The Stampeding Beast

Modern North Americans are not reluctant to discuss their health conditions. Indeed, the standard greeting in American English is “How are you?” Of course it is a rhetorical question, in most cases, with the usual “Fine thank you, and you?” response expected and offered by most. Still, the topic of one’s aches and pains and maladies is not taboo, especially amongst our aging population…of which I am now officially a member, according to the American Association of Retired Persons. And I am no different from most other people on the downhill side of fifty. I don’t mind sharing about my past surgeries, my routine medical procedures and exams, and how I creak and pop a little more than before whenever I get out of bed in the morning. While I wouldn’t share every detail of my entire medical history with just anybody, my mundane physical ups and downs are more or less an open book.

          But there are other medical struggles that many—perhaps most, if not all—human beings experience regularly, yet we hesitate to admit them. These common afflictions are less visible than the others, sometimes manifesting no outward signs or symptoms at all. But they take their toll nevertheless, leading to stress-induced illnesses that weaken our hearts, mess up our intestines, and affect our capacity to enjoy meaningful relationships with other people. I’m referring to mental illness.

          There is still such a strong taboo associated with mental illness in North America that many people would rather suffer in silence than admit their struggles. Look at how loosely we use the word “crazy” in our language, in both good and bad contexts: “You’re crazy, man!” “That cake was crazy good!” “I was crazy busy at work today.” With such a flippant attitude toward the concept, no wonder people hesitate to articulate that which afflicts them from within. It takes more courage to admit a struggle with mental health than it does to admit a physical ailment, no matter how serious. When someone suffers a physical problem, we blame the problem and empathize with the victim. When someone suffers a mental health struggle, we so often turn the blame on the sufferer. Why is that?

          In centuries past, people with physical deformities or birth defects or chronic illnesses were often said to be punished by God for their sins, therefore they were “unclean,” like the lepers and the hemorrhaging woman in the Bible’s New Testament. And people suffering from mental illnesses were said to be possessed by demons. Those were superstitious explanations for things the ancients couldn’t understand. While there is a remnant of people today who cling to such dark ignorance, even the most religious among us have accepted medical science’s explanations for the things that make us less than healthy. But the specter of that ancient stigma sticks like a tattoo that cannot be erased, thus we often label people suffering from mental illness as unclean. It is no wonder these victims so often keep their battles to themselves…all too often with tragic consequences.

          So it is not easy for me to state that I have struggled with a recurring mental health issue since childhood. It has vexed me for as long as I can remember, never becoming serious enough to interfere with my schoolwork or my jobs, never keeping me from doing the things that I really wanted to do, and never leading me down paths of addiction or self-medication with drugs and alcohol. And yet, it wakes up from dormancy occasionally and goes on a rampage, sort of like that herpes virus I somehow got on my lip in second grade that pops up as a cold sore sometimes when I get sunburned or have a fever.

My anxiety attacks, however, come more frequently than the cold sores. I’m not sure what triggers these episodes; anything and everything, I suppose. This month, August 2014, has been awful: the death by suicide of Robin Williams; the barbaric execution of American journalist James Foley; the suffering of thousands of Christians and other minorities in Iraq at the hands of a brutal extremist group. And these are just a few of the news-worthy items. There are the ongoing stressors, too: my dad is almost ninety; his house has been on the market for a year now; I’m living on my savings as I transition my career; I’m learning technological things many Americans now learn in middle school; the demands my church makes on me increase the longer I attend there; the inescapable contact with people who stress me out. And then there are stressors that I actually volunteer for, such as participating in my church’s drama performances, and taking online classes. There is no single stressor that sets me off, but a collection of small, everyday events and circumstances and people in my life that just pile up on my back until I feel I’m at the breaking point.

          Sometimes it literally feels like a pile of bricks on my back, squeezing my neck and shoulders until they hurt. And the constant feeling of dread in my stomach creates mild gastro-intestinal distress that is annoying and depletes my energy. I have no doubt that my condition affects my blood pressure adversely, and that it causes disturbances in my sleep patterns and affects my metabolism.

          So now that I’ve “come out” as an anxiety sufferer, many concerned friends and relatives will ask, “What can I do to help?” If I knew the answer to that question, I would have already helped myself. And I have a master’s degree in counseling, so I already know what therapists would recommend. I know that exercise, rest, good nutrition, hydration, prayer and/or meditation, and other healthy practices are beneficial for coping with anxiety and other mental health issues. But if you really want to know, here are some suggestions:

1.     Please don’t tell me what I should be doing. I already know that, and when you tell me what I should be doing, it reminds me that I’m not doing it, which sends me into an even deeper tailspin and makes me feel all the worse about myself. Instead, ask me, “What are you doing to cope with your anxiety?” Then if I give you a positive response, you can ask, “How can I help you with that?”

2.     If you sense that I am stressed, please don’t make more demands of me. People like me have a hard time saying no, and that contributes to our stress. Ask me what you will, but don’t expect an immediate response. Give me some time to reflect and respond later. If you must have an answer now, then the answer is “no.” Accept that and please don’t try to convince me otherwise. That will just make me feel more pressured, then I will feel angry, then I will blame myself for feeling angry, then I will retreat and the tailspin will continue.

3.     There are some situations, people, and environments that I find stressful, even under healthy circumstances. Noisy, crowded places are an example of a stressful environment. Boredom, monotony, and repetition stress me out. Whining, complaining people set me off. Of course I recognize that many people whom I find to be stressful are themselves experiencing some sort of mental distress. But when I am feeling vulnerable, I am not the best company for them. That’s not beneficial to them or to me. Please understand when I need to separate myself from these stressors during a time of vulnerability.

4.     My quirks and eccentricities will be magnified during an anxiety episode. For example, I naturally get bored with repetitious activities, so when I’m feeling stressed, I may have even less focus than when I’m in a less anxious state. Please be patient. I may not do things in the most efficient or logical way from some viewpoints, but they will get done, in my way and in my time.

5.     I slip into the grip of my inferior function when I feel stressed. This is Myers-Briggs Type talk, but what it means is this: I am naturally an intuitive-feeling-perceiver (NFP), which means I take in information intuitively, express it emotionally, and act on it holistically and spontaneously. My inferior function, however, is sensing-thinking-judging (STJ). That means if I feel stressed, I will hyper-focus on only that which I can perceive with my five senses, overthink the hell out of it, and then be all anal-retentive about organizing the details to absolute closure. Not me at my best. If you see me doing that, just ask me simply, “Inferior function?” Then help me get back on track to doing what I do best as an NFP: trusting my gut, feeling things out, and going with the flow.

Talking about what’s going on in one’s head is good therapy itself. Some people pay hundreds of dollars per hour to a counseling psychologist for that, others much less getting their hair done or having a margarita. [Note: a competent counseling psychologist is trained to guide the client with effective questioning techniques and insightful comments, so they are worth what they get paid]. Journaling or blogging about it is helpful, too; I feel better just by writing this and explaining about my struggles, what helps and what doesn’t, and what it’s like to experience anxiety on a semi-regular basis.

I know I’m not alone in my struggles. Anxiety is as common as cold sores. Just about everyone gets it to some degree or another. And hundreds of millions of people around the world have circumstances in their lives that are much, much more stressful than mine, so I acknowledge that I am blessed and I am grateful for those blessings. Yet gratitude and humility and concern for the deeper suffering of others won’t completely eradicate my own bouts of anxiety. This may well be something that will afflict me my entire life, as it has some people very close to me. But it doesn’t have to control me. I can corral this beast and keep it contained as much as possible. And perhaps in discussing my own struggles, I can encourage someone else who is suffering in silence to name their beast, face it head on, and ultimately contain its tendency to go on a rampaging stampede through their inner landscape.

Side Trip or Sidetrack?

          In 1988 and again from 1991 to 2002, I taught English as a second or foreign language in South Korea and in various places in the U.S. I enjoyed teaching the English language. It was satisfying to get to know a group of students over a semester or an eight or ten week term. I liked creating learning experiences that were both useful and enjoyable. The conversations with students outside of class time were often stimulating and entertaining, and the cultural excursions were exciting. Put quite simply, it was fun. And for me, it’s important that my work be fun.

          So why did I leave teaching for advising and counseling roles? There were several reasons. Teaching jobs were term-to-term in most cases, not permanent, and although that was more or less in my comfort zone, I felt that the job insecurity caused stress on my relationship with my significant other of that time. There were also no included benefits with the jobs in the U.S., so I had to depend on my significant other’s employee benefits for domestic partners. And the pay wasn’t great. While it would have been enough for me to support myself alone, it wasn’t enough for me to contribute to the lifestyle that seemed important to my significant other. So I sought permanent, full-time jobs with benefits. And, I did have an interest in advising and counseling that pre-dated my relationship with my significant other, so I willingly made the career shift.

          Now I’m more or less done with counseling and looking forward to a new chapter in teaching, this time incorporating more e-learning and multimedia technologies in my practice. I am both excited and nervous, with all sorts of questions spinning in my mind: Will I be able to successfully facilitate learning in my students, helping them reach their educational goals while also fulfilling the expectations of my employer? Will my methods and approaches be outdated? Will I be able to capture and hold the attention of these millennials who have grown up with smart phones and tablets in hand? Will I look like a dinosaur next to the veteran teachers?

          And some of the old concerns have crept back: the insecurity of continued employment from one term to the next; the lack of benefits; the relatively low pay.

          Yet despite these questions and concerns, I wouldn’t go back to counseling unless I absolutely had to. Sitting at a desk in an office all day long; working with students individually one after the other, having the same conversations over and over again; dealing with the stress and drama of departmental and institutional politics; all of that was not for me, no matter how secure the position or how high the pay or how good the benefits. Counseling just didn’t feed my soul. It wasn’t fun at all.

          My faith in God drives me to trust that my Creator loves me and has a plan for me, a plan to prosper me and not to harm me, a plan of hope for my future. Sure, doubts and insecurities sometimes cloud that faith. But if they didn’t, it wouldn’t be faith; it would be certainty, which doesn’t require much faith at all. And without faith, there can be no meaningful relationship with God.

          I believe that in all things, God works for my good. There is good to be found from my years counseling and advising; good that I can bring to the table of my new life as a teacher. A side trip isn’t the same as a sidetrack. I’ll need some time to get back on the teaching track again, for sure, but this time it will feel like a new experience because of the new knowledge I’ve gained. I believe that good awaits me because I’ve consistently encountered good all along my life’s path. In spite of my neurotic anxieties, I don’t expect the path that lies ahead to be any different.

Note: Of great inspiration to me in my decision to return to teaching was Parker J. Palmer’s The Courage to Teach: Exploring the Inner Landscape of a Teacher’s Life, 10^th Anniversary Edition (2007, Jossey-Bass).

A Model Child

          I was a model child growing up. No, really, I was. I seldom got in trouble. I almost always obeyed my parents. I never experimented with drugs, and I didn’t take my first social drink until I was in college. I seldom stayed out past midnight; in fact, I think I got in after midnight only once, when my friend’s car broke down and we had to call her dad to come help us out. I never asked for much money, never wanted expensive clothes, and didn’t participate in extracurricular activities that required a huge investment of time and money on their part. And most of the time, I was kind, patient, generous, and uncomplaining. My parents should be darn thankful they ended up with a kid like me.

          Somewhere along the way after attaining adulthood, though, something happened. I became more self-centered and anxious, and more focused on things and achievements and the opinions of other people of me. As I matured, I became more immature.

          That didn’t just happen to me, apparently. In the workplace I’ve witnessed people who have been professionals in their field for decades acting like spoiled little brats. In a previous institution of higher learning where I worked, there was a small yet vocal contingent of faculty that made no secret of their discomfort with and disapproval of the particular student population I was assigned to serve. Some of them acted as if the sandbox had been taken over by the new kids on the block, and they weren’t going to stand for it, so they pouted and cried and stomped their feet, complaining to “daddy” in the president’s office, not acknowledging that the new kids might actually be fun to play with if given the chance. But they were too focused on deciding who was worthy to be in the sandbox in the first place, playing an “us vs them” game of exclusion and alienation. Needless to say, their attitudes didn’t make those new kids feel very welcomed.

          And I observed similar behaviors from so-called adults in other places, too. Church is one of the worst places for expressions of immaturity; I guess that’s why we’re called the children of God and not the adults of God. People complain about the state of the kitchen, or the condition of the floors, or that the coffee is too weak or too strong. They gripe about how a certain decision was made and carried out. They pout when they feel their feelings haven’t been taken into consideration, when their money (that they have supposedly offered to God already) isn’t being spent in the way they think it should be, when the sermon is too long or too short or doesn’t resonate with them, when they don’t like the style of music, when there’s a glitch in the flow of the service…and the list goes on. Sometimes I think the toddlers should stay in the sanctuary for worship and praise, and anyone over the age of twelve should retreat to the nursery to cry and poop and fight over toys.

          And all this griping and complaining and whining goes on while people around the world are being killed simply for being who they are: ethnic and faith groups in the Middle East and Iraq; young African American men right here in our own country; people caught in the crossfire between political rivals in Eastern Europe; young girls in Nigeria; gay and lesbian people in Africa and the Middle East. While we, the people of God, complain about the style of worship or the strength of our coffee or the administrative practices of our denominations, other people who are just as important to God are suffering in real, life-or-death situations. Shame on us.

          I think as children we have a natural connection with the Divine. For many years I have wondered philosophically, “If our souls exist after we die, then did they exist before we were born?” Many who believe in reincarnation would say yes, but that’s not exactly what I’m talking about here. To me, to die and go to Heaven is to be reunited with God in a purely spiritual sense. So, was my soul with God before I was born? And if so, did I as a child have some sort of spiritual memory of that union that was later corrupted by maturity, by my knowledge of sin, or all of the actions and attitudes that we name as evil in the world?

          Yes, children can be selfish; they can cry and pout when they don’t get their way. They sometimes don’t want to share or play nicely. They can be suspicious of strangers (not always a bad thing, mind you). But they can also be very nonjudgmental, happy for no particular reason, engaged with the world around them with a sense of wonder and curiosity and openness that is enviable. They live in the moment, holding no grudges over past hurts and harboring no fear for the future.

          Maybe that’s why Jesus said that we have to become like little children to enter the realm of Heaven. To me, that has nothing whatsoever to do with a city with streets paved in gold, descending from the clouds to serve as a home for the faithful (however one defines that) and no one else. Rather, it means a state of being, of accepting the realm of God into our hearts so that we can live life more abundant and free in the here and now. It means loving and accepting other people as small children do, before they’ve grown old enough to learn the destructive ways of thinking and doing from the adults in their lives. It means letting go of grudges and hurts and other burdens that keep us from experiencing that abundant and free life. And it means forgiving ourselves as well as others in order to move on unencumbered to be a whole, healthy child of God.

          Boy, that level of immaturity really takes a lot of hard work! Being child-like without being childish is tricky, especially for adults who have had more time in life to be corrupted by the negative, selfish influences in both their outer and inner worlds. I see this in myself, now that I’m over fifty. The farther I get from childhood, the harder it becomes to connect with that inner child. But he’s still in there in my head, somewhere, telling me to grow up without growing up, to be responsible and conscientious without losing my innocence and my joy and my ability to be thankful for simple things. He’s the child who feels happy with those who are happy, and offers comfort to those in distress. He doesn’t drag the past around, and he doesn’t worry about the future. He lets other kids play in his sandbox, and shares his toys, and doesn’t take the last cookie for himself. He is the model child of God, and it may take a lifetime to emulate him. And that’s OK; the point is to never stop trying.

The Call to Love Includes the Mentally Ill

          When I learned of the death of actor and comedian Robin Williams two days ago, my heart ached. I grew up watching Mork and Mindy, and I saw many of his films. And who can forget that memorable, manic voice of the Genie in Disney’s Aladdin? Most recently I watched every episode of his short-lived series The Crazy Ones, enjoying his comedy and his commentary on mental illness and addiction. I wonder if, in some way, that series was autobiographical, to some degree? In the show, he played a genius advertising executive who was a recovering alcoholic and addict, running his agency with the help of his mildly neurotic daughter and three young protégés, each with their own quirks. The series was both hilariously funny and tragically sad at the same time, perhaps like Mr. Williams’ life. And the sadness surrounding his death was all the heavier because this gifted, big-hearted man committed suicide.

          The outpouring of public sympathy has been remarkable. He was a very well-liked man, obviously. But some of the response, much of it from so-called “Christians” sadly, has been vile and despicable. Some of these people claim that Mr. Williams was a coward for choosing suicide. Yes, he made a choice. Everything we do is a choice. We are not automatons running on cruise control. God gave us free will, one of the traits that makes humans reflect the image of God. Our brains are constantly working and processing, forming neural pathways that make associations that lead to thoughts that spur actions.

However, making choices requires judgment, and things beyond our control can impair our judgment. Mr. Williams was diagnosed as bipolar. That means he experienced extreme mood swings from mania to depression. According to webmd.com [http://www.webmd.com/bipolar-disorder/guide/bipolar-disorder-symptoms-types], mania symptoms include “…excessive happiness, excitement, irritability, restlessness, increased energy, less need for sleep, racing thoughts, high sex drive, and a tendency to make grand and unattainable plans.” The depression symptoms described on the website include “…sadness, anxiety, irritability, loss of energy, uncontrolled crying, change in appetite causing weight loss or gain, increased need for sleep, difficulty making decisions, and thoughts of death or suicide.” There is a spectrum of bipolar disorder, from mild to extreme. Like many sufferers of other mental illnesses, some people diagnosed as bipolar self-medicate with drugs and/or alcohol.

People who suffer from mental illness are no more in control of their conditions than people suffering from physical illnesses. So to claim that a person who has been medically diagnosed with a mental illness and who completes suicide is a coward for making such a choice is ignorant and ill-informed at best, and callous and mean-spirited at worst. Those who have struggled with bipolar disorder themselves and survive on a day-to-day basis know from personal experience how heavy the burden of despair can be, how their self-esteem and sense of self-worth can drop to rock bottom. They also know how terribly frightening life can be in the middle of a manic episode, and if not frightening, how awful it is to suddenly drop down from the high of an unexplainable and uncontrollable happiness. Bipolar disorder is a mental roller coaster ride that never stops. And when a person gets so tired of the ride, tragically sometimes the only way off that they can comprehend is death.

It royally pisses me off to hear or read the words of people who claim to be followers of Christ—the reconciler of the world to God, the bringer of the Good News, the lover of our souls—judging and criticizing the mentally ill, claiming that they could control their thoughts and their actions if only they would “get right with God.” Let me ask them this: Are the physically ill not right with God because they are ill? Is all illness, physical or mental, a punishment from God for the sufferer’s wrongdoing?

In my opinion, God has blessed us all to be born in a day and time when we have medical professionals and scientists who help us understand the world we live in and the beings we are. No longer do we exile lepers to the wilderness because they are “unclean.” No more do we burn people at the stake because they suffer from a condition we cannot explain. We do not hide the mentally and physically impaired away in asylums because it makes us uncomfortable to see them (we do, however, very often cast them to the streets and leave them to fend for themselves). We have more access to information than ever before in human history. Information leads to knowledge, and knowledge helps us find the truth.

And the truth is that there are people who cannot help how they are. We who claim to be followers of the way of Christ are not called to judge or condemn, but to love. Robin Williams was loved by many, and I’m sure he knew that, but I wonder if anyone who ever claimed to be a follower of Christ helped him know that God loved him? Or did they only offer judgment and criticism because of his addiction problems? And for some people, might it be possible that, even though they know in their hearts that God loves them, still their brains are incapable of breaking the patterns of thought that are biologically influenced?

God has free will, too. And God doesn’t choose to heal everybody. Just ask anyone who has lost a child to leukemia or cancer or AIDS. I’m sure many of them prayed fervently for their child’s healing, yet it seems that God turned a deaf ear. I personally don’t believe that. The God I know hears everything and understands every pain and knows every detail of every molecule in every human being that ever was, is, and will be. The God I know also knows a whole lot more than I do, and sees the big picture much clearer and wider than I can. So I have to believe that God chooses not to heal every sufferer of mental illness, too, for whatever reasons known only to God. All I know is that God expects me to love and not judge, to seek to understand rather than to explain, to grieve with the grieving and rejoice with the rejoicing. Maybe some people are allowed to suffer so that people like me will learn empathy and compassion, not judgment and condemnation.

Robin Williams’ brain chemistry might have been messed up, but according to many people who met and knew him, he was a kind-hearted, gentle spirit who made people laugh and even became friends with a gorilla (just Google “Robin Williams and Koko” and you’ll learn what I’m referring to here). I’m sure God was very sad that Mr. Williams made the choice that he did, and I’m also sure God knows very well—better than any of us—why Mr. Williams made such a choice. None of us knows why; we cannot know because we cannot get inside the heads of other people and know their thoughts and feelings as if we are they. But God can. God understands pain and suffering because God experienced it through Jesus, who neither judged nor condemned the ill and the outcast, but only loved them, bringing healing to their hearts and hope to their souls. I’m sorry it seems that Mr. Williams didn’t feel that sense of inner healing and hope; or perhaps he did at one time, but his infirmity got in the way. I don’t know, and neither do the Internet trolls out there who are showing such hateful and mean attitudes. So maybe we should all just shut up and let Mr. Williams rest in peace, finally.

If you suffer from any of the symptoms of bipolar disorder described previously, I implore you to seek help. Look online or in your phone book for your local mental health crisis services. If you are having thoughts of death or suicide, call 9-1-1 immediately. If someone you know displays bipolar or other mental health symptoms, please do not be afraid to talk to that person about how they feel. The conversation could save their life.