I remember the first time I saw the Mel Gibson film, "Passion of the Christ." Every part of that movie brought history to life. The sacrifice of Jesus Christ on that cross impacted me. If I close my eyes and you do, it paralyzes and delivers a punch to the gut, still.
How do we love those who not only appear unlovable in their mess but also hate us in it, as well? I had dodged fists and verbal attacks, put up bail money (only once), picked up my grand-kids from a ravaged house with a passed out mom, and cleaned out more hidden empty bottles than I can count. Still, the pain I felt when the handcuffs went on killed me. The hopelessness was burning through my soul the way Satan enjoys.
How can I share my vulnerability with others, and still, they say I am strong? It is a dynamic that is hard to grasp, especially when my current state of being is weak.
Strength in me.
"Lord, do I have enough in me to handle this"
Why do I write and speak on the topic of mental health, namely bipolar disorder?
I follow a few social media style support networks for Christians with depression, and it baffles me that in 2020 we still hear the misguided answer that the devil is living in us through this mental illness. Allow me to correct this with calm words on a screen, as in person, it may get heated.
Because depression sucks.
I bottle up the internal pain and suffering, only sharing with a few. I wear the mask and behavior of normalcy.
I dislike holidays for many reasons, and those reasons keep coming, too. But Thanksgiving is a gift. A day of respite from the task of mentally surviving.