen this kid's parents?" We are both fair and were both bald as babies. She also told us that she wouldn't tell us the gender of the child, she would let us discover it for ourselves. That was kind of neat, and a different approach than I'd heard of before. When our baby's head was delivered I heard the caution "Okay, now you need to stop pushing." I looked at Amy and panted along with her. That was supposed to keep me from pushing. Then I heard it again: "Stop pushing, you need to stop pushing." I remember saying "I'm not, I'm not... I'm not pushing." Then suddenly at 0544 our baby was delivered and I remember seeing a look of absolute shock and horror on my doctor's face and I thought briefly, "Oh no, the cord!" But before I could really panic, she was in my arms, crying. She had good lungs, good color, good tone. I checked her over. She looked beautiful. Perfect. And sure enough, a good amount of light, reddish hair. I kissed her, noticing two matching stork-bites on each eyelid, and spoke her name over and over. The look of terror on my doctor's face left my mind.  And until she spoke again, I was blissful.

Baby Measles, Late Nights, and Dancing

I just read J's Christmas post (hopefully she'll put it up soon) (here it finally is!) and I was totally humbled. Humbled because of the joy in her words and the freedom she is now experiencing.

I didn't have an altogether easy Christmas season. Not that I've been deep in the throws of depression again, just that stress and anxiety have pulled at me a little stronger over the last few weeks than I thought - than I hoped - they would while sharing Christmas with family. I had about four good hard meltdowns in just over two weeks and I'm on the brink of another one today.

As I sit here typing, I am listening to my daughter crying and to her father trying to calm her and I am spent. We are all sick this week. A. and I both have a pretty nasty cold and our dear little girl, has Roseola, "baby measles." It's no big deal, apparently every baby gets it, but she is miserable. She has not slept well the last few nights and, as a result, neither have I. This morning she woke up at 0230 and we snuggled, she nursed, we played, we watched some TV, and she cried and cried. Finally I woke A. up at about 0500 and he did his best to support us, but she wouldn't go to him, wouldn't eat, wouldn't nurse, wouldn't snuggle, wouldn't take a bottle. Just cried. Finally I got some "Praise Baby" music up on YouTube (my wonderful mom introduced us to it) and she and I slow-danced in the middle of the dining room until she fell asleep.

Sometimes I think things should be easier now. I shouldn't have meltdowns, I shouldn't feel so down... I should be better. I know that everyone has bad days, but it feels like a glimpse back at my life a few months ago, and it's a little scary. But then I realize, after staying up half the night with my daughter, that I am better. No longer to I feel like running, screaming, shaking, drowning... I feel spent and sad, sometimes anxious, often lonely, but much more in control. And the good times are so much better. I can even get up with Little N. at 0230 in the morning and smile at her, talk and sing and dance with her. And that is good.

This was written January 19th, 2014. Took me a little while to get it up.

global mental health

I’m back from the annual Marda Loop Justice Film Festival, hosted by our church here in Calgary. Jem and I went to watch a film called Hidden Pictures which takes a look at global mental health. It was directed by Delaney Ruston, who shares snapshots of the faces mental illness can take on in countries around the world. You can read more about it and watch a trailer here: http://www.hiddenpicturesfilm.com/

Let me tell you first of all that it meant a lot that my husband wanted to come to that film with me. Christie and I are planning to do a series of entries on the best and worst ways to support someone with a mental illness. Showing concern and interest--enough interest to educate yourself about mental illness--is one of the best ways to support someone. Educate yourself, and keep an open mind about it. My husband is an incredible example. Before he married me, he did not have personal experience with mental illness, and he certainly could have come with a lot of preconceptions, and yes, even stigma. But he showed so much grace and empathy and understanding. There were many times I was surprised to hear him voice more clearly than I could have what I was thinking. He kept an open mind, chose to believe that I was still the same woman he married, and was able to see the illness for what it was: an illness, and no choice of mine.

Jem and I came away from the film with a lot to think about, and I came away with a lot of blog material!

This film highlighted the fact that mental illness is not just a first world problem. I've encountered this attitude, one that says essentially: “Your mental disorder is just a 'first-world problem'—the type of pseudo-problem rich people in rich countries like to complain about because they have no other reasons to complain.” That attitude hurts. And it’s just plain wrong. Delaney travels all over the world, including India, South Africa, China, and France, and she finds people suffering with severe mental illness everywhere. I think this shows once again what doctors are telling us: that mental illness is biological, and not just a mental and cultural construct.

Another significant point for me in this film was Delaney's visit to South Africa, where she met a woman who had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. When this woman initially experienced distressing symptoms, her first reaction was to go to a local healer. Traditionally, many Africans interpret every event or situation in life as having a spiritual cause. If an individual gets sick, they wonder who might be jealous of them, who might want to put a curse on them. This South African woman understood her illness in the context of evil and curses. She went to a traditional healer for herbs and incantations that would stop the curse, but it didn't help. Her symptoms only got worse. She finally decided to seek medical help. The effect of the medication she received was immediate, she said, and she is today symptom-free.

Sometimes I think we need what seems to us the blatant errors of another culture to help us see our own cultural blind spots. In Africa, mental illness is overly spiritualized. Often, those with mental illnesses are ostracized, fringe individuals who make easy targets for accusations of witchcraft.

We might not realize it, but our culture, particularly our Christian church culture, also tends to over-spiritualize mental illness. We may not look for the witch who cursed the sick person, or accuse the mentally ill of witchcraft, but we see mental illness as essentially a spiritual problem. A person with an illness like diabetes or cancer will have the freedom to talk about their illness without being judged for being sick. Their church friends will pray for the doctors to have wisdom, for the medications to work, for healing. A person with severe depression on the other hand often faces disapproval and blame, and suggestions that they could be free from depression if they only trusted God more, or read the Bible more, or prayed more. The mentally ill receive prayer not for healing, for treatment, for restoration of the chemical brain balance, but for spiritual deliverance.

When I was first in the hospital for an eating disorder, I was told that I might be under demon oppression. The story I believed was that the obsession with food and weight loss was sin, and I needed to repent and be forgiven. This story filled me with constant guilt and made the recovery that much more complicated. The better, truer story, the story my family and the medical community graciously told me again and again was that I had fallen ill, I had no control over it, and I needed to heal.

This time, when panic attacks, OCD and an anxiety disorder set in, the story told to me was similar: worrying is sinful. Fear is not of God. You are not trusting God as you ought. You clearly don’t believe that He is sovereign and in control. You have allowed the sinful attitude of worry to control your life.

This is not the full or true story of mental illness! Thankfully I and my husband Jem were a little more ready to tell myself the fuller story this time. No, fear and worry are not of God, but we live in a fallen world. The surge of strange hormones and chemicals from the pregnancy had set off the balance in my brain, and filled me with fear and panic. The terrifying experience of a horrendous bout of fever and dehydration during pregnancy, away from my husband and any medical safety nets I was used to had also affected my brain, and I believe left me dealing with some Post Traumatic Stress. It was not my choice to live in fear, but this, as with any other struggle or pain, is an opportunity for me to learn to trust God more.

I had to fight hard for faith. While fear and guilt flooded, I clung to the cross of Christ. And I prayed for healing and sought medical help, just as Christians affected by a variety of illnesses have done for centuries.

Yes, chronic anxiety is a spiritual issue, but only to the same extent as any illness, or any factor of our lives is spiritual. We are spiritual beings, living in a world full of spiritual forces. But as Jesus and Job teach us, sickness is never a necessary indication that we are being disciplined for sin, nor that we are lacking in spiritual disciplines. The Church is far more likely to acknowledge this idea in the face of "normal," "physical" illnesses. The very term "mental illness" suggests that it is NOT physical, and people assume that anything "mental" can be controlled by the spirit of the individual. While we are spiritual beings, we are also physical beings, meaning our spirits and minds are all tangled up in our bodies. So yes, mental illness is mental and spiritual AND physical.

So please, if you know someone who is mentally ill, tell them the true story. And if you have been diagnosed with a mental illness, tell yourself the true story. An illness is never someone's choice, and a mental illness is not an indication of an underlying spiritual issue any more than any "normal" "physical" illness.