The wilderness is not a kind place. It can be beautiful, but hang around it long enough, and you'll either adapt to it or die. Humanity has gone from living in thatched huts and the like to modern houses because they've adapted, yet everyone ends up "returned to the earth" in the end.
I had gone from the familiar hell of my upbringing to a beautiful wilderness, but I stayed in that wilderness. I switched to a Calvary Chapel when I left the SBC, though I still lived at home. My spiritual life improved as I learned what the love of God looked like, but I ignored the rotten floorboards of my life. There was a lot of garbage in myself I tolerated.
It's impossible to serve two masters, but I tried. By then my inappropriate contentography addiction was the elephant in the room I refused to acknowledge. I'd have Bible Gateway open in one tab on my browser, and a inappropriate content site in another. I'd let wrath, envy, sloth, and other sins rule me, and expect God to bless me. When He wouldn't, I'd blame anyone and everyone, and ultimately chalk it up to the "fact" I was worthless.
My relationship with my family was strained, to put it mildly, all through my twenties. I picked up smoking, and was constantly depressed, like it was a sport in the Olympics. Christ resisted temptation in the wilderness, but I went looking for it and indulged it, even as I tried to serve God at the same time.
It's easy for me to blame my then undiagnosed mental conditions, and it's true my mental illness complicated my life, but I was the one who made my choices. I would live in literal and metaphorical filth, alienate people around me by being a butthead, and blame the negativity in my life on anything but me. And yet, I "knew" I wasn't worth anything to anyone.
Then I met someone. She was beautiful, and interesting, and had a not-so-naive innocence I could barely remember. I thought I was in love. It was infatuation, and a kind of non-sexual lust, but God used that to drive me closer to Him, even in the wild where, to outsiders, it must have seemed I was determined to destroy myself.
By my mid-twenties, I had been forced to acknowledge I had problems I hadn't dealt with. They weren't going to go away on their own, either. My friendship with "Love" (not her real name) showed me I wasn't hopeless or worthless, but that unless I dealt with my addictions and mental damage, I wasn't going to get where I wanted. Again, I'd only scratched the surface in understanding that, and I was in for the hardest self-inflicted lesson of my life before it would sink in.
That lesson lasted several years, and ended in a psychotic episode in which I tried to kill myself. It's something I find impossible for others to understand, so I don't try too hard. Maybe one day I'll find a way to explain it in a way that makes sense.
I had spent the last half of my twenties facing my personal, metaphorical demons, and naming them.
Addiction. Bipolar disorder. PTSD. Lust. Anger. Pride.
I named them, but that wasn't enough. That only seemed to make matters worse, but only because I came to the fight unprepared. I thought I could treat them with kid gloves and flirt with them, throwing half-hearted punches.
I made progress, yes.
I got on medication that helped, yes.
But too much of a good thing--especially medication--is not a good thing. I accidentally overdosed, encountered a great deal of stress one particular week, hadn't slept in about four days, and had "disassociated," where my brain was locked away in memories of my past. Bad memories.
I woke up in the hospital surrounded by friends and family. Apparently I'd tried to poison myself, among other things. I've got a scar on my arm, but if it wasn't for that, I don't think I'd believe I tried to die. I remember bits and pieces, but it still doesn't feel real to me. I know it was, and how, but there's a gap between "know" and "feel."
I felt oddly better, after I got out of the hospital. In a physical sense, yes, and that makes sense. But even before I checked out of the hospital and went to the mental hospital, I felt as if my mental fog had cleared away. I understood that this was how an ignored problem becomes a monster.
I ignored my sin because I was ashamed of it. I ignored my mental health because I was ashamed of being damaged. I ignored my physical well-being because I was ashamed of my body. But instead of fading away, the shame only grew, and I didn't think it would overwhelm me. But it did. I was afraid to confront my problems.
That fear very, very, very nearly killed me.
1 John 4:18 tells us perfect love drives out fear. I'd been so afraid, I nearly took my life. But I woke up, and it occurs to me just now that God was communicating very clearly when I opened my eyes in the ICU.
There is nothing that can separate us from the love of God. His love for me outweighed my fear, and He would not allow me to fall because of my fear. I woke up just as I am because God loves me, just as I am. The fear isn't me. The sin isn't me. The ignorance and apathy isn't me.
In a very real way, my scar is a reminder of who I am.
I had gone from the familiar hell of my upbringing to a beautiful wilderness, but I stayed in that wilderness. I switched to a Calvary Chapel when I left the SBC, though I still lived at home. My spiritual life improved as I learned what the love of God looked like, but I ignored the rotten floorboards of my life. There was a lot of garbage in myself I tolerated.
It's impossible to serve two masters, but I tried. By then my inappropriate contentography addiction was the elephant in the room I refused to acknowledge. I'd have Bible Gateway open in one tab on my browser, and a inappropriate content site in another. I'd let wrath, envy, sloth, and other sins rule me, and expect God to bless me. When He wouldn't, I'd blame anyone and everyone, and ultimately chalk it up to the "fact" I was worthless.
My relationship with my family was strained, to put it mildly, all through my twenties. I picked up smoking, and was constantly depressed, like it was a sport in the Olympics. Christ resisted temptation in the wilderness, but I went looking for it and indulged it, even as I tried to serve God at the same time.
It's easy for me to blame my then undiagnosed mental conditions, and it's true my mental illness complicated my life, but I was the one who made my choices. I would live in literal and metaphorical filth, alienate people around me by being a butthead, and blame the negativity in my life on anything but me. And yet, I "knew" I wasn't worth anything to anyone.
Then I met someone. She was beautiful, and interesting, and had a not-so-naive innocence I could barely remember. I thought I was in love. It was infatuation, and a kind of non-sexual lust, but God used that to drive me closer to Him, even in the wild where, to outsiders, it must have seemed I was determined to destroy myself.
By my mid-twenties, I had been forced to acknowledge I had problems I hadn't dealt with. They weren't going to go away on their own, either. My friendship with "Love" (not her real name) showed me I wasn't hopeless or worthless, but that unless I dealt with my addictions and mental damage, I wasn't going to get where I wanted. Again, I'd only scratched the surface in understanding that, and I was in for the hardest self-inflicted lesson of my life before it would sink in.
That lesson lasted several years, and ended in a psychotic episode in which I tried to kill myself. It's something I find impossible for others to understand, so I don't try too hard. Maybe one day I'll find a way to explain it in a way that makes sense.
I had spent the last half of my twenties facing my personal, metaphorical demons, and naming them.
Addiction. Bipolar disorder. PTSD. Lust. Anger. Pride.
I named them, but that wasn't enough. That only seemed to make matters worse, but only because I came to the fight unprepared. I thought I could treat them with kid gloves and flirt with them, throwing half-hearted punches.
I made progress, yes.
I got on medication that helped, yes.
But too much of a good thing--especially medication--is not a good thing. I accidentally overdosed, encountered a great deal of stress one particular week, hadn't slept in about four days, and had "disassociated," where my brain was locked away in memories of my past. Bad memories.
I woke up in the hospital surrounded by friends and family. Apparently I'd tried to poison myself, among other things. I've got a scar on my arm, but if it wasn't for that, I don't think I'd believe I tried to die. I remember bits and pieces, but it still doesn't feel real to me. I know it was, and how, but there's a gap between "know" and "feel."
I felt oddly better, after I got out of the hospital. In a physical sense, yes, and that makes sense. But even before I checked out of the hospital and went to the mental hospital, I felt as if my mental fog had cleared away. I understood that this was how an ignored problem becomes a monster.
I ignored my sin because I was ashamed of it. I ignored my mental health because I was ashamed of being damaged. I ignored my physical well-being because I was ashamed of my body. But instead of fading away, the shame only grew, and I didn't think it would overwhelm me. But it did. I was afraid to confront my problems.
That fear very, very, very nearly killed me.
1 John 4:18 tells us perfect love drives out fear. I'd been so afraid, I nearly took my life. But I woke up, and it occurs to me just now that God was communicating very clearly when I opened my eyes in the ICU.
There is nothing that can separate us from the love of God. His love for me outweighed my fear, and He would not allow me to fall because of my fear. I woke up just as I am because God loves me, just as I am. The fear isn't me. The sin isn't me. The ignorance and apathy isn't me.
In a very real way, my scar is a reminder of who I am.
