My brother’s suicide was the catalyst for my search for truth about God and my life definitely changed for the better once I began a spiritual journey. But several years after attending the little church in Los Angeles, I was still severely mentally ill. I was also suffering from complicated grief over his death. The illness I was suffering from at the time of his death (panic disorder, agoraphobia, and major depression) had not magically disappeared, but there was a lot of unspoken pressure within my church family to be healed so that I could then, win other souls with the stories of my miraculous healing. People thought that with a story like mine, God would use all the pain, heartache, and trauma, to “win souls to Christ,” and if this happened, then all the horrible events I had been through would be deemed worth it. This is what I desperately longed for. Not only for the healing, but that all that pain and heartache would matter. It would have meaning and purpose. The trouble was, although I was getting a little better, I was in no wise “healed.” I still had panic attacks, was still agoraphobic, and still very depressed.
Three years after my brother’s suicide, my father also ended his life and I was also on “scene” for that one (see prior posts for the full story). My mental health took a deep dive, and “psychotic features” was added onto my major depression diagnosis. I eventually got a little better, and attributed it to God (I still do). My husband and I moved away, and found ourselves living in another state, where we began to attend another little church. By this time, my husband had gone back into his addiction, drinking heavily, taking drugs, and chasing other women.
I was trying very hard to overcome my panic disorder and the only way to do that is to do the thing you are avoiding (for fear of the panic) over and over until you know longer feel that intense fear. I decided volunteering my clerical skills at the church would be helpful. It was only a couple hours a day and got me out of the house with a sense of purpose. I had been taught that anything you do voluntarily at your church, you are actually doing for God, so I was game.
The pastor of this church was just a few years older than I was (at the time, early thirties). He knew of my mental health struggles. He knew my husband was drinking and carousing. I looked up to him as a model for what a man should be like. Tall, handsome, spiritual…and he came from a large family. I still remember the tales about annual family reunions that were so large people needed name tags. My family included one cousin and my mom and sister. I envied his wife. One afternoon as I was working on the church bulletin, he came up behind me and began to massage my shoulders. The next day he admitted to falling in love with me. Someone loved me! But I figured I knew how God would feel about something like this, so within a few months I convinced my husband that in order to possibly save our marriage we needed to moved back to California.
Once away from that situation, we both began attending another large church in our new adopted city. My husband continued to drink and lie and date other women. I prayed that if this wasn’t going to change, that God would simply remove him from our lives. One day he lost his job. The next week he had left, moving down to Los Angeles to start a new life.
With my husband gone, I had to think about options. I had never lived alone, and I was frightened. On top of it all, my mother had been diagnosed with esophageal cancer and was dying. Once she was gone, I would become the professed matriarch of our tiny family. She passed away ten months later. Even at thirty-four years old, I felt like an orphan. I went to a well-respected church counselor at my large church for guidance.
“Linda, you need to move out of that house (the house I had rented with my husband, and could no longer afford on my own). “You need to get out, even if it’s to move into the housing projects. You need to get a job…any kind of job, right now…this week!”
My mind reeled with this information. I pictured it all…me moving into a dangerous neighborhood, raising my children around drug addicts and thieves. The best job I could get with no skills was at a fast food restaurant. And I still suffered daily panic attacks. How could I do this? I knew I could end up with a crazy ever-changing work schedule which would hinder me from taking classes at the local community college. I would never be able to improve my life for me and my children. My youngest child was four-years-old. What would I do with my children while I worked? How would I ever better my life? I would never get out, never be able to get an education. I believed I would be trapped in poverty forever.
I woke each morning with these thoughts replaying over and over in my mind. But this advice came from the church counselor, and I believed she wouldn’t be in the position she had on staff at our church if she weren’t thought of as someone who was wise, who heard from God. I had been taught in church that we were supposed to be in submission to those God had put over us (like the pastor and the church counselor). Fear gnawed at me like a dog on a meat bone.
One day I mentioned what she had told me to my pastor’s wife.
“She doesn’t have to live it, does she?” she said softly.
Shock and joy hit me simultaneously. Simple words and it was as if a cage door just flew open and let me out. I didn’t have to blindly obey the church counselor? I won’t bring the wrath of God down on my life? I can actually think for myself? What a concept. Simple, and yet I was forever changed. I actually began to think for myself. I wasn’t perfect at it, and I had much more cognitive dissonance to sift through…but it was a start.
Very powerful!