Even as a little girl, in my heart of hearts I wanted to be romanced, to play an irreplaceable role in a great adventure and to unveil beauty. This is my fairytale story, and it’s unfolding much differently than expected. In fact, I’m actually still in the midst of it.
Here is begins back in 2009:
My body tightened as the steel door snapped to a metal frame like a snake striking a mouse, its hydraulic hiss audibly reinforcing its security. “Have a seat, I’m sure we will have a bed for you soon, honey. No need to worry.” Why would I worry? I thought to myself. I’m here on behalf of the Lord. The lights above me hummed and as my eyes scanned the room, it was hard to make out where one wall ended and another began. The white paint had a seamlessness made more so by the absence of shadow and abundance of phosphorescent light. What a beautiful metaphor for the love of God; the room impenetrable, the shadows cast out. I was going to do great work here.
I couldn't move, I was confined but empowered to use my persecution. I reflected on how the enemies had tried to break my spirit with their vehicular cages, shiny gold badges, and imposing posture. Now these new foes, adorned in white, were more invasive than their blue underlings. They poked and prodded, tested and questioned, but they could not break my spirit. I would never cave.
My eyes fluttered under their own weight. How long have I been awake? I thought to myself. With the excitement of the last few days it was hard to tell. The leather creaked as I sunk further back into my chair and the brilliant white light of the room blurred. I awoke with a gentle shake and before me stood a doctor. The harsh reality set in...I was in a psychiatric ward of a hospital.
Looking back on these events now, my huge distortion of reality is obvious. What I thought was that grand adventure, was in actuality a medical intervention for a mental illness. That’s right, it was a mental illness. That word has a messy connotation, doesn’t it? One that opens the door to judgement and criticism. I know because I felt the same way.
During my first hospitalization, I was diagnosed with bipolar I disorder that manifested itself through a manic episode. It involved grandiose ideas, racing thoughts, increased energy, and if not treated led to psychosis. That’s where I found myself when I was nineteen years old. I had paranoia having to do with my faith. I had distorted views of reality. I believed very twisted truths about God and what He was doing in my life.
Two years later, I had a second episode that led to another hospitalization. In many ways it felt like a familiar wound that had never really healed. The similar yet heightened fantasies and distortions of reality made this episode even harder to recover from. Even though the mania was more aggressive, I was able to regain mental stability over time through doctors, medication and incredible support from family. The greater challenge became recovering spiritually.
I became distrustful of a truth that was once so familiar: that all things from God are good. Fear became my trusted partner, a check and balance. I filtered my closeness with the Lord. I developed a reluctancy to grow deeper in a relationship with Him as a way to avoid possible triggers. I rejected risky situations instead of learning how to navigate them. I began to view every experience in my life through a lens of fear. Don’t get me wrong, I had a secret sense of pride that I had recovered not once, but twice from manic episodes. Twice this dragon reared its ugly head, and twice I beat it back. But, I was crippled by fear that if I talked about these victories, the world would never see me, it would only see the disease. Not Brittany, but the bipolar girl.
We get really good at the things we practice most, and I was getting really good at being afraid – afraid of never succeeding, afraid of finding love. To the outside world, I created the image of a full life. I focused on my career and my social status. My dating life was an accessory to the image that I was building, never going deeper. I would tell myself things like, I didn’t choose to be sick. Why would anyone willingly choose to share this burden with me?
I made one exception to the carefully constructed framework of a life. He was an old friend. We had met before I was diagnosed, a chance encounter on a beach in Florida. The low probability that we would ever see each other again offered an outlet where I could be bold in an otherwise padded life. I became known by him, and he challenged me to share my story through our conversations. Over time it was clear that we cared deeply for one another. On one of our routine phone calls, he caught me off guard by suggesting we meet again after all these years. This meeting left us forever changed as it sparked a blossoming romance that eventually led to marriage.
Several weeks after we returned from our honeymoon, the inevitable happened and I had my third manic episode. My greatest fear had come to fruition. My fairytale had begun and was now under attack. This illness would now reveal itself to the one person I wanted to keep it from most. However, God showed me an old truth that I had refused to trust for years: that all things from him are good. In this, my most fearful moment, he provided to me a husband who – even face-to-face with this illness, this dirty thing I had hated about myself – saw only his loving wife. He was a gift for that season.
Two and a half years later, only a month ago, that same man told me he wanted a divorce. I’m walking through that now but I know with all my heart that God is not finished with me yet.
I came across a passage in 2 Corinthians. The passage shows us a desperate Paul, pleading to God for help. 2 Corinthians 12:8-10 “Three times I pleaded with the Lord about this, that it should leave me. But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”
Restored hope is a beautiful thing. It was in overcoming and managing my mental illness through the resources provided, that redemptive work could be done. Through the ups and downs of mental uncertainty, even when it doesn’t feel like it, even when it seems dark and confusing, there is hope. Some of us with mental health issues will battle it throughout our life on earth, others can heal entirely. Both are beautiful and worthwhile stories.
Knowing that God is for us, never forsaking and always protecting, gives me confidence to boldly share these struggles. It’s possible to have a thriving life, marked by the power of love and support despite a diagnosis. Your story can let others know they aren’t alone. Your story, whether it’s your past or present, can pierce through the darkness, it can truly unveil beauty. My fairytale is not ultimately about a princess and prince, but it is about my great adventure and the pursuit of a loving God that stops at nothing to rescue His daughter.
