A Woman Under the Influence: Part 1
“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.” [Romans 8:28]
It’s been exactly one year since my meltdown outside the church and the subsequent journey of navigating life alongside the condition they call “bipolar.” It was Sunday, February 23rd, 2025. Four days before we, i.e. my husband, had received a phone call of good, life-changing news. That night the thoughts swarming in my head would keep me up for hours and hours. Was this just excitement? Anxiety? Perhaps a mix of both? I mean, thoughts keep people up at night all the time, right? My husband was sound asleep, yet here I was tossing and turning, quietly darting back and forth between our bed and my closet prayer space where my notebook lay open to a growing list of grandiose visions and plans. I was also talking to God a lot, and He was talking back to me. I could’ve sworn He was saying, “It’s all happening, Jessie. Everything is about to happen. And it’s happening NOW!”
Sleep deprivation can be a very dangerous thing. I was in the throes of it for four long days and nights, and that final day — that Sunday — came in like a tornado. The countless thoughts that had been racing for days seemed to pile up and converge, whipping up into this storm of confused madness. Sirens sounding all around me, twister barreling toward me, I couldn’t hang on any longer. I found myself in the passenger seat of our white 4Runner, my husband at the wheel frantic, going eastbound on the 134. “I have to get to church,” I had told him. I was carrying this burden — a message of repentance for the church (or the Church capital “C”) — was it? Was it from the Lord or just something my frenzied, sleep-deprived mind stirred up? Maybe a bit of both?
Before I knew it we had reached the church, and the tension inside that vehicle had reached an all-time high. My husband had no idea what I was about to do. I had no idea either to be honest. We were stopped at a red light, and fearing I would jump out of the car, he began to restrain me. He was just trying his best to stop me from doing whatever it was going to be — can I blame him? For some reason after he said, “Don’t make a scene,” I felt that’s exactly what I had to do. Maybe it was the actress in me or, again, the sleep depriving bipolar disorder? I reached for my teal Bible and began to fling it outside the open window. It was a distress call. Immediately, a church volunteer was outside the open driver side window. “Oh, hi,” she peeped with an alarmed but “trying to keep it cool” look on her face and pointed down the street. The light turned green, and we made our way onto the side street, where a churchgoer — someone I knew well — intercepted us at the exact time we pulled up almost as if it were scripted. I was now being restrained on both sides. She peered down at me with the threatening eyes of a schoolteacher and said in a strange way, “It’s not your time yet.” I still am not sure what that meant, but it definitely was a good line.
Playing the part of the distressed, deranged woman, I began to cry for help. Another churchgoer — someone I had maybe met once — passed right on by as he looked me in the eyes. I don’t blame him. The whole scene painted me as the one who had gone crazy and needed to be controlled. Think Gena Rowlands in A Woman Under the Influence. “Help!” I cried out to the next and only person I saw — a young woman (not a churchgoer) standing on the corner, nose in her iPhone. I guess she was cast as an extra because she didn’t even look up at me. It was pretty surreal. Why aren’t there any other people walking around? Is everyone already inside the church?
Soon enough another churchgoer was there informing my husband the authorities had been called. Great, help is on the way! Right? This entire time, while the congregation was inside singing praises to the Lord, I was being held down even to the point where I couldn’t hold it any longer. May as well relieve my bladder right there in the car to add a bit more drama! It may have been at this point that I knew it was time to surrender. My co-stars and I had played our parts beautifully, and the scene had reached its denouement. An overwhelming sense of peace came over me. Looking back on it now, I can say I am so grateful it all played out the way it did. Who knows what would’ve happened if I had made it inside…
INT. CHURCH - MORNING
Our protagonist blazes through the double doors, a ball of fire in her hot pink flower-patterned terrycloth dress. She begins to run up and down the side aisles, crying out.
MABEL
Repent! For the Kingdom
of Heaven is at hand!
She then strips herself of her dress and begins to dance before the Lord with all her might. The congregation looks away in half-respect, half-shame. Those closest to her step away as her husband rushes in to restrain her. We hear the approaching sirens in the background….
Can you imagine? Thank God something like that didn’t happen! I’m sure it wouldn’t have been too disastrous, just embarrassing for me (and my husband) and extremely uncomfortable for the congregants. I do wonder a lot what I would have done if I had been in their shoes — as my husband, my pastor, my dear sister in Christ? Probably the exact same thing. At the time, I felt the church (capital “C” Church, as well) should be a safe welcoming place for everyone at all times no matter what state they may be in. “Come as you are,” right? And at the time, I felt like I was being controlled and suppressed. But wasn’t that the best possible outcome? Those at my church are loving, well-intentioned people, but they are definitely not equipped to deal with someone in that extreme of a condition. They did the only thing they knew to do: call the authorities. I desperately needed help, and the hospital really was the only place I could go. Unfortunately, the help I received there was mixed with a lot of hurt, as well. I’ll get into that in Part 2 ~ Stay tuned!
Comments
Post a Comment