Did you, too?
Have you been there?
Do you, really?
Thank you.
I’m glad you’re here.
I’m glad I’M here.
This is work.
I want to get better.
I wish I could sleep.
I sleep too much.
I’m ready to commit to that.
I’m ready to quit.
I trust you.
Thank you for being there for me.
A light twinkles
In the distance;
It is my hope,
Fragile, yet strong.
Will a big gust of wind
Blow out my candle?
I am protected
By many walls:
Meds, doctors,
Counselors, family,
Friends and helpers.
That gust of wind
Can blow if it must,
But my light will not
Be extinguished.
I will use
The tools I’ve been given.
I will continue the struggle,
And I will win.
Experience.
A light bulb turns on.
Words flow like breathing.
Comfortable.
Fellow warriors
Keeping each other company.
Along for the ride,
Together.
Be there for you,
Whenever you need someone.
Any time, any place.
Trust me.
I’ll hold out a light
So you can see your way.
Brothers and sisters
Of mental illness.
Strong.
Gliding along the currents of air,
I’m lifted by the light that shines on me.
Love permeates my being,
Like a spear piercing my side.
The nails are hammered through
My ragged wrists. I cry out,
My God, my God, why?
Have you forsaken me?
The dusk descends and they lower
My cross, loosen my body
And carry me to my tomb.
I stand on a mountaintop.
Throw yourself down!
God’s angels will save you.
Turn these stones into bread.
You are hungry. Go ahead.
Freedom! I am set free by God’s hand.
Risen at last and the tombstone
Is rolled away.
A “normal” day
Is an unusual occurrence
For those of us
With bipolar.
But if our meds
Are doing what they’re supposed to,
And drama is kept to a minimum,
Occasionally,
We might find ourselves
Having a normal day.
I had a normal day today,
And it felt good.
Not so stressful
As a typical day,
I wasn’t anxious
Like I usually am.
I was just me,
Living life,
Almost like a normal person.
Bell ring sound thing but how ding dong
Do you think I’m able to drink from the
Fountain of mirth slow table so search
Drab covers hide glad tidings minuet so
Delve into duty with one foot on the base
Drooping flower hangs over.
The rain is so heavy.
No new blooms today.
Soil is contaminated,
Roots are exposed.
Reaching up for sunlight.
Climbing to the sky.
Once the weather was nice.
Once the ground was fertile.
Now it’s just rocks and used up dirt.
No nutrients to feed the plant.
But hope remains.
The rain will bathe
The thirsty leaves.
The sun will shine.
There is a miracle coming soon.
Sharing smothered thoughts,
Restricted feelings abound.
Hesitation rules the imagination,
Hiding from the truth,
Although it tortures me.
Yearning for stability,
Some kind of consistency.
If only I could have it both ways!
Sometimes I freak when I go to church. When you step into a church somehow you feel like you should be on your best behavior. That’s not really a Godly feeling or sentiment, since I believe that God accepts us exactly as we are, wherever we are, but that is how I was raised. In fact, growing up, my mother was ruthless in spurring me and my brother to get ready and stop goofing around on Sunday morning. What was important was looking good by being on time, behaving well, answering questions intelligently and in a spiritual way—basically, putting on a front. Lord knows my family was falling apart at the seams in every way, with my grandmother passing away, my parents’ separation and eventual divorce, and my mother’s undiagnosed mental illness. All was not well in the Bowman household. And those feelings come back to me today as I step through the doors of a church, any church, even one as positive, inclusive and accepting as mine. I wonder what deviant thoughts people suspect me of (well, actually, I am quite the skeptic), what deviant acts I am guilty of that separate me from other Christians and from God, what rebellion I am in that alienates me from the same. Going to church is something I want to do, but at the same time, I do struggle with these things every time, and it compromises my experience on the whole.
Sometimes I freak when I try to pray. Yes, God and I are not on the best of terms—haven’t been for a long time. In fact, except for when I pray with others—my wife at the dinner table and the occasional attempt at a weekly prayer partnership, my male prayer partner, something I initiated this year as an attempt to get closer to God because of my lack of an intimate relationship, and the occasional prayer with my Sunday School class and with the congregation in the sanctuary—I am not on speaking terms with God. I know after that enumeration of instances it doesn’t sound bad, but I guess I am a perfectionist, and I realize how far I am from any kind of daily routine which would bring me into any kind of genuine intimacy with God. Being alone with God is a frightening experience for me. Feelings of emotional and physical abuse from childhood along with visions of an angry Yahweh of the Old Testament conjure a being to be faced that is not the loving, caring Jesus that spoke to the disciples in the upper room that fateful night and told them that when we see him we have seen the Father, because he and the Father are one. When it’s just me and God (and I have to admit it is always the vengeful Father that I envision in my mind, not the gentle Jesus), I just freeze up. Gone are the soothing thoughts of “come to me ye who are weary, for my yoke is easy and my burden is light”. Instead it is a booming God that stares down at me and demands to know every sin I have committed and has come to punish me for them in some crazy sadistic way that makes me cringe and from which I yearn to escape. Not a great relationship, obviously.
Sometimes I freak when I open the Bible. I’ll admit, it’s intimidating. Yes, there is a lot of wisdom there. Yes, I believe it is divinely inspired. Yes, I believe there is potential for healing, instruction, direction, inspiration, grace, forgiveness—all that. But you know what else there is? God. He is there, waiting, behind those words. For what? I don’t know. But the potential scares me. I have read the entire Bible many times over, and if there is one thing I know for sure, there is power behind those words. And the thought of being overpowered, perhaps in a scary way, is what keeps me from those words. I have been overpowered, many times, in absolute terror, and I have run from figures of authority, figures who were supposed to be trustworthy caretakers, symbols of love and support, that have turned on me like a viper lunging for its prey. Is God like that? My intellect tells me no, but my heart, and my body, are not so sure. After all, if humans, blood, family, can be tyrannical, how much more can God? And there is something else—God is all powerful. Do I want to surrender myself to an all powerful tyrant? Do I want his thoughts to be my thoughts? No, not by a long shot.
