Proclaiming Freedom

In All Honesty

I fought demons of depression long after surrendering my heart to the Lord. However, the Holy Spirit was always there to keep me from “throwing in the towel.” I struggled with self-loathing because I thought Christians were supposed to be stronger. I begged God to heal me many times, even though I had no idea what was wrong with me. I was exhausted from feeling stuck while everyone else seemed to be moving forward. I had been a believer for seventeen years when I was hospitalized for anxiety and depression. I left the hospital five weeks later, taking Lithium and Prozac.

I took those meds for ten years, then I decided I was healed. The psychiatrist started weaning me off once I convinced her I no longer needed the medication.

Even though my emotional state resembled a roller coaster, I kept believing I was healed. But eight months later, I spiraled downward and felt trapped in a pit. Panic hit me with the force of a steamroller. I was so sick to my stomach from anxiety that my weight was dropping like flies. Despite my best efforts to eat, I only weighed ninety-eight pounds. I couldn’t pray or read my Bible because I was afraid of God. It felt like I was hanging on by my fingernails as they switched me from one medication to another, offering no relief. The chemicals in my brain cascaded, each one disrupting the overall balance. It was not a quick fix. It took almost two years for the cloud to lift.

Six years later, I tanked again, and it took another two years to make a comeback. That was nerve-racking but not nearly as gut-wrenching as the emotional upheaval that launched five years after that.

Before the turbulence began, I had a major clash with my husband. Frustrated, I threw everything from the kitchen table onto the floor. When Dan bent down to pick something up, I hit him over the head with my hand. Some people call that a sucker punch. Long story short, he called the cops, and I ended up in the psychiatric ward.

When the police arrived, I was sitting on the floor, screaming, I want to talk to Youla! I had just started counseling with her and was hoping she could rescue me. But the real kicker came when the officer got her on the phone, and she told him to take me to Northwood! For someone who has a fear of authority figures, I can’t believe I told those cops I hated them, and I was not going anywhere!

Do you know how embarrassing it is to be escorted by the police through the hospital in the middle of the day while wearing pajamas? Not only did they refuse to let me get dressed, but they wouldn’t even allow me to use the bathroom unless an officer was present. Well, that wasn’t happening!

After I was admitted, they tried to assess me, but I didn’t want to talk, so I wouldn’t engage in any reasonable dialogue. I sat there silently, my face emotionless. Hearing, I pretended not to hear. Finally, the man said, You know, when you won’t answer my questions, it makes me think you’re hiding something. I replied, No, I’m not answering your questions because if I answer your questions, you’ll ask me more questions, and I’m tired. I don’t feel like talking.

When I saw the psychiatrist the next day, I walked out on him and slammed his door with all my might! My counselor showed up the following morning and said, You will get out of here sooner if you cooperate. So, I started collaborating, and the doctor linked my meltdown to my medications. He took me off them and started me on a low dose of something new. When I was released, I was told to follow up with my doctor to have it adjusted. But I’m a little slow on the uptake. I didn’t think I needed to.

After I left the hospital, I stayed with my daughter for two months before renting an apartment. For the next six months, everything felt like sunshine and rainbows. But then, out of nowhere, fear and dread started creeping in. I didn’t recognize the warning signals until I was hit with a panic attack! Then I was scared spitless because I knew where this was headed! I tried to get an appointment with my psychiatrist, but she was booked three months out! I told the scheduler. I will NEVER make it! So, she arranged for me to be in the Day Program in a psych ward. When the doctor saw what I was taking, he said the dosage was so low I might as well not have taken anything.

I was such a total wreck that it sent me running straight back to my husband. I couldn’t have gotten through those next few years without him. Every negative symptom came back with a vengeance. I felt nauseous day after day from anxiety. I suffered from debilitating depression. Irrational fears overrode all logic. Even running water could trigger a panic attack.

Feeling chronically exhausted, I dragged myself out of bed at three o’clock in the afternoon to get ready for work. Then, I would cry because I did not want to go. The only thing that kept me from quitting my job was the fear that my condition would worsen. If my life became any more unbearable, I was afraid I might end it!