Sclavus
Member
I feel the need to get this out of my head. We'll see how far I get. Let's call this "Part 1." What follows could be a TRIGGER for some.
People unfortunately often get their education about mental illness from the worst places. They talk to bad therapists, school counselors, pastors, and the Internet. They watch movies and somehow manage to think that mental illness comes with a lot of rocking, muttering, and violent outbursts.
It can, but it's often more subtle. Looking back, I can see bipolar and PTSD in my life as early as first grade, when somebody touched me for the first time. Nobody knew why, but the mild-mannered kid with the disability started acting out. Picking fights. Lying. He still wet the bed, and he was sick a lot.
The church that had been a haven for me said, "Fix your attitude!" The school turned a blind eye until they couldn't, then handed me to Mom and Dad, who did a lot of yelling and more hitting than I care to remember. But I got touched again, in a different and far more confusing way, until I was twelve years old. My behavior grew steadily worse, until my teachers threatened to have me expelled (for spilling soap shavings on the carpet).
I was diagnosed in the Year of the Ritalin. ADD, they said, and off I went with my pills. Only, the thing that should have helped made it all so much worse. No one understood, and for reasons I still don't understand, I didn't connect the dots. All I knew was what I was told: I was unworthy of God's love, ungrateful for my family's love, and lazy, to boot. No one understood how I could be so smart and be such a bad kid, but the kids at school had it on good authority I was a retard, a moron, and of course, I was obviously gay.
Talking about those years is difficult, so I'm going to drop it there for now. I'll pick up where I left off when I feel up to it. For now, here's one of my favorite songs. I feel a bit better.
Edited to continue.
I was never a saint in responding to my peers. I threw back insults, which surely made things worse for me. I didn't understand why I was under attack from seemingly everyone I knew. There was a part of me that knew many of the accusations were true, but another part of me believed every word.
Getting away from my first school helped, like I said, but only in the way pulling a shark attack victim from the shark helps; the damage had been done, and I was on my way to a slow bleed. I had no doubts of my diagnosis. I was depressed. I'd been that way for as long as I could remember. I had nightmares, and my organizational problems followed me on to my new school, so I barely graduated.
I was obviously stupid. I was obviously unworthy. Though very few of my new peers would call my sexuality into question, they focused on the fact I just wasn't much to look at, in any sense. People befriended me out of pity, not out of any real desire to know me.
And so it was, I continued into my late teens and all of my twenties with untreated damage. At some point I'd concluded the church couldn't or wouldn't help. I confessed my problems to peers at church, only to have my confidence compromised. I was told time and time again I was unworthy of God's love, but He loved me anyway. And yet I was also treated with disdain by those who claimed they wanted to help.
By and large, my experience with church resulted in more anger in my heart. I tried to follow advice, only to be told I wasn't good enough. To the Southern Baptists, nothing was ever good enough. To Calvary Chapel, I was just broken, and feeling that way was a sign of my salvation. The Presbyterians just told me God works in mysterious ways. The Assembly of God told me I lacked faith.
I concluded that I loved God, but didn't care for His people, but I had a nagging doubt: what if this was all just a way of controlling people? After struggling with stagnation, I declared myself an agnostic, which is when the skies cleared up enough for me to see God was there. I wrestled with God, but eventually returned to Him.
I tried to return to church, but I found even the sight of a sanctuary could give me stomach problems. I'd been diagnosed with PTSD and bipolar disorder, on top of a very likely executive function disorder and some physical health problems. In light of all that, I noticed my health diminished the more I fought to attend church, so I stopped.
Unfortunately, the (metaphorical) demons in my head were still going strong, and about a year ago I snapped. Long story short, I tried to kill myself based on false beliefs. There again, the church was a miserable comforter in the aftermath. The further I got away from well-intended church efforts to help me, the better off I was.
Even now, many of my former, fellow congregants won't talk to me. There's a lot of rumors and speculation. I still wrestle with the demons in my brain, though I win the battles more often. I'm not given to religious practices--praying habitually or reading my Bible regularly--but I have seen and experienced enough to know my belief is solid.
Telling this story runs the risk of rousing the demons, and that's why I had to take a break. At the same time, it helps to turn the light on them. What I've learned is, individuals can be great allies, but religious people generally ruffle my feathers when they try to fix problems they're ill-equipped to handle.
I've also learned to pop the Christian bubble I grew up in. The churches I attended were run on fear, and would encourage people to run away from "worldly things," as if listening to Marilyn Manson would make your ears bleed or going into a bar would make your skin rot off. There's a cultural expectation that those who would be welcomed by the church come to it crawling on their knees, professing their own wretchedness.
I've got scars (literal and metaphorical) from my journey. It doesn't end in an emotional victory with a musical number and stage lights. It goes on, one day at a time, one moment at a time. But, I cannot return to the church I once knew. I wouldn't want to, though I love the people in it. There isn't a place for me there.
I've settled for myself that God exists, and it's His Word (that is, Jesus Christ) that matters, not a religion's interpretation of the Bible. I endured a lot of crap to get where I'm at, but it makes me love people, even if I don't like them very much. The church, in its subtle way, encouraged fear and bias, whereas I've found love and grace more often from non-Christians, or from people who have become "secondhand saints" like myself.
We--the secondhand saints--have often been abused. We've been spurned by churches, yet it's somehow broken down our faith and rebuilt it. What faith we have isn't pretty, and it shows signs of wear and tear, but it's built for function, not ornamentation. Our faith isn't better than another's, but perhaps stronger and better equipped to deal with the world.
The important thing, I suppose, is I'm still here, kicking and fighting, refusing to give up the war no matter how often I lose my battles.
People unfortunately often get their education about mental illness from the worst places. They talk to bad therapists, school counselors, pastors, and the Internet. They watch movies and somehow manage to think that mental illness comes with a lot of rocking, muttering, and violent outbursts.
It can, but it's often more subtle. Looking back, I can see bipolar and PTSD in my life as early as first grade, when somebody touched me for the first time. Nobody knew why, but the mild-mannered kid with the disability started acting out. Picking fights. Lying. He still wet the bed, and he was sick a lot.
The church that had been a haven for me said, "Fix your attitude!" The school turned a blind eye until they couldn't, then handed me to Mom and Dad, who did a lot of yelling and more hitting than I care to remember. But I got touched again, in a different and far more confusing way, until I was twelve years old. My behavior grew steadily worse, until my teachers threatened to have me expelled (for spilling soap shavings on the carpet).
I was diagnosed in the Year of the Ritalin. ADD, they said, and off I went with my pills. Only, the thing that should have helped made it all so much worse. No one understood, and for reasons I still don't understand, I didn't connect the dots. All I knew was what I was told: I was unworthy of God's love, ungrateful for my family's love, and lazy, to boot. No one understood how I could be so smart and be such a bad kid, but the kids at school had it on good authority I was a retard, a moron, and of course, I was obviously gay.
Talking about those years is difficult, so I'm going to drop it there for now. I'll pick up where I left off when I feel up to it. For now, here's one of my favorite songs. I feel a bit better.
I was never a saint in responding to my peers. I threw back insults, which surely made things worse for me. I didn't understand why I was under attack from seemingly everyone I knew. There was a part of me that knew many of the accusations were true, but another part of me believed every word.
Getting away from my first school helped, like I said, but only in the way pulling a shark attack victim from the shark helps; the damage had been done, and I was on my way to a slow bleed. I had no doubts of my diagnosis. I was depressed. I'd been that way for as long as I could remember. I had nightmares, and my organizational problems followed me on to my new school, so I barely graduated.
I was obviously stupid. I was obviously unworthy. Though very few of my new peers would call my sexuality into question, they focused on the fact I just wasn't much to look at, in any sense. People befriended me out of pity, not out of any real desire to know me.
And so it was, I continued into my late teens and all of my twenties with untreated damage. At some point I'd concluded the church couldn't or wouldn't help. I confessed my problems to peers at church, only to have my confidence compromised. I was told time and time again I was unworthy of God's love, but He loved me anyway. And yet I was also treated with disdain by those who claimed they wanted to help.
By and large, my experience with church resulted in more anger in my heart. I tried to follow advice, only to be told I wasn't good enough. To the Southern Baptists, nothing was ever good enough. To Calvary Chapel, I was just broken, and feeling that way was a sign of my salvation. The Presbyterians just told me God works in mysterious ways. The Assembly of God told me I lacked faith.
I concluded that I loved God, but didn't care for His people, but I had a nagging doubt: what if this was all just a way of controlling people? After struggling with stagnation, I declared myself an agnostic, which is when the skies cleared up enough for me to see God was there. I wrestled with God, but eventually returned to Him.
I tried to return to church, but I found even the sight of a sanctuary could give me stomach problems. I'd been diagnosed with PTSD and bipolar disorder, on top of a very likely executive function disorder and some physical health problems. In light of all that, I noticed my health diminished the more I fought to attend church, so I stopped.
Unfortunately, the (metaphorical) demons in my head were still going strong, and about a year ago I snapped. Long story short, I tried to kill myself based on false beliefs. There again, the church was a miserable comforter in the aftermath. The further I got away from well-intended church efforts to help me, the better off I was.
Even now, many of my former, fellow congregants won't talk to me. There's a lot of rumors and speculation. I still wrestle with the demons in my brain, though I win the battles more often. I'm not given to religious practices--praying habitually or reading my Bible regularly--but I have seen and experienced enough to know my belief is solid.
Telling this story runs the risk of rousing the demons, and that's why I had to take a break. At the same time, it helps to turn the light on them. What I've learned is, individuals can be great allies, but religious people generally ruffle my feathers when they try to fix problems they're ill-equipped to handle.
I've also learned to pop the Christian bubble I grew up in. The churches I attended were run on fear, and would encourage people to run away from "worldly things," as if listening to Marilyn Manson would make your ears bleed or going into a bar would make your skin rot off. There's a cultural expectation that those who would be welcomed by the church come to it crawling on their knees, professing their own wretchedness.
I've got scars (literal and metaphorical) from my journey. It doesn't end in an emotional victory with a musical number and stage lights. It goes on, one day at a time, one moment at a time. But, I cannot return to the church I once knew. I wouldn't want to, though I love the people in it. There isn't a place for me there.
I've settled for myself that God exists, and it's His Word (that is, Jesus Christ) that matters, not a religion's interpretation of the Bible. I endured a lot of crap to get where I'm at, but it makes me love people, even if I don't like them very much. The church, in its subtle way, encouraged fear and bias, whereas I've found love and grace more often from non-Christians, or from people who have become "secondhand saints" like myself.
We--the secondhand saints--have often been abused. We've been spurned by churches, yet it's somehow broken down our faith and rebuilt it. What faith we have isn't pretty, and it shows signs of wear and tear, but it's built for function, not ornamentation. Our faith isn't better than another's, but perhaps stronger and better equipped to deal with the world.
The important thing, I suppose, is I'm still here, kicking and fighting, refusing to give up the war no matter how often I lose my battles.
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