A Woman Under the Influence: Part 2 

“Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”   _{[Matthew 5:11-12]}

    “God is not a delusion,” reads the powder pink three-by-five notecard. Still tucked away inside the unsealed envelope, it rests in the top drawer of the built-in desk within my prayer closet. I had furiously jotted it down in the middle of the night in the midst of the manic episode that led to my bipolar diagnosis — the one that ended in an ambush outside the church that one fateful Sunday. Even though the thought of God not being a delusion seemed like a random notion at the time, when it sprang up into the foreground of the battlefield that was my mind, I remember feeling like I needed to get it down on record or something like that. I would find out why days later… 

    I heard the sirens approaching. Is that a fire truck? I was confused when it pulled up, but then it made perfect sense in my crazed mind. They are trying to quench the fire of the Holy Spirit. A couple of firefighters from the Pasadena fire station were at my side. “Are you alright, ma’am?” Then, the sound of more sirens: this time, the ambulance. Paramedics were now on the scene. They immediately grabbed me and pulled me up out of the wet seat onto the stretcher. Why do they have to strap me down so tightly? “We’re taking her to Huntington,” they told my husband as they lifted me up into the cabin. How ironic. It wasn’t even two years ago that I took my first ambulance ride to that same hospital, only then I went on my own free will. (A slipped disc in my lower back was so debilitating that I couldn’t even stand. Six-months pregnant, I had an emergency surgery, and the next day I could walk. Thank God for that doctor and those wonderful nurses who took care of me!)

    The paramedic with the blue eyes and the mustache got in and sat down beside me. Wasn’t he the one who lifted my dress up moments before? I did not like him one bit, and he seemed to despise me. He inserted a needle into my left arm, injecting me with something. I’m not sure what. He also seemed to despise his job. He pulled out his phone and began scrolling, his legs spread wide, as the ambulance hurtled forward. Ouch! These straps are too d*mn tight. I gazed out the window slits in the door at slices of bright blue sky and pretty green treetops as we made our way south. I was definitely still buzzing from the manic high, taking everything in through a delirious lens that colored everyone the enemy. I was on a mission from God, and all of these people were trying to thwart that mission. 

    Once we got to the hospital, everyone seemed to hate me there too. “5150” I began to hear echoed through the hallways. I had never heard the term before, or maybe I had but didn’t know what it meant. I was wheeled to the corner of a hallway where I was told I would have to wait until a room became available. At least I was no longer strapped down. I was given a hospital gown and told to change in the restroom just a few steps from my gurney. I was sad to exchange my pink floral terrycloth dress for a plain blue hospital gown, but now I would really look the part. The short bespectacled brunette nurse seemed to especially hate me as she condescendingly responded to my attempts at connection. Thank God she didn’t hang around. The black nurse with the accent stationed close by showed me a bit of kindness by giving me coloring books and a few crayons. 

    I wasn’t the only one going through it. There were two other patients (a young man and woman who both looked like teenagers) who came before me and were each in a room to my right and left. They too were passing the time in pictures. At some point I had to relieve my bladder so I got up. That was Hospital Mistake #1. I was no longer strapped down but that didn’t mean I was free to get up. A couple of nurses ran over like it was a code red and forced me back down into the gurney. The bathroom is right there! What’s the big deal? One of them held me down as the other one pulled out a syringe and plunged the needle into my right thigh. Ouch. First lesson learned: I am not a free person here, and everything must be done with permission. To be honest, I may have been acting a bit defiantly as mania can sometimes make one feel invincible. Well, I definitely wasn’t. I was thankful for a moment of privacy as I locked the door behind me. I sat down on the cold metallic seat, throbbing pain now coursing through my thigh. 

    I lifted up my hand to assess the other source of pain — my engorged breasts. I had already requested a pump. Why does everything take forever here? By this time, my daughter would have already had at least a meal and a half. I prayed to God to help me. It was only by His grace that I would be able to endure this impossible situation. I emerged from the bathroom, collapsing onto my bed. I was in desperate need of rest, and everything seemed to be shutting down now. Finally.  

    I have no idea how long I was out, but long enough for my dream to come true. Those stark hospital walls trembled violently, as the entire hospital staff was either buried or fled. I imagine it was like the time Paul and Silas were imprisoned and God shook the earth so hard that the gates flung open and their shackles fell off. This was divine, no doubt about it. We were not mentally ill. In one definitive moment we had become our true selves — Artists — and those walls were our canvases. God had set us free. We began to cover every square inch of surface with color and shape and form — all glorious visions. No longer bound by paper and eight basic crayons, our creativity fully came alive. I got carried away in it all… 

    I woke up. Back to reality, back to my word search and coloring books. Drugged and dazed, I couldn’t remember a time I had been more drained than this. I definitely hadn’t caught up on all that lost sleep. I looked up as a nurse from the maternity ward was wheeling an ancient breast pump to my bedside. Hallelujah. “It was difficult to get this for you,” she conceded, noting the communication (or lack thereof) between departments. I’m not sure why it took so long. Maybe they were poorly staffed, maybe there were too many needy patients, or maybe, just maybe they all hated me. Regardless, I thanked God for pulling through for me. The semi-kind nurse stationed close by helped me up and over to the restroom. I was so weak that I could hardly stay up on my own. I sunk down onto that cold metallic seat and leaned against the wall as the nurse shut the door. Fumbling with the pumping parts and barely able to keep my eyes open, I mustered enough strength to drain my breasts of all that milk. What a waste, but finally relief! 

    I returned to my bed and began to drop into another drug-induced sleep. At some point I woke up again, and at last, it was time to meet him — the one who hated me most. “Hello, Mrs. Her.” I looked up at the towering figure who took his position across from me, clipboard in hand, eyes fixed upon it. I said something warm and friendly like, “Hi, nice to meet you,” with a smile on my face. “Do you know why you’re here?” he asked, again without looking up. I began to say something about the church, and he cut me off. What the heck is this guy’s problem? “Your room should be ready shortly.” He turned and walked off. Well, okay then. By now the drugs had taken their effect, and I no longer was in a deranged state (although I was still on mission for God). Any person in their right mind would agree — that doctor hated my guts. 

    By the time I finally made it down to the psych ward, it was nighttime. The nurse escorted me to the very first room on the right. Against the far wall, two nightstands stood in between two twin beds, a band of high windows stretching across its length. Finally, a glimpse into the outside world! A woman emerged from the bathroom, which was inside the room close to the door. At the sight of me, she erupted in violent outbursts. Clearly, she was already a highly disturbed individual, and me being there was even more disturbing to her. I considered delivering her right then and there in the power of the Holy Spirit, and I possibly would have attempted to had I still been in my full-blown manic state. However, fear seized me, and I quickly walked out to find the nurse who was more than happy to move me. She led me to a room further down the hallway with the exact same set-up as the first. Only its walls were adorned with hand-drawn pictures and colorful pages torn from books. The atmosphere was calm and peaceful. I instantly felt at ease. I exchanged “good night”’s with my new roommate Cheryl who I could tell was a total sweetheart. I fell asleep quickly thanks to the medication. 

    The next day, I got up and fell right into the routine: first, breakfast followed by art or music therapy; then, lunch followed by outdoor recreation (if we were lucky); and, finally, dinner followed by bedtime. I remember passing the time coloring and writing, conversing with the other women in the ward, and constantly trying to connect with people (my husband, my mom, my dad, my cousin) over the landline that was down the halfway and free to use. I also was able to pump milk a few times throughout the day in the quiet room, a private space reserved for special occasions as I would soon find out. The staff came by three times a day with medication, which I refused. It was indeed my right, but what I learned was that the hospital could take me to trial after the mandatory 72-hour hold if I did not comply. That didn’t make me back down. I remember telling God that this would be the hill I would die on. I didn’t trust the medication nor did I agree with it on a philosophical level. There was no way I would be forced to do something against my conscience, and I would fight it at all cost. 

    There were some silver linings to the whole experience, and I knew that God had me in there for a reason. I was able to get my hands on a Bible, and I tried to read it and pray as much as possible. I also able to meet with the chaplain, and we prayed together. Most of the women on the floor loved God, and we prayed together, too. There was a lot of praying being done because I knew that would be the key to not only maintaining my peace and strength but to ultimately getting out of there. We shared our stories and our poetry over coloring books, and I genuinely enjoyed their company. These were women I would not otherwise connect with in my day-to-day life. I learned that most of them were in there voluntarily and had spent time at the hospital before. Life had gotten too hard, too stressful, and they just needed a break. I felt compassion for one of the women in particular, a forty-something mother who had reached her breaking point. She did not know the Lord, so I tried to encourage her and share about Jesus. The disturbed woman stayed disturbed. I could tell she had been raped based on her spasms. I knew she desperately needed deliverance and healing but I didn’t have the courage to approach her.

    The next day, I had to face the doctor for what would be the second and last time — thank God. He was waiting for me inside the room I had met with the chaplain the previous day (on much more pleasant terms). I entered alone — Hospital Mistake #2. The door closed behind me, and I took a seat opposite him on the other side of the table. “Do you know why you’re here?” he asked, contempt on his face and in his voice. Didn’t he ask me this when I met him? It seemed like a threat the way he said it this time, a test at the very least. I began, “I was outside the church, but I hadn’t been sleeping for days, so I was a little —” He cut me off, and stated bluntly, “God is a delusion, and you believe in God, therefore you are delusional.” 

    Yes, he really said that. I still can’t believe he really said that. Aside from the logical fallacy, there are obvious ethical implications here. Like sure, I get thinking it if you’re a quote-unquote “atheist,” but to not only dismiss me, a patient under your “care,” for having a different opinion from you but to wield that over me as a weapon, to lock me up and drug me — well, you the reader see my point. Surely, they should revoke this guy’s license. I blinked once, and looking him directly in the eyes, I replied, “Well, I don’t think we’re going to get very far in this conversation.” Looking back, I wish I had brought that pink three-by-five notecard with me to the hospital and without a word simply slid it over to him across the table. He would have picked it up and read, “God is not a delusion. He is God — and you probably haven’t taken the time to actually get to know HIM. Bc if you had, your life would also be in technicolor.” I wonder what his reaction would’ve been. Probably the same. He immediately jumped up from his chair and swung the door open violently. “This woman has threatened me,” he barked at the staff out in the hall. If I may remind you, this man was a tower at easily six foot five! 

    Two of the nurses seized me, dragging me towards the quiet room with a few more nurses in tow because I obviously posed a serious threat. (I am rolling my eyes as I type this.) I felt like a rag doll in the hands of savage children. They flopped me down onto the bare hospital bed (or was it more like a stainless steel table?) that stood alone in the back room, and jabbed me yet again. I let out a primal scream more in reaction to the injustice than to the physical pain, although, it was really painful, and I wondered how long this new pain would throb through my body. It all happened so fast. There was no time to object, no time to plead my case, no time to watch the playback. Of course, this was not a place that honored truth, nor the dignity of a fellow human being for that matter. This was a psychiatric hospital. 

Looking back on the scene, I wish I had remained as silent as our Savior led to the slaughter, but I suppose I am only human — and quite dramatic I must admit. And to be persecuted for my faith — what a blessing that truly is. Since the beginning of time, there have been countless people who have walked this earth hating God and hating His people. I may have been surprised at the doctor’s audacity at the time, but I am certainly not surprised by his hatred towards me. Fortunately, things made a turn in my favor (thanks be to God!), and I was released the following day. Apparently, all it took was a phone call from my husband demanding I be let out. It had been a long, grueling seventy-two hours, some of the most difficult of my life. Yet, it was all worth it. I left changed and with a powerful story to tell, a testimony: My God is faithful. He was with me the entire time, and He always will be. He didn’t forsake me, and He never will. Thank you, Jesus.