Secret Confessions of a Former Nun

I have a confession to make: I am terrified of nuns. How strange! I don't like seeing them, I avoid meeting them, and I am terrified of speaking to them. It's not because I am unfamiliar with them; rather the opposite is true. I am very familiar with nuns. How could I not be? I spent two years in a contemplative convent. I became a novice. I wore a habit. I joined in with every aspect of convent life.

All this should make me comfortable with nuns, right? They are holy people, women set apart by God for a special calling. But my dreams are filled with women, who although wearing habits, act any way but holy. I have nightmares of critical sisters, watching me, demanding things of me, punishing me. And I wake in terror, roll over to see my husband peacefully asleep. And I realise I am free of the nuns, and have been for nine years. I am not a nun. And I never have to go back. No longer am I under the rules of a convent; I am free.

I have escaped in every way. Except in my head.

How awful to describe my exit from a convent as an escape! Surely I am being hyperbolic? To answer that, I must take you back with me to when I was 18, a confused but idealistic teenager ready to give her life for God.

I remember being 18. I was, to put it kindly, a bit of a mess. I was aimless, not sure of my path in life. I guess, really, I wasn't that different to hundreds of other teenagers. But I felt unique among my peers. They all seemed happy, busy studying hard, learning to drive, doing all those things that normal teenagers do. I never seemed able to concentrate on any one thing for long. I was also stressed at home, as I felt I was falling short of my mum's expectations (something I discussed in my last post).

But I was also a very religious teen. And it entered my head that maybe I felt so out of place because I wasn't truly in my right place. Maybe I wasn't meant to be at home in the world at all? I knew religious life was a huge sacrifice, but the more I thought about it, the more I was comfortable with the idea. Surely such a sacrifice was more than compensated for if I felt I belonged?

So I started searching. I won't tell you where I went, but eventually I found a convent of contemplative nuns. They were, to put it mildly, very traditional. And I went to stay there for a week. They seemed like lovely people, from what I could gather from observing a set of silent people. The beautiful habits, the wonderful singing of the Psalms, the grace of the nuns' demeanors and the silent worship of the Eucharist captured my imagination. I wanted to be a part of it.

I left home and went there, fully expecting to stay forever. I gave away all my belongings, said my goodbyes, and was installed into a little brick cell that was to be my home for the next two years. It had bars on the window. But I wasn't put off. I was ready to give my life for God, and nothing was going to stop me! But before too long, although my stubborn nature never gave up the idea of living as a nun, I began to make some awful discoveries, both about myself, and about the culture of the people I was living with. 

Firstly, myself. I was a difficult teen when I was at home, and I was not a magically new person in the convent. I struggled with myself constantly. I was homesick, then crazily manic, then suicidally depressed. I was, as I have said in other posts, grappling with the realities of an emerging mental illness. Not that i realised it. It seemed to me that I was just a bad person. And as I constantly found myself in a position of having having to apologise for myself, of having to push myself to do things that my nature seemed to be rebelling against, I began to hate the person I was.

Maybe it was because I was so difficult to be around, but I never felt well-liked among the other nuns. Every time I failed to obey the rules, every time I had to apologise for my failings, I saw them looking at me in disappointment, and, in some cases, irritation. It hurt. I had to realise that they were people too. The "holy nuns" were just people, trying to do their best, but not always able to cope with the moody, impulsive, tearful teen in their midst.

The rules didn't help either. The incredibly strict rule of life had me up from 5 in the morning to late at night. I was constantly exhausted. So were the other nuns. The rule of silence meant I could never talk through what was going on in my head, but was instead left to stew in my own emotions. And we had to work so hard! In the last part of my time at the convent, I was made cook. Imagine a 19 year old trying to sort out meals for 12 people everyday! I saw other sisters get far lighter duties. Maybe it was a mark of faith in me that they thought I was capable of such a huge task, but to me, it felt like a punishment.

And punishments came to me thick and fast. The nuns had a custom called the Chapter of Faults. Once a week, you were meant to kneel in front of all the other sisters and confess all the times you had broken the rules. Then you were given a penance to do. I always had a grocery list of faults. Running, talking, leaving prayer early... I was always confessing something. And it felt like a humiliation every time as I brought everyone's attention again to my faults as a nun.

I was so lonely there. The only contact I had with people was through letters ad the brief visits of my family. None of my friends ever came to visit. And even with those moments of contact, I felt isolated. I felt I had to present an image to everyone of someone who was well-adjusted, happy, content. When I wanted to reach out, I didn't know how to. 

Of course, there were good times. I learnt a lot. I enjoyed studying, singing and garden work (although I was awful at it!). I gained the reputation of being a bit of a prankster. But over it all was the growing realisation that I wasn't developing into the person the convent wanted, but rather I was collapsing into an emotional wreck.

It wasn't my choice to leave the convent. In my stubborness, it took the Mother General of the convent to make me leave. I felt I had failed. And I felt rejected personally by the convent. They never contacted me again after I left. They never wanted to see if I was alright, if I survived as a person. Of course, they had no obligation to, but after directing my life for two years, it would have been nice had they shown some interest in how I was doing.

After I left, I agonised for a long time over whether I should go back. Was it something I needed to do, or was I forcing myself into a hole that didn't fit? When I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I got my answer. They didn't accept mentally ill sisters. So I was able to get on with my life, facing the challenges of a new life sentence. I didn't need to bear it alone for long, as well. I met my husband, and a new range of opportunities and experiences opened up for me.

But I still dream of the nuns. They are in my head. I have flashbacks, too, sudden memories that drag me right back to my time in the convent. And in those memories, in those dreams, I am 18 again. Frightened, confused and alone, while struggling to cope with a new and unforgiving environment. And when I do that, I cry.

Maybe I will be able to lessen the impact of those memories. Time hasn't seemed to dull them. I am going to go to counselling, to try to do what I was never able to do in the convent - talk freely and honestly about my experiences and feelings. In the meantime, I am afraid of nuns. Not of them personally, but of what they bring up for me. 

I hope for a day when I can see nuns and not feel this way. I long for a time when I will finally be free.

Peace Be To You

As far as I can tell, all people strive for something. At its most basic level, that drive seems to be a desire for internal peace. Of course, that desire is pursued through whatever means each individual thinks will achieve it:

"When I have the respect of my peers, I will be truly at peace."

"When God and I are at peace fully, then I will be at true peace with myself."

"When I am financially independent, then I will be at peace..."

...and so on and so forth, with each aim having a lesser or greater effect on how the person feels about themselves. Some are very helpful, while others are detrimental in the long run.

This drive never seems to go away. People can resign themselves to failure, or attempt to forget, or mask their need with self-medication, but I honestly don't think there is a person in the world who would refuse to be at peace should they find the way to achieve it. Our hearts may be restless until they rest in God, as St Augustine says, but I think our hearts cannot rest in God until we have learnt to love His creation which is ourselves. And each person has a deep need to accept and better themselves.

I know I am not at peace. I want to be a better person, more generous, loving and intelligent. I want to look at myself and think: that is Felicity. She's a good person, who has made peace with her past, has a purpose in her present and has a plan for her future. She's good and funny and does all the right stuff. I like her.

I don't look at myself like that, however, and maybe I never have. I strive, and have always striven, through many misguided attempts, to be a better person, or at least to forget I cared, but I can't. As I began my teens, I wanted to be perfect. Throughout my teen years, I think I would have settled for normality or stability. As I ended my teens, I thought I would achieve peace through sacrificing my life in the convent. But I failed at any of those things.

At all times, no matter what I thought I was striving for, I vacillated between two behaviours. One was this intense effort - a huge determination to do whatever it took to be successful. I would do whatever it took to do the right thing. If that meant leaving home to go to the convent, then so be it. Whatever it took, I would be ready. I was a superhero, an over-achiever, a perfectionist and a martyr.

And then there was the other behaviour, the one that emerged when these superhuman efforts failed. I would cry, and wallow in self-pity. I would mourn my failure and then try to numb the sting with escapism and self-medication. I would read obsessively and cram sugary foods into my mouth. And at my darkest hours, I would dream of ending it all, of finally turning my back on my life's struggles and going where there would be no more decisions and all successes and failures are finally weighed.

In my early twenties, I was diagnosed with mental illness, and the roots of these behaviours became more clear. But understanding my failures didn't make them sting less. I became angry that a mental illness seemed to be destroying my efforts to do anything. By the time I started reaching an understanding of myself, I was housebound, so anxious I couldn't even go to the kitchen to make myself a sandwich if someone else was in the house to see me.

It's hard being a driven person without the tools to succeed. To have a massive desire to be good, loved and successful, and then to find that my ability to achieve seems to be far smaller than my desire or efforts! It seemed that no matter how loudly I proclaimed my desire to do well, I would always end up being betrayed by emotions that were too strong, and behaviours that were too far-ingrained. 

But I began to wonder how important these things had wanted to achieve even were. So I was never going to be perfect, or normal, or emotionally stable. Were they going to make me happy? What was? And I realised I wanted to be at peace, just as I was.

I still strive. These days, however, my plans involve a series of very mundane and often seemingly simple tasks. I realise I'm not going to become happy in one enormous effort, and that those efforts set me up to be catapulted into a terrible emotional state. Today, I strive to build myself up in little steps. These little steps include making dinner, doing washing or making sure I take my medication - they are that small.

These little steps are important. I try to do things well, so I can be proud of them. I try to build on skills. I dream of being a regular person, with normal emotions, and a job, and stability and responsibility. But in the meantime, I want to be happy with how I am right now too. I want to be happy that I am trying, maybe not always succeeding, but always trying to hold onto the knowledge that I am going forwards in tiny little steps.

Mental illness has stopped me from doing many things in life. I don't have a degree, or a driver's license or a house or a job. In fact, I look like a failure from an outside perspective. But it also made me re-examine what I truly wanted out of life. It made me focus on what is most important to me. I want to be at peace. I want to have good relationships, to live a life without guilt and be working towards a better future.

I might have a lot of obstacles in my way, but I am going to overcome them, one teeny-tiny step at a time. And even if I can't, I'm a good person for wanting to try. 

Unemployed

Well, I'm unemployed. And I feel bad about it. Only last night, Graham and I were talking about renting a house (currently we're living with his parents, which is very kind of them). We came to the conclusion, that even though he has just started a brand-new full-time job, we cannot afford to rent a house on our own on just his wage.

I felt like crying when I first realised this. I felt so guilty. Graham works so hard to support us, and I've been unemployed for four months now. It's not because I can't find a job, either. Although I don't have many qualifications, several years of working in cafes means that I can get most jobs in hospitality. No, the reason I'm not working is because I am quite sick. My bipolar disorder makes working very difficult, especially in the hospitality industry. Who knew that working in a fast, noisy, high-stress, low-paid job would be detrimental to mental health?


I left my last job because it was so demanding; I was having panic attacks in the bathroom, and shaking so badly that I was spilling coffees on customers. I was crying before going to work, crying after work, and dreading the next rostered shift. So when my doctor told me to take three months off, I jumped at it.


One month after the doctor's ordered time has expired, here I am, still unemployed. Its pretty awful. While it might seem great to have time to oneself everyday  - time to rest and relax - I can never quite enjoy it. I feel guilty over not working, so I try to compensate by cleaning and cooking. This tires me, and then I feel sick from worry and work. It's hard to let go, and just realise that I may never work to the capacity of other people ever again.


And then there's trying to explain my lack of working to other people. It's difficult, when meeting new people, to realise that I no longer have a job with which to describe myself. What do I say I do? I'm a professional sleeper-inner? I occasionally write blog posts and create digital art? I'm a champion dinner cook? I don't even feel comfortable describing myself as a housewife; it's not my house, after all, and (at least for me) the words "housewife" describe someone who keeps their home spotlessly neat and clean. That doesn't really fit me, somehow.


Even if I muster the courage to say I'm unemployed, that leads to all sorts of other questions and implications. "Unemployed" could mean a professional seeking new and better employment, but I'm not looking for a job. It could just as well mean a lazy dole-bludger. It's hard to deny that that is what I am, when I have a sneaky feeling that I should be doing more.


So usually I end up telling people about my bipolar disorder. It makes me sound semi-crippled, which I hate, but I'd rather sound disabled than lazy. Either way, I feel less than other people, a person who is always asking for special treatment and consideration from others. Whether I deserve it or not, doesn't matter to me. I used to pride myself on my self-sufficiency. Now I'm dependent on my husband and his family.


I guess one day I'll feel better about this whole situation. Maybe I'll get better, or I'll start a family, or maybe I'll just learn to accept my limitations graciously. Until then, my goal is just to reduce my expectations of what I can do, and to be satisfied that, if I do my best, that that is good enough.

Insomnia

Today I am feeling manic, and that means I am finding it hard to sleep. Yesterday, I was awake all day, and when Graham went to bed, I just didn't feel like sleeping too. Of course, I did try, but after a couple of hours, I realised my body just wasn't going to cooperate. At other points in my life this has been really frustrating, as I used to worry about being alert for work, but at the moment, as I'm unemployed (or funemployed, as I've heard it termed), I am really not bothered. In fact, I've found some real benefits to being awake when others are asleep. Benefits I want to share with you for the next time you also may be experiencing insomnia.


I'm not talking about the tired insomnia brought on by worry and stress. No, when I'm happy manic, I am awake through an overabundance of energy. My body insists I stay awake, as if there was something really really exciting about to happen at 2 AM. I never know what that thing may be, but it is definitely exciting, as if Christmas, my birthday and my best friends' visit were all the next day, and I am waiting for them whilst hopped up on caffeine and sugar. I feel that much anticipation, and I need to do something, anything, to pass the time. Here's some of the things I have found that are better when done in the middle of the night:


I can listen to any music I like, without worrying about boring anyone else. Graham is very tolerant of my listening habits, but it's nice to know after he's asleep that no-one is going to be worried if I obsess about a particular song. I can play Owl City's "Saltwater Room" 10 times in a row if I want, and no-one can stop me!


I can go outside in the dark. It's summer here in Perth, and the nights rarely fall below 25 degrees Celsius. Perfect for sitting outside looking at the stars. I love the stars, even though I can only identify one constellation, and I don't even know what that's called. I can't even find the Southern Cross - and, seriously, when one looks for that, EVERYTHING seems to form the cross shape. How am I meant to find it then?


I can also go in the pool if I want. I mean, I never put my swimming costume on and get in properly (what if there's monsters in the pool filter?!), but I am perfectly fine with dipping my feet in while I drink a cold drink. No sunburn, no unbearable heat, just a comforting warm and the cool of the water. And that cold drink? Well, that leads me to my next point.


I can raid the fridge, and no-one will bother me. Seeing as I get my sleep during the daylight hours while Graham is at work, dinner becomes my breakfast, and my other two meals consist of whatever I can find in the pantry or fridge. Am I really hungry? I can make custard with bananas from scratch if I want, or soup, or leftovers. I do have to be careful about the microwave noise, but I've become an expert at stopping it before it makes that loud "ding!" noise at the end. Am I just hot and bothered? I can raid the freezer for icypoles, or drink that last soft drink in the fridge without feeling guilty that I'm depriving someone else. 


I can watch all the YouTube videos I want after midnight. Free internet is awesome! And I can watch all the episodes of Life In Cold Blood back to back if I want, or get creeped out by the parasites in Monsters Inside Me, or catch up on episodes of My Little Pony. Anything too big for me to download during the day, every show Graham's not interested in watching, it goes on my insomnia list.


I find it easier to think at night. Somehow, I get the best blog posts after midnight. And I have lots of quiet time in which to type. And when I find I need a break, I just surf the net, or open Photoshop for some art time, or watch the PowerPuff Girls. All those things I find I feel slightly guilty about doing during the day, when washing and cleaning and other jobs await me.


I have heaps of time in which to have a loooong shower. No one else needs the hot water, and I have the bathroom all to myself. I can spend an hour plucking my eyebrows if I want, or just enjoy sitting in the shower. (I do know the shower makes noise, but it is at the opposite end of the house to all the occupied bedrooms, so I feel ok about doing this.)


And of course, there are all the usual benefits of being up late at night. No telemarketers call, the dogs are sleepy, and the house is quiet. It's peaceful, and I enjoy it. Really, the only downside is that when I want to talk with people, I have to wait for them to be awake. I don't think people appreciate it if I call them in the very early morning.


In this way, I spend my sleepless nights. I keep myself busy until 5 AM, when Graham's alarm goes off, and I jump back into bed for a quick cuddle. He then goes for his shower, while I, all clean and cool and finally tired, stretch out in the middle of the queen bed... and finally go to sleep. I sleep for 8 to 10 hours, and then wake up, refreshed and alert, as Graham arrives home from work.


Insomnia is not ideal. I would live my life without it if I could. But it's nice at this time that I am able to enjoy some aspects of being awake when the rest of the world is sleeping. Next time you are unable to sleep, try some of things I mentioned - somehow these experiences are different at night! Or simply see if I am awake to commiserate with you. Because if I miss anything during my manic vigils, it is friends to share them with.

Who Am I, And To What End Do I Live?

I think I became a stoic by accident at the age of twelve. I had heard of the philosophical views of the Stoics (I was quite a reader), yet I didn't decide to live like that. It just happened. My brother died one day after birth, and I needed to survive somehow. While most of my family went through the natural process of grieving and healing, with the exception of my siblings who were too young to understand, I wanted to be strong. I wanted to be dependable, in order to help my family. So I denied my grief, squashed my emotions down as best a 12 year old can, and plodded on, determined to be a good, helpful child.

My family are devoted Catholics, and I know that their faith was, if shaken at first, only deepened by the experience, as they worked through their shock and grief to find healing in prayer. Grief tends to do that to people; either they find greater meaning in their faith through it, or they abandon faith altogether. As for me, I began thinking about God differently. I didn't ever doubt He was there, nor did I feel tempted to turn my back on Him. Instead, I told myself God did everything for the best. I didn't feel loved by Him, so much as I felt I needed to be strong to endure whatever else He had to throw at me. I gave up on trying to make sense of the whole situation, and just concentrated on enduring.

As I grew older, I ceased to feel as if I was loved by God and others just for who I was. Instead, my belief that God was distant led me to believe that if I could just become virtuous enough, maybe He would come to love me. I guess I thought I could achieve peace through practising religion. So I would pray and try to conform my life exactly to the rules of the Catholic Church. I became set on obedience, and I was ready to sacrifice whatever it took. I think I began to consider myself as more of a thing than a person, something that could achieve recognition through successes, but that had no intrinsic value of its own. 

I've mentioned often before that I found my emotions a hindrance and an obstacle as I grew out of being a teenager into young adulthood. I found negative emotions driving me to do things I logically didn't want to do. I perceived my emotions as being unwanted, a barrier between me and my ideal identity, that of an in-control, virtuous, rational woman. So I crushed them down. If I could have had them surgically removed, I think I would have. I prided myself on being unattached to physical things, and on having a clear and logical mind, and emotions just seemed like unnecessary baggage to carry around.

While I was in the convent, this desire to be emotionless, a person driven by logic and obedience, only seemed to be reinforced. I did my best to ignore the needs of my body and emotions, driving myself to the point of physical collapse in order to do everything prescribed by the convent Rule. I never considered that God might not want me to hurt myself in order to obey, but simply accepted the rigorous life as another God-given suffering to endure.

My body didn't really cope with the physical demands of religious life, but I took that as a necessary suffering. I used to look at one sister who had very plain signs of a mental illness, and I would think that I could accept any physical suffering, so long as my mind never went. I was absolutely fine with the idea of physical disability or death, but to lose my mind? I would think of my deceased grandmother, who eventually lost the ability to remember certain words, and who would forget to check the use-by dates on packets of food, and I was terrified I would one day lose control of my own mind.

It was ironic, therefore, that my desire to be a stoical, intellect-driven, successful person was shattered when my wayward emotions asserted themselves, pushing me into full-fledged mental illness. All my self-worth, based on my mastery of myself and on the achievement of religious life, was destroyed. I was asked to leave the convent, and worse, I found myself at home with no identity, no path in life, and a mind that was fractured with violent emotions I had seemingly no control over.

I think I spent some time just trying to endure this new pain. I felt broken, a shell of a person whose main purpose in life was simply to survive each coming day. Instead of being proud of my achievements, I slipped into self-hatred. I suppose I still thought of myself as a thing, and a thing that had out-lived its usefulness at that. I felt I had used up all of my energy and resources, only to be cast away because I couldn't live up to this perceived ideal. I was mentally sick, and I couldn't think clearly like I used to. I was battered by emotions I couldn't control, and therefore I found my physical self also out of control, one day full of boundless nervous energy, and the next day lethargic in the midst of deep depression. I had nothing left to take pride in, and I wanted to die.

There were two things that helped restore my self-worth. One was medical help, where through a combination of counselling and medication, I was shown how to gently control my emotions and to listen to what they were telling me. As I began to heal mentally, I found my mind growing clearer, and my health improving. On top of that, I found myself enjoying so many things I had simply ignored before; the sun as it dipped below the horizon of the ocean, the enjoyment of waking on a weekend to find that you can sleep in as long as you want, the fun of playing with a dog. Life was fuller, and I appreciated it so much more than I used to.

The second thing was the entry of love into my life. A nice young man got to know me, began to love me for who I was, not for what I could do, and decided he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. I could hardly believe at first that he truly meant it. But he did, and the feeling of being wanted, just for who I was, was incredible.

I said before that I used to have an ideal identity. I wanted to be calm, rational and unaffected by emotions or physical needs. That identity was crushed when I became mentally sick. So who am I now? I'm still not sure, but I think if I want to be anything, I want to be a whole person. I want to be at peace within myself emotionally, physically and intellectually, able to reconcile those different facets of myself into one whole. I want to be someone who is able to enjoy both the emotional and physical enjoyment of eating cake, and the enjoyment of expanding my mind. I want to be happy with who I am, just as I am. I'd like to know that I am a worthwhile human being, not for anything I can do, but just for being me.

I doubt I can ever achieve all of this fully, but it is an ideal. In the meantime, I am quietly trying to start over a new life as a wife, and one day, maybe a mother. I bet there will be times when I love sight of who I want to be in the pressures of what I feel I should be doing, but hopefully I never forget for long.

Finally - God. I think it took the love of my husband to really drive home to me that God loves me. If Graham can care for me just as I am, broken and sick, then God must also do so. So I am much happier when I pray now. He is not just "up there", sending trials on us randomly. In fact, I can see that without trials such as my mental illness, I would never have grown past some very harmful attitudes and beliefs. So I guess I finally learnt the lesson my family learnt back when I was twelve - that God only gives us suffering we can bear in order to help us grow. It only took me around 10 years to learn it, but at least I got there in the end.

Guilt

The jokes about Catholics often revolve around their sense of guilt - that, of all religions, Catholics are the ones wallowing in a sense of failure and guilt. I don't know if that's true - as far as I can see, Catholics are exactly the same as everyone else when it comes to guilt. But today I am feeling down, and with that comes my guilt.

I have a crushing sense of guilt, one that seizes on any occasion to make me feel sad, worthless and powerless. I don't quite know how this all started. Maybe it began when my brother Thomas died? He was one day old when he died of a birth defect. I remember how we found out he had a birth defect before he was born. I remember how upset my mum was. I even remember lying in bed, unable to sleep, trying to bargain with God. If He took me, maybe he could heal Thomas? I wanted more than anything else to have my family happy and whole again, and if that meant me dying so that my brother lived, I was ok with that.

Of course, God notoriously doesn't do bargains, and I found myself stubbornly alive while my brother died one day after birth. In the time that followed, I tried my hardest to hold the family together, to be a good big sister and daughter. I remember trying to take over as much cooking as possible, trying to keep my siblings happy and trying not to bother my heart-broken mother. I resolutely crushed down my own feelings of grief out of a sense of responsibility towards my family.

All my efforts seemed to be in vain however. I couldn't mend broken hearts, no matter how much cooking I did. I felt guilty that I couldn't do more. And, as I grew up, this sense of guilt grew and expanded. Looking back, I realise I was developing bipolar disorder, which was causing havoc with my emotions. But at the time, all I could see was me betraying my stoic, responsible ideal with these stupid emotions. I wanted so much to be good, to be the perfect daughter, but I felt so bad.

Eventually I started using this sense of guilt as a motivator. Any time I found myself oppressed by sadness, or tired, or sick, I would beat myself up mentally. I would remind myself of every failure, mocking myself until I would go and achieve things out of a sick sense of guilt. It worked, to a degree... until I found myself just too overwhelmed by these feelings to do anything but cry. And when the tears subsided, I would begin the cycle all over again.

I can't remember exactly when I realised this, but eventually I internalised this feeling of guilt to a point where I was no longer consciously mocking myself. It came naturally, a little voice that nagged and nitpicked every action, every thought. I thought, however, that it was just how I was, that this was what adults lived with. 

When I was 21, I began going to a counsellor. She helped me realise just how hard I had been on myself, and explained that it was much healthier to be gentle when it came to my emotions. She encouraged me to acknowledge emotions such as sadness without repressing them, and tried to make me understand that it was normal and healthy to feel them. I was told to treat myself like I was a hurt little child - with gentleness and patience.

Sick and tired, I agreed and tried my best to change my patterns of thought. It was difficult. I would find myself subconsciously acting in ways I was used to, and I would have to try to change my thoughts. But it felt good to allow myself to cry, to feel sad, and even to feel good on occasion.

But I found something happening that scared me. That little voice of guilt never left. No matter how much I tried to be positive, that voice was at the back of my mind, mocking and hurting me. And as I tried to ignore it, the voice got louder. I had thought this voice was part of me, under my control. But it wasn't. And as I tried to let myself heal, I found my mind was constantly under attack. 

At one point I went on a weekend retreat. I thought the peace and quiet of some time out would help me. But what I had intended to be a weekend of prayer turned into a hell. That little voice of guilt started shouting at me. I would be trying to speak to people, only to have a voice in my mind telling me: "I hate you! You are worthless! They hate you too! Go and die!"

I knew I shouldn't listen to it, but it was so loud and frightening. I didn't know what to do about it and I was ashamed to let anyone else know, so I retreated to my room. I needed something to block it out, so I got my iPod out and listened to music, turning the volume up to ear-splitting levels. I listened to one song over and over.

I woke up in a dream today
To the cold of the static, and put my cold feet on the floor
Forgot all about yesterday
Remembering I’m pretending to be where I’m not anymore
A little taste of hypocrisy
And I’m left in the wake of the mistake, slow to react
So even though you’re so close to me
You’re still so distant
And I can’t bring you back

It’s true the way I feel
Was promised by your face
The sound of your voice
Painted on my memories
Even if you’re not with me

I’m with you
You
Now I see keeping everything inside
You
Now I see
Even when I close my eyes

(Linkin Park, With You)

Anyone looking in on me would have seen me, crouched on the bed, muttering to myself: "I'm not bad... I'm ok... No! Be quiet! I'm not listening to you!"

By the time I got home, I was ready to kill myself, to do anything to shut that voice up. Eventually I rang my psychologist and poured out my heart to her. She listened, and she said she could help me. I needed medication. Relieved that she believed me, I filled in the prescription and took the tablets exactly as directed.

Gradually the voice subsided, and the weight of guilt it had put upon me started to lift. I was able to admit I had some good in me, and that I wasn't a complete failure. I was able to see that the voice was probably psychotic. It wasn't me, it wasn't normal, it was a symptom of sickness. With an anti-psychotic medication, I was able to to start healing. 

Today, that little voice of guilt hasn't quite gone away. It's always there, ready to mock and guilt me if I fail at something. But it is much quieter now, and I don't listen anymore. I know how to distract myself from it, and there are even periods of time when it goes away altogether. 

I have failed at a lot of stuff in life. But while I can feel remorse for what I have done badly, I don't think I am meant to live my life crushed by my guilt. So much of my guilt was for things I had no control over, or for things I couldn't change. So today I live my life without guilt. What has happened is in the past, and I can't change that with all the guilt in the world. I do take things I do wrong seriously, and I will ask forgiveness from any person I think I may have hurt, but afterwards I try not to dwell on it. My voice of guilt has taught me just how dangerous it can be to hold onto these feelings, and I am determined not to listen to it again.

Housebound

I have spent the last two months housebound. My doctor told me to take time off work, and, seeing as I was struggling to cope, I readily agreed. She probably didn't mean for me to isolate myself from the world. Neither did I, but somehow it happened. My reluctance to impose myself and my troubles on others, combined with my lack of a drivers' license, meant I have spent a long time at home.

Just me and my computer. 

That's not to say I never went out. I saw a couple of friends at their homes, and I made it to the shops every so often, always accompanied. I even made it to church. But gatherings of people, or parties? No way. I got halfway through a family birthday dinner at a local pizza place, and had to walk away before I broke down.

I blame my anxiety disorder for most of this. Apparently, I am so easily stressed, that when surrounded by people, I can easily descend into a panic attack. I shake, while my heart races, my head gets dizzy and I begin to hyperventilate. While I am not ashamed of my bipolar disorder, it is much harder for me to admit to my anxiety. I know it is triggered by irrational fears, and that bothers me. If only I had valid reasons for this panic! But as it is, I find myself sweating and shaking when confronted by such small things as groups of people and telephone calls.

Because I am bothered by my anxiety, I usually work hard to conceal it. The amount of panic attacks I've weathered in a bathroom stall, all the while trying to pretend to everyone else that I'm fine, is staggering. I'm also pretty good at working out where and when one might occur, so I avoid those occasions. No big parties where I don't know most of the people. No phone calls without a pad of paper where I can organise my thoughts. I know I will never be able to see my favourite bands in concert, as I would never be able to face the crowds and noise.

Sometimes I feel like I've become far too old for my age. I feel like an old woman, struggling to function in a world that is too fast and too noisy for her to take in without pain. I hate that feeling. Therefore, for the last two months, I have simply avoided every uncertain situation.

So when the idea of going to the local DoJ gathering popped into my head, I didn't initially think it a good idea at all. An hour of singing in a room packed full of large families, followed by an afternoon tea in a crowded tearoom? I knew what it was like, as years ago I used to attend regularly. And what about the people? Would they welcome me back? I stopped going abruptly, two and a half years ago. Would they remember me? Would they care? I didn't know.

For some reason though, I found myself wanting to go. I talked it over with Graham. Though he was worried about how it would play out, he willingly agreed to accompany me. I was still in contact with one family who attended regularly, so I rang them and checked to see if they would be there.

And, somehow, I found myself walking into the venue yesterday afternoon. Uncertainty started to well up inside me, and I slowly realised I was shaking. I walked past people, and recognised who they were. Two and a half years, and I still remembered all their names. Awkwardly, I tried to smile and wave, while uncertainty distilled into panic. I shouldn't have come. What had I been thinking?

Heads turned to see who had arrived, focusing on me... and smiles appeared. I found myself surrounded by people, all smiling, all asking how I was, and all seemingly pleased I was there. Eventually, we made our way into the auditorium, where I could take a much-needed seat. For all  that I'd just had the best possible welcome, I found myself trembling, I think partly from relief.

I'd only planned to stay for part of the afternoon, and strategically exit before everyone began afternoon tea... but I found I was enjoying myself. It was nice to hear everyone singing praise songs, even nicer that I was surrounded by my friend's family. I even began to relax a little. And I was able to introduce, with great pride, my husband to all these people who had never met him. I felt as if, while I had left the gatherings two years ago broken and mentally sick, I was able to return stronger and far happier.

The last thing we did that afternoon before leaving was to speak to an old friend who we hadn't seen for a long time. As we said goodbye, he said he would be looking forward to seeing us next week. And you know what? Though I might not always be able to make it, I think I will go back. I felt so good, reconnecting with old friends, knowing that to do so I had beaten down my anxiety and won - that is awesome.

I am housebound today. But maybe I can begin to work towards controlling my anxiety. And then there will be no more need to hide at home in fear.

Friendship After Mental Illness

I am bipolar. For the most part, I am ok with it. I mean, I don't like having out of control moods, or a crippling anxiety disorder that stops me from going anywhere I might encounter close-packed crowds. Nor do I enjoy having to take medication everyday for the rest of my life, medication that causes me to put on weight and makes my hands tremor. Nor do I like the fact it severely impacts my ability to work or study. However, I've known about my condition for over 2 years now, and mostly I have come to accept these things as a normal part of life.

No, the worst part of being bipolar is what it did to me socially.

Before I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I was already fairly isolated. I hated who I was, and my fear of breaking down in front of others led me to avoid too much time with other people. But I still considered myself normal, and people would treat me as such. I was a regular girl, albeit one who felt blue a lot. I did a lot of volunteering for my local church group, and I tried hard to be, if not happy, at least useful.

When I was diagnosed, however, a lot changed. I was sick, very sick. I was hearing voices and spending my nights crying while I desperately tried to seem normal during the day. The doctors gave me some medication to help me control my moods, and recommended I take time off. I stopped working, and spent a lot of time at home. That time helped me get my head in order, and I began to piece together how my undiagnosed condition had affected my life up until that point.

I began to forgive myself a little for all the mistakes and failures I had made. It felt like a relief to know that I wasn't the stupid misfit I'd always told myself I was. I was sick. And it could be controlled. I wanted to let my friends and acquaintances know, partly so I could apologise for any way my condition could have affected them, but also so I could make a fresh start.

But the reaction to my news was not what I had expected. The initial response was usually encouraging, with people showing sympathy. But then I noticed something strange. Over time, people lost touch with me. Fewer and fewer people checked up on me, let alone treated me like a wanted friend. It was like a diagnosis of mental illness was so scary people couldn't be associated with anyone who was touched by it. I would contact old friends, only to find they had little to talk about with me. Older people who had acted as mentors stopped talking to me, as if it was too difficult to deal with. I felt like I had been judged on the basis of a diagnosis, and found lacking.

I became very lonely.

For a long time, I was angry at these people. I felt abandoned, right when I needed support. For all the talk about love and acceptance, my Christian friends were the first to drop me! What was the point of preaching love if people couldn't even find it in themselves to talk to one lonely and sick young woman? 

Thankfully, not all people were like this. My boyfriend stood by me the whole time, driving me to doctors, making sure I took my medication, and most importantly, treating me like I was loveable and normal. His parents took me in when I could no longer live in a single room on my own. One family I knew supported me through everything, even inviting me over to stay for the weekends when they had so little room I had to sleep on cushions on the floor. I even made some new friends - ones who cared enough to accommodate my needs and treat me like I was normal anyway.

In the end, I realised that though I had fewer friends, I was left with the best of them - the ones that  loved me for who I was. So many times, friendship is based on something other than love - whether it is convenience or usefulness or superficial similarities. My diagnosis of mental illness stripped away all the weakest friendships I had. 

After a while, I began to forgive those who had abandoned me. I began to realise just how scary mental illness can be, especially to those who know little about it. It's hard to tell if someone with a mental illness needs help, as so much happens in their minds, let alone to do something. I am sure if some of the people had known what to say or do, they would have done it in a heartbeat. But, when they realised they didn't know what to do, they reacted with silence. 

These days, I am pretty open about my mental illness. I have thought a lot about how I should approach it, and it seems to me that the more silence is kept around the topic of mental illness, the more shameful it will seem to others. Even though others may not know how to react, it is not something that should be ashamed of. Instead, I try to be honest about what mental illness is, and how I deal with it. I hope if I can deal with my sickness in an honest and open fashion, others will feel comfortable talking about it.

For every friend who stood by me, I can only express how grateful I am to you. You made me feel like a human being worth caring about. Your friendship made my life happy and my struggles worthwhile. I can truly tell you care about me for who I am, not for what you can get out of me. Thank you.

For everyone who stopped speaking to me, I am sorry. We lost an opportunity to grow together. I know it's hard and scary to deal with mental illness, but you missed an opportunity to really get to know me, and I lost out on knowing you. While I am sad, I am not angry any more. 

I am bipolar, and for the most part, I am ok with it. There's some things I find hard about it, such as the moods, the anxiety, the medication, and its assorted side-effects. But there's also good things that have arisen from it.

The best part of being bipolar is what it did to me socially.