The Things that Shaped Me: A Mental Health Journey

I had my first (and only, thus far) panic attack in April of 2022. Easter break had passed. My friend's brother had taken his life, and though in Glory as of his departure, it wasn't the way the Shepard intended his sheep to meet him. I had been under a lot of work stress at a Christian school, and when I'd ask off for the day my friend's brother was on life support to go and comfort her, I was refused bluntly. He died shortly after. At work that year, there were many written expectations that not all followed, but I did; there were also many unwritten expectations both made by authority and made by me; as a natural rule follower who yearns to do right, I obeyed all. As my friend was grieving and I strived to comfort, I had gotten and recovered from Covid many times over. I felt and was shown through tone that my workplace was irritated at my sickness though they still demanded I not come to work unwell (2020-2022 was a confusing time), and when I woke up sick again (or perhaps still unrecovered from previous sickness) that morning in April, I had a single thought of panic at calling my boss, and then I couldn't breathe.   

Unlike so many upon their first panic attack, I knew exactly what was happening the first time it occurred, and I spoke to myself as I had my students in previous years. I was kind and told myself step by step what to do, giving grace for this weakness of flesh and spirit. I may have been mentally irritated at my body and brain, but I knew that expressing irritation rather than love would get me nowhere near mental acuteness or correct breathing. My friend Dorothy-Jane had asked me once how I would respond to a typical 5-year-old who struggled with something, and then asked why I didn't extend that same grace to my 5-year-old self when I spoke of past guilt; she also wisely told me to start talking to myself like I do those under my care and authority, and that advice and kindness paid off big-time that April morning as I eventually regained my proper breathing, deciding to go in late to work but still work hard upon arrival. No one knew of my morning difficulties other than the Lord, and Isaiah when I told him later on in the day. It was the first time I felt alien in my own body. It gave me compassion for others who likewise struggle. 

As I finished perhaps the best and most relatable novel I ever have in January--namely Villette by Charlotte Bronte, I realized a few things about myself. Like the protagonist, I've struggled with depression for most of my life, and, like the protagonist, I have fought it with spiritual and mental focus and shear stubbornness of God-focused will, prevailing time and time again despite resurgences and backslides. This post is not about everyone. There are those with depression who need medicines for the temporal and the long-term (it is perhaps the case that in different seasons medicine would have done me good, and, due to shear ignorance, I have learned other means of coping and existence). But alas, this post is about my own experience and about what has helped me over the years. It is now, and always is, my hope that my life would be of use to others as I openly share and give of what I have. I learned this from my Bible and from my mother, both of which value openness above pride. 

I have wondered before if it was depression which appeared to be sickness which would banish me to bed for days. I especially wondered this during my second year of teaching in Colorado, when every Friday afternoon, I would be hit with what felt to be vertigo-headache mixed with crushing exhaustion of body and spirit. I would hasten to the family home I was staying in and sleep in the guest room (since it made me feel less alone as my room was in the basement) from about 4:30pm on Friday to 10AM on Sunday and then go to church half-drowsy by walking across the sidewalk. No one knew of this practice other than the family matron, and she was kind not to speak of it other than to give grace where it was needed in my abandoning duties I had previously volunteered for (Susan Mitchell is and was amazing; praise God for her!). At the time, I had written this off as a health issue due to being rear-ended at a stoplight (which I later received chiropractic care for), but may people get slightly bumped at lights, and don't sleep for days every single weekend as a result. Looking back, there is much that wasn't normal, and that year was not the only season of weekend over-sleeping. But we don't know what we don't know. 

I'm from a family with various mental health struggles, and of my clan, I am perceived as and have perceived myself as the most normal in terms of this world. My mom has struggled with depression for most of her life (and it has been a much harder life than my own). My dad has OCD, and though much better than he was during my growing up years, obsessive thoughts and tendencies are still very present. My uncle, who lived with us and around us for many years, is mental challenged, and my youngest brother Colton has Autism, sensory issues, and had breathing issues at birth (there were years of 4-6 times per day breathing treatments which were so difficult to put him through for mom and I). My other brothers have developed challenges in recent years, with one experiencing a mental break in Summer of 2021 and one in 2020. They both now have diagnosed mental struggles. The challenges, deceptions, and difficulties of Covid and politics affected them greatly, and though perhaps it would be justified to be angrier at some government decisions, mental health involves many things and not just one, and I have never seen a man won to sense through ire, only education and conviction. 

As one who considered myself normative and who learned not to quit and to work hard from both of my parents, it is no surprise that even a sensitive soul such as I has pushed into hard things rather than around them. I believe a great deal of my struggle comes from genetics and coping patterns that I formed young, but I also believe my very personality makes life in this current cultural climate quite difficult (though it is getting better and easier). I'm a very sensitive soul by default, which is why religion and God have always made complete and utter sense to me, and why I often cry and have cried at things such as animal-death, others' tears, and any grade less than an "A" growing up. My mom held me as I had 2 hour crying sessions over 2 edits she made in my Abeka grammar book during my 3rd grade year (God, help me be as kind as she should I had one such as I!). But, I didn't grow up with a label of "overly-sensitive" or a mental health label of any kind. I grew up with a sense of self-determination and grit (esp. since I had relatives who struggled and struggle more). I'd be lying if I said I've often felt understood, but I'd also be lying to say I haven't been loved with the kind of love that pushes rather than over-coddles. These things have served me well. Again, my story may not be yours, but I share with a good heart full of empathy and hope that the more you read of others, you may find yourself and keep fighting for life and for growth. 

As I read Villette by Charlotte Bronte, I discovered that one of the things helpful to the protagonist has also been helpful to me--that is, being a Protestant. I know, I know, but bear with me. At a young age, Protestants are taught to be self-dependent and God-dependent. What I mean by that is this: If you don't know something, you can ask your pastor, but you are also responsible for searching the scripture yourself. You do consult your Bible, but YOU are responsible for consulting it. There is TRUTH, AND YOU must find it, search for it, fight for it in a world that likely lies to you. Proverbs 25:2 was always special to me growing up ("It is the glory of God to conceal a thing; but the honor of kings is to search out a matter"). I wanted to be those kings. Being taught this growing up gave me ownership and helped fight the defeat I often daily felt inside. Even if I "felt" I couldn't discover something, I was taught in church that I could, and that it was there, if I only had the grit to find it and then live it (not an easy task, but possible!). 

I was also taught that as Christians "we demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ" (2 Cor 10:5), and other verses the like. Being taught that, not only did I NOT live in defeat (like my Millennial generation would have had me believe was okay), but also that I really could help my brain by taking my very thoughts captive and making them obedient--by "thinking on that which is lovely and good" instead of that which is evil and depressing (Phil 4: 8). The idea that, with the Holy Spirit, I could capture those depressing thoughts, and think on the good instead of, or at least along with, the bad, granted self-ownership. The more I read in current literature about the power of the mind telling the brain what to do and forming new patterns, and the more I read about the major issues (disassociation, etc.) that come from feeling no-escape or no-option, the more I am utterly grateful I grew up in a PCA-Reformed background. I was taught to mentally and spiritually fight, and was given weapons with which to do it. I still remember screaming Romans 8 aloud when guilt tempted to take over my mind in middle school. And I remember quoting Philippians 4:13 on hard Junior year mornings before AP classes at school that I honestly shouldn't have been taking. Taking thoughts captive and preaching to myself got me through some tough, depressing years that otherwise I'm not sure I would have survived (esp. 11th grade). 

Another helpful part of growing up for me included the Arts. Being someone else on stage in Theatre and getting to express emotions through the character of another helped me process my own feelings, and helped me see other's feelings as theirs and mine as mine. Being in Dance likewise helped me process deep emotions and difficulty not just in the brain and heart, but also in the body. I did BodyWork through dance, and I had no idea of the gift the Lord gave this sensitive soul of mine through that until I hit 30, and looked back to see the utter kindness of being taught in CrossMovement Dance to take my negative feelings of pain and express them through my body as glory to God, as a sacrifice of Worship--to likewise take my positive joys and give them as gifts through my body also. I have often looked back at my dance years and realized that Meredith Worley was teaching me to obey the first and greatest commandment ("Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind!"--ALL of it, even the depressing and the utterly soul-sucking--give it to Him in Worship, trusting that He is good when the world is ugly). Likewise, I was being taught Col 3:23 both in mind and action: "Whatever you do, work at it with your whole being, for the Lord!" 

In addition to the helpful wisdom from scripture and Meadowview PCA, from the Arts through Crossmovement Dance, Lexington Youth Theatre, and Rich Fork Baptist one I hit high school, what I look back on with gratitude is also the darker stories of triumph which filled and fueled my life. These stories taught me what the process of building grit looked like and gave me hope that my current afflictions were nothing compared to what the Lord would do with them. When the Columbine shootings happened in 1999, I can still remember watching the news stories of the unfurling tragedy at my Nana's house and we sipped Diet Cokes and wept together. After that tragedy, books like Rachel's Tears and She Said Yes: The Unlikely Martyrdom of Cassie Bernall encouraged me to live my life for Christ no matter who picked on me and no matter what mental health struggles I might encounter, since both of these young ladies (like most teenagers) struggled with some major mental health issues. In addition, books like Numbers the Stars, Night by Elie Wiesel, and The Diary of Anne Frank, reminded me that the times I currently lived in were not the worst the world had experienced, and that, these times (my high school and middle school years), evil as they might be, would also pass away, and there would be survivors (And I would likely survive, with less scars than many who had come before me!). Looking back, I'm so grateful that my mom never kept these difficult and tragic books from me since they taught me how to endure, and what endurance can breed. Jesus Freaks: Book of Martyrs by D.C. Talk also became a type of devotional for me when I transferred into High Point Christian Academy in 9th grade, and later into public high school mid-10th-grade. I didn't fully learn how to have grit until that difficult, AP-class-filled Junior year, but the books and lessons that filled my mind prepared me for that year and helped me form that grit under the most difficult and influential teacher I would ever have: Mrs. Karen Watford. She challenged me more than anyone ever had in multiple classes, and I would be a much lesser person without that challenge. She was the woman that made me want to be an English teacher as well as the most difficult woman to please I had ever met. Too many people assume that the challenge is the enemy, when in reality it is the tool to sharpen those destined for greatness; those whom the Lord intends for good works. 

As I look back on the pieces of my mental heath journey that shaped me when I was young, that prepared me for that morning panic attack in 2022, that helped me overcome the teaching years of Covid-19 and stick around for years longer, I can only ultimately thank God for his wisdom in shaping me, but I can also thank the individuals who had a hand in the shaping of me (and there are so many more not mentioned in this particular blog). God used and uses many hands and mind and hearts to do his good work in those He loves who are called according to his purpose. He is kind and he uses willing people. It is because of all of that investment that we (Isaiah and I) sent out far too many wedding invitations in February of 2015 (thank God there was a snow storm, because there would have been no seats otherwise!). It is also because of that investment that I taught and mentored for so long, knowing the work that had been woven in me, and wanting to do the same for others--to give as I had been given to. And it is because of that investment that I know the Lord is not finished with me. 

I sit here on a bed that is not mine (namely, the Boardwalk Chapel's bed) exhausted from sickness and tired of feeling unable to do that to which I am called and that which I wish to do. We got here 3 weeks ago--week 1--I was exhausted from the end of school and from the move and from the grief of goodbyes; week 2--I was quite tired (and yet excited) by a weekend trip to Pittsburg, and was trying to get to know people on staff but in a still exhausted state; week 3--I started out going to trainings and pumped to finally be more fully present and then promptly got the cold/flu Isaiah and others had been struggling with. Man, life can be discouraging sometimes; this human flesh and mind can be annoying in its limitations when my Spirit is willing. I think the image that most fully communicates how I currently feel is the woman jumping hurdles badly over and over as she tries to finish the race, but looks frankly awful in her attempts. And yet...there is hope. It is a hope I know because the Lord has worked it in me for years. It is a hope I know because it was promised. It is a hope I know because the human Spirit (the image of God! in us) is resilient, and I have seen it and read it and lived it over and over. Thanks and Glory be to God for the story He is crafting in his Saints! Let's go forward, even if slowly, moving in hope toward the finish line. 

-C.