The reality of a mental hospital is this: people learn to sleep with one eye open – I may have been admitted because I was suicidal, but somewhere between being locked up and meeting all the other “casualties” I suddenly realized that I still wanted to live; I just didn’t know how. All I knew how to do was survive.
Suddenly, being a one-woman battalion wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I spent a long seven days in lock up and another 21 days in detox. Those television movies where they show people detoxing are pretty much accurate. Days of withdrawals, fever and shaking was another sign that I couldn’t ignore. I had a problem. When I had expected my ex-husband to launch a counter-attack he actually planned a reconnaissance mission. He scouted things out with me over the phone – extended reams of grace to me – and brought our children to visit me. Explaining to my children what mommy was doing in the hospital for so long was my rock bottom. I couldn’t lie anymore. “Mommy is very, very sick and she’s staying here until she’s well so that she can be the mommy you both deserve.” Open eye – remove plank.
“I pray also that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you,” (Eph. 1:18).
One month at the mental hospital resulted in 28 days of physical sobriety. The next 28 days would be spent at a live-in rehab centre. I thought life at the hospital was tough. I equate rehab to what I imagine Westpoint Military Academy to be - boot camp was 28 days long complete with urine and blood tests, mandatory exercising and GROUP therapy.
In group therapy there were two rules: 1) no cross talking and 2) you must share (not any of that superficial stuff). I had gone a month without consuming drugs or alcohol, or even an aspirin. There was nothing available to me to keep all that “stuff” down. It was all starting to surface again: flashbacks, night terrors, nausea and depression. I was starting to lose control again. My addiction needed to be fed. My anorexia decided to rear its ugly head. Notwithstanding the eating disorder, I was able to make it through my tour of duty at “the Creek.”
Then came the after care – 90 meetings in 90 days. I despised those meetings. They liked to use the “G” word a lot. Oh, sometimes they’d try to disguise Him by using the term “higher power” but no one was fooling me. This was the period when every ounce of resentment, bitterness and anger (lots of anger) surfaced. I cannot even begin to explain the extent and depth of anger I had towards God. I blamed Him for everything, especially the fact that my children were motherless for two months. In my “rationalization” if I had not been emotionally, physically and sexually abused as a child and adolescent, I would not have needed to suppress all the memories with chemicals and therefore I wouldn’t have had to abandon my children. I saw God as my enemy and that lasted for the next 8 years.
I was physically healed from my addictions to chemicals, but I was always making a trade-off for some other habit, hurt or hang-up like smoking, exercising, bulimia, anorexia – you name it. My emotional growth was stunted and my spiritual growth was well – let’s just say there was no spiritual anything. I was dead inside.
“As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins, in which you used to live when you followed the ways of this world,” (Eph. 2:1-2).
Then came that day – a sad and desperate afternoon in October 2003. Thoughts of sitting in my foxhole and pulling the pin on the grenade were taking me captive. I couldn’t bear the thought of hearing that iron gate slam behind me again. I couldn’t bear the thought of facing my children and I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them. I was confused. I was alone and I was desperate seeking relief from living as a POW.
We met again – Him and me; me against Him. He didn’t look down on me and say, “Why didn’t you let me help you the first time? I could have spared you these last years.” I was shell shocked. My “adversary” was for me – not against me. He showed me mercy and compassion, grace and forgiveness. He reached down into the trench and picked up my bruised and bloodied body. “I know how to care for these wounds,” He said, “my Son went through much worse than this so you wouldn’t have to. Give me your heart and let me love you.”
“For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith – and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God,” (Eph. 2-8).
I was so tired and ashamed. “For he himself is our peace,” (Eph. 2-14).
This October I will celebrate more than recovery. I will celebrate that I have been rooted and established in His love. I will celebrate. I will testify. I will glorify. I will pray, “to know this love that surpasses all knowledge.” I will draw near to God with a sincere heart in full assurance of faith, cleansed from guilt. I will praise and acknowledge His ways. For when I put my foolish and prideful ways behind me, He was there. He is here always.
I don’t live in my past – I share that others might know the Hope I have. I pray that “you may grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ,” for you.
