The Last Blog

By Jack Smith

God must have a sense of humor.
He sent a red bird, of all things, to save my life. You’d have to be an Auburn man to understand the irony.
I was stretched out on a sofa in a modest apartment at Skyland Trail in Atlanta, watching some inane daytime TV show, the kind people who don’t have careers like I had get to watch. It had been another long day of mindfulness meditations, music therapy and memory exercises.This routine had become my life.
Facing divorce and a future that was uncertain at best, I had been miserable my first month at the world-class treatment center. But I was beginning to feel a little better. The fighter in me was making a comeback.
Despite my progress, I was still tired and frustrated. I was a zombie in a pharmaceutical fog most of the day, worn down from shock treatments that rebooted my brain but left me with black holes in my memory. My spirit had been choked out of me by the heavy albatross of guilt from a second suicide attempt that cost me everything except the one thing I had hoped to lose. My life.
I was growing impatient with the side effects from the meds, which made my hands shake more than usual. Taking handfuls of lithium, mood stabilizers and antidepressants does that to some people. For patients like me with a familial tremor, it can be a nightmare. Some tasks are difficult; others are humiliating.

THE COLOR OF LIFE

The worst part of it all? The color of life had faded away.

And then he appeared. A beautiful cardinal landed on a tree just outside my window. It was a proud male with a strong beak and determined eyes behind his black mask. His crest was the most beautiful scarlet color I had ever seen.

It was as if someone changed the television from black and white to the most vivid color imaginable. After a long visit, the cardinal finally flew away. In the days that followed, I stared out the window hoping to see him again. The tranquil grounds outside our apartments were alive with the colors and sounds of spring. And they suddenly looked different.

I had never noticed how beautiful the pink azaleas, white dogwoods and yellow flowers that reminded me of home really were.The cardinal came back the next day and the day after that. I shared this story with my counselor, and she told me to never forget that moment.

“Why?,” I asked her.

“Because that’s the moment you saw color again for the first time in a long time,” she said. “Maybe that cardinal was a sign for you, Jack.”

Nearly three years later, I still believe the cardinal was no coincidence. God sent him to help me keep hope alive. It was a sign: If I kept trusting Him, I would be okay.

Inspired by my fellow patients and encouraged by the amazing staff at Skyland Trail, I kept getting better. The fog of depression finally began to lift with the help of changing meds and therapy, but it took more than the right cocktail of drugs. It took the fighting spirit deep in my bones that had been dormant for too damn long.

Slowly but surely, the warrior inside of me made a comeback. I had been flat on my face on the mat when I arrived at Skyland Trail, pummeled by a cruel disease and crushed by the painful realities I faced after my discharge.

In the early weeks of treatment, it seemed like life could not get any worse. Then one day, I made a decision. I was determined to get up off the mat, knowing the menacing heavyweight would be there waiting for me to pull myself up by the ropes, daring me to stay in the ring.

That’s what millions of people fighting depression and serious mental illness face every day. Major Depressive Disorder is like a boxer who never tires. It often slips out of the shadows and sneaks up behind you, starting with a sucker punch to the kidneys.

Left untreated, depression can beat the life out of you. And it hurts. Mentally, physically and emotionally. My heart breaks every time I talk to someone who is suffering. Depressed fathers who feel they have failed and fear telling anyone they are struggling. Anxious wives who believe they are somehow failing their husbands and their children. Struggling teenagers and college students overcome with angst and stress. I’ve met them all.

I’ve learned a lot about pain and suffering from my own experiences and from those who’ve been brave enough to share their stories with me. I’m grateful to God for them and the lessons suffering has taught me. Suffering brought me closer to the cross. For that reason alone, I would not change anything about my journey.

Suffering and the perseverance that came from it taught me another critical lesson: The pain of depression is only temporary. If you hold on long enough, the storms we all face eventually give way to sunshine.

Surviving those dark days helped me realize the battle will be won, either in this life or the next.

It also taught me nothing is more hurtful than losing hope. Hopelessness leaves us empty inside. It sucks the marrow of life right out of our bones. It takes away our God-given urge to fight that lies deep within us all.

I recently read “Wild at Heart,” a book by John Eldredge, for the second time. I would highly recommend it to any man who feels lost or weak or bored by life. The author poses the central question all men face: “Am I really a man? Have I got what it takes when it counts?” Reading the book again reminded me the fighting spirit I possess was put there by God. He designed me to be more than a nice guy who skates through a dull existence, avoiding risks while fearing danger.

He created me to come through when it counts, even though there are times when I struggle and falter and wonder why it has to be so hard. As Eldredge writes, He created hearts full of passion and a lust for adventure in us all. The hard part is embracing who we were created to be.

I’m still on that journey. I still fall down from time to time, but fear seldom stops me from taking risks or choosing to fight when the battle is on.

I fight because that’s who God made me to be. He gave all of us the strength and capacity to be warriors. Read the book of Ephesians. He promised us if we suit up in the Armor of God every day, we can win any battle we face, no matter how long the odds.

THE REST OF THE STORY

I have a medallion I cherish and a semicolon tattooed on my left ankle. I got the tattoo on my 45th birthday. It was a promise I made to myself—even though I knew my mother would not like it.

The medallion I carried in my pocket is engraved with a warrior suited up in armor given to him by God. The inscription includes the powerful words from Ephesians that strengthen me when my spirit grows weary. It reminds me I’m a warrior when I have God on my side. It was given to me by a good friend who has helped me time and again.

Yes, there are days I still get knocked down. But most of the time, I no longer try and pick myself up off the mat by myself. I rely on my faith, family, friends and the fighter deep within me.

And about that semicolon tattoo. It means my story isn’t over. There is more to come, maybe the best part. If you or a loved one suffering from mental illness is losing hope, don’t despair. Ask God to help you through it not one day but one hour at a time. He will provide the strength you need.

Remember “The Shawshank Redemption?” It’s one of my favorite movies of all time. Do you recall what Red says to Andy in the prison yard? “Hope,” he says while pulling a toothpick from his mouth and pointing it at his friend, “is a dangerous thing.”

I don’t agree. Hope is all we have when the ox is in the ditch and there is no one there to help us pull it out.

Let me tell you the part Hollywood doesn’t like to talk about. Without faith, there can be no hope. My faith saved me from despair. I believe with all my heart God sent that cardinal to perch on the tree just outside my window.

I’ve seen hundreds of cardinals since, and they always remind me to never lose hope again. I could tell you countless amazing stories about times I’ve seen cardinals when I needed a nudge to keep moving, a spark to keep the fire in my heart burning. Several prayer warriors close to me can tell you stories about cardinals they saw while they were praying for me or wondering how I was doing.

IT'S ILLNESS, NOT WEAKNESS

Depression, bipolar disorder, anxiety disorders and other forms of mental illness are medical conditions just like cancer or diabetes. So please hear and understand this point.

Faith alone is not sufficient to treat mental illness. I’m still troubled by surveys showing half of all Christian pastors don’t believe it is a sickness. They apparently think if we just pray hard enough, we don’t need doctors or real medicine.

I’m not sure what they actually believe, but I know the church needs to wake up and care for the countless people in their own pews suffering in silence. I can tell you that from experience.

I pray that all those who may be suffering and wondering why they can’t get better without help will know and remember this: Mental illness is not weakness. It is sickness. And it requires proper medical and therapeutic treatment.

So please, if you are hurting, get help. Take the hardest step—the first one— by telling a friend or loved one. It will make you feel better.

While I’m retiring this blog, my humble efforts to try and help people will never end. This blog has been a blessing and a burden, but I’ve met or talked to countless people who need a little help. And a lot of hope. I just wish I had more time to be there for those who need it.

Those who courageously reached out to me as a result of the blog have helped me more than they will ever know. That’s what happens when we share our stories with people who can really understand them—those who have walked in the heavy shoes of misery.

I still believe what I’ve written before. Secrets lose the power to hurt us when we drag them into the light. That is why we must fight stigma until it no longer exists. We need to continue the progress made toward a less judgmental and more compassionate culture.

VICTORY

On a chilly morning not long ago, I was enjoying a fresh cup of coffee on my back porch. The mug warmed my hands while I sat quietly and listened to the birds. The red wind chimes hanging from above tinkled as a light wind whispered through the naked trees, the pale yellow sun rising in the distance.

I paid $5 for those wind chimes at Dollar General, but they are priceless to me. The wind chimes were not an impulse purchase like some of the random items I often bring home from my favorite discount store.

I love Dollar General. Shopping there makes me feel like a regular person just trying to make it in the world like everyone else pushing around buggies weighed down by so much more than groceries. I often wonder about their stories.

Seeing the wind chimes I wasn’t looking for was not a random occurrence. It was a sign from God. You see, the first one hanging on the rack had a red cardinal made of cheap stained glass perched on top of the chimes. Some might say it’s tacky. I say it has eternal value.

Now every time the wind blows, I remember what may be the most important moment of my life. I remember what the cardinal means to me. Hope. Hope for peace and happiness. Hope for lasting love and an abundant life. Those dreams have begun to become true in my life. That is a miracle.

I’ve fought enough battles to know every day won’t be easy. When I started this blog, I wasn’t sure what to name it. I settled on “One Man’s War.” I had it half right. It is a war. It will never fully go away. But I no longer fight it alone.

I will win it one way or the other, because like Roman soldiers who hooked their shields together for battle, I now fight it with the help of others. And an Almighty and Everlasting God who will never forsake me.

I took another sip of coffee and drank in the beauty of that winter morning, knowing spring will soon arrive. The rich Arabica blend with a touch of sweet cream made me think.

This is what victory tastes like. Thanks be to God.

Peace in the storm

By Jack Smith

Ever flip open the Bible and land on a verse you desperately needed that moment? Happened to me today. I want to share it with anyone who's struggling or suffering. It's helped me many times.

When the storms come, I eventually quit praying for them to go away, and I starting praying for peace in the storm. It seems to help.

My heart is with my friends who are hurting today. Friends I know and friends not yet made. May you find peace in the storm. 

"Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything." 

James 1:2-4

Let's talk about youth suicide before it's too late

By Jack Smith

Talking about suicide doesn't increase the risk of suicide.

But we need to talk about it in the right way. And we need to talk about it with our teenagers. Before it's too late.

Suicide breaks hearts. It rips families apart. It devastates friends. And it damages children. That's the dark reality of suicide, which isn't poetic at all. It's grim and it's cold and it's sad.

Ending stigma is part of the challenge, but we have to do more than just talk about suicide. We have to talk about our fears. Our anxiety. Our hurts and our brokenness.

When we bury those emotions for some who struggle with mood disorders, we plant the seeds of suicide along with them.

That's why it's important to begin a healthy discussion with our young people now. 
They need to know it's okay to struggle. They need to know it's okay to ask for help. They need to know an episode of depression or failure or disappointment doesn't have to be the end.

They need to know feelings aren't facts. They're just feelings. And they pass like a night storm that brings wind and rain but is gone before dawn.

I deeply appreciate Auburn City Schools being proactive on this issue and encouraging my daughter and I to share our story. And I could not be prouder of  her. When we make ourselves vulnerable and share our stories, secrets and stigma lose the power to hurt us. 

Thank you Dr. Karen DeLano, Dr. Shannon Pignato (a gifted and compassionate educator who cares about all of her students) and Joy Stanley.

 I'm especially grateful for Chris Hardman and Daniel Chesser for their professionalism and compassion shown throughout this series...and most of all for their care and concern for the students of Auburn High School.

Suicide is now the second leading cause of death for young people. And it's by far the most preventable.

But only if we have the courage to be vulnerable and start talking.

Top 10 Tips for Fighting Depression: Keep Fighting

The Greatest reminds us all: Keep fighting. Even when your back is flat on the mat.

By Jack Smith

The death of Muhammad Ali moved me in unexpected ways. He was brash and cocky, but he backed it up. I love Ali because he stood for something—whether you liked it or not. He didn’t care.

He did what HE thought was right. He didn’t spend his days trying to please others or tell them what they wanted to hear. (Paging Jack Smith!)

We can learn a lot from Ali’s life and boxing career.

You know what I learned?

There’s greatness somewhere inside of me even when I can’t see it. All I have to do is never quit searching for it—even when I’m face down on the mat like Joe Frazier after taking a right hook from The Greatest champ who ever lived.

So I credit Ali and a new blog friend who reached out to me a while back from far away and told me I have to keep writing. He said men need help more than I know, and my blog for some reason helps them. Or at least him.

His outreach inspired me to get this post up today. It reminded me that I write this blog to give people hope and help me cope.

So I’m sharing my list of Top 10 Tips to Battle Depression. These are things I try to do in my battle with depression and anxiety. I hope it helps.

I rarely do them all at once. Sometimes my report cards reads like an old “Leave it to Beaver” episode. Wally brings home all A’s. The Beave brings home Bs and Cs—at best. I’m more like The Beave than Wally most of the time.

Here goes, with apologies to Wally for any typos. Posting without much editing is exposure therapy for me:

1. Exercise. Running was once a passion, and it always helped me. It’s like a mental flush. Running is like rebooting my crazy computer, giving me calm and focus. I just started back after a stint on the Disabled List.

I’m already addicted again. You don’t have to run. Swim. Walk. Cycle. Do something even when you don’t feel like getting off the couch—especially when you don’t feel like getting off the couch.

2. Set realistic goals. I try and write down 3 things each night I need to do the next morning. I always start with an easy one. Like “text Fred and tell him Happy Birthday.” It gives me positive momentum. Add one or two things that must be done, like pay the water bill. Do this before bed. It will help you sleep.

3. Get a massage. I don’t know what the research says, but I know what my mind and body think. A good massage always helps me feel better physically and mentally. Even emotionally.

4. Take my meds: All of them. I now use “PillPack,” a fantastic mail-order service for prescriptions. They handle it all. I never deal with drug stores anymore. Pill Pack fills and refills them all and mails me little plastic envelopes that are so easy a monkey could do it.

The one I just ripped open and took said “8 AM Sunday.” It has today’s date and a list of them. You tear out the envelopes you need for each day. No more bottles. I highly recommend PillPack.

5. Focus on family: It’s different in divorce, but I’m happiest if I can really focus on my kids when I’m with them. It’s hard for all of us to turn down the white noise and not worry about things. It’s hard for me, too. But I try mindfulness tips like focusing on the details of what they’re saying or watching what they are doing, noticing the little things. It helps.

You can go home: Just take Memory Lane

“If a person is not talented enough to be a novelist, not smart enough to be a lawyer, and his hands are too shaky to perform operations, he becomes a journalist.”

—Norman Mailer

By Jack Smith

This Norman Mailer quote pretty much sums it up.

My heart longs to write for a living, but my head says I’d starve.

I almost went to law school, but I hated my first job. I worked at the biggest firm in the state in a job I started a couple days after graduation. They stuck me in a room with no windows and not enough straight jackets to do tedious discovery work defending an insurance company—a massive company that ripped off a bunch of poor people who didn’t know better. I was miserable.

My girlfriend was four hours away that summer. The whole thing triggered one of my first bouts with major depression in my early 20s. I’d struggled before but never like that. I could not get off the couch except to go to work.  I had no idea why and never told anyone.

When I told the firm I was leaving, one nice lawyer said it’s a shame. He said I wrote good memos and summarized things well. I didn’t take it as a compliment. I remember wondering why he didn’t say, “You’d make a good lawyer, Jack.”

That’s all I wanted to hear. I have enough lawyers in my family to field a basketball team with good subs to come off one heck of a bench. For years, I’ve wondered why I was too scared to become one. I recently figured it out: I was too scared to become one.

So I did something I swore I’d never do. I went home and settled on a career as a journalist at a community newspaper. They were the best 10 years of my life and career. And the hardest. It’s not easy being Superman’s son, but flying is fun even if you’re afraid of heights.

Oh. I almost forgot about the third part of the quote up top: I have a tremor that on some days makes it hard for me to drink coffee in front of other people. Being a surgeon was not an option, even if I hadn't stunk at science my whole life.

I’ve sat through hundreds of lunches and dinners at restaurants and eaten entire meals without taking a single sip of water. That’s what I used to do when my tremor was bad and the waiter filled my glass too close to the top. I was worried I’d spill it everywhere.

I was mocked as a child just a few times and never really got over it until fairly recently. If someone were to make fun of me tomorrow, they might get a shaky middle finger back in their face. It feels good not to care what others think again. I know that's crass and I'm sorry to sound that way. Honesty is liberating, and that's honestly how I feel. And the rest of the truth is most days I do care what others think. And that's misery. 

You may have heard what Norman Mailer said about going home. Or was it Tom Wolfe, who stole his line and put it on the cover of his best book? Either way, I made up a word just now for what at least one of them did: Plagiarism.

“Don’t you know,” a lady once allegedly told Tom Wolfe, “you can’t go home again?”

Why do we suffer?

By Jack Smith
I recently went through a period of profound suffering. It was pure misery, and I lost hope. The biggest mistake I made was suffering in silence. 
I didn’t even tell my wife, even though she knew. She always knows. She’s like the people at the airport with the wands who make you spread your arms and legs to scan your body for weapons. She scans me every day. Some days I can fool her, but she eventually catches on.
I suffered in silence because I didn’t think our marriage, our family, needed it. But I forgot my own advice I often give others who ask me for help. Don’t try and do it alone. It’s too heavy a burden.

By the grace of God, I found hope again. The black cloud lifted. I’m still perplexed by the mystery of suffering, so I thought I would share an excerpt from my book on the subject.The book is basically finished. 
The proposal is done, and it’s in the hands of my agent, soon to be pitched to publishers. It may not happen, but if I have to I’ll make 50 copies at Kinko’s to share with family and friends. It’s been a lot of work. I hope you enjoy this little excerpt.…………Before I left my home for Houston and treatment in the summer of 2013, my 14-year-old daughter wrote me a letter. I folded it and placed it in my Bible. I slid it out, unfolded it and wept as I read it on the plane on the way to Houston. I share it here, just as she wrote it, with her permission:

Dear Daddy,

Tonight is the night before you leave for Houston. I know this is the best thing for you to do right now, but I still don’t want you to go. A whole month seems like forever thinking about it right now, but I’m hoping it will fly by without a second thought.

So many people love you, including our whole family. They’re going to be supportive throughout every step of this whole thing. Memaw, Mimi, Pop, friends, neighbors, Uncle Joel and Uncle Bill, I could go on and on. The point is that all of those people who I just mentioned and more absolutely love you and want you to get better.

I’m so thankful that you’re alive. You were given a second chance at life. Not everybody is. There’s a reason you didn’t have enough pills, and there’s a reason you’re alive reading this letter right now. God is not done with you. Once we make it through this tough little patch, He is going to use you in absolutely amazing ways. Your testimony will inspire people everywhere.

Right now, you just need to do what’s best for you and get better. Houston will be a once-in-a-lifetime experience for you. You’re going to make unbelievable friendships. 

You’ll be able to meet and talk to people who have the same situation as you. You will learn how to cope with this disease and have a happy and joyful life.

I’ll be praying for you every single day and thinking about you constantly. I’m so proud of you for doing this. It’s going to change all of our lives for the better. I love you more than words can describe.


Love, Sutton
At the very bottom of her letter, Sutton wrote a verse of Scripture that not only changed my perspective. It changed my life.
“I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.” (Romans 8:18)
Sutton’s letter touched my soul in its deepest and most vulnerable place. Here was a young teenage girl offering her insights into suffering and her understanding that, at least while fighting for my life, I had to be selfish. I had to put myself first and treat myself with kindness and compassion.       
I also found comfort knowing that she was as much a part of my recovery as I was. She also reminded me that countless friends and family loved me. I learned that the love and support of our friends and family doesn’t make real human suffering go away, but it gives hope to our hearts and helps light a path out of the darkness.
It also struck me that she was mature enough at age 14 to understand that not only was I hurting, I was suffering. The scripture she shared inspired me to read the entire book of Romans in a new light.

I came to know Paul better, to understand on some level his suffering. More deeply, I began to understand the way true believers cope with suffering. In Romans 5:1-5, Paul writes about how he turned suffering into hope. I share the verses below because they may be the most profound words ever written on the subject of suffering.
“Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we rejoice in the hope of the Glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.”
As my NIV study Bible points out, Paul does not say we should rejoice “because of” our suffering, but “in” our suffering. Paul doesn’t write that we must ask God for suffering or praise God because we are suffering. Instead, he writes that we should praise God even as we suffer.
I don’t accept suffering as easily as Paul. I still have questions. Why does God allow children to suffer? Why would a God who can do any miracle he wants allow children in third-world countries to starve or live in squalor? Why must any of us suffer at all?  As Genesis tells us, God created the heavens and the earth, he separated the land from the sea, and he created light from the darkness. God never took his hands off his creation, but once he set the world in motion, he didn’t take away the darkness. He didn’t create a world without death or destruction or natural disasters.
If we believe in an all-powerful God, then we have to believe God could have created a world in which there would be no flood or famine, pain or suffering. He didn’t. In my limited understanding, that must mean God even had a plan for suffering. If God allowed suffering and we are to be faithful, then we must rejoice despite our suffering.
Rejoicing in our suffering and using it to spread the love of God surely cuts the enemy down at his knees. He wants us to give up hope, abandon our faith, and wallow in our misery. I know this because I have felt it and experienced it. When I am deeply depressed, I want to give up. 
I want to isolate myself from people and from the world. I listen and believe the voices that tell me I will never feel good again, that I am not good enough and that God doesn’t want me to have the life I hoped to live. All of those thoughts and feelings come from a dark place, not a place God created. That’s easy to remember when my illness is in remission. It’s just as easy to forget when I am sick.
Paul tells us that when we persevere through our suffering, we serve as an example and inspiration to others. Paul even used his suffering to spread the gospel. He was imprisoned in Rome when he wrote his letter to the Philippians.
“Now I want you to know, brothers, that what has happened to me has really served to advance the gospel. As a result, it has become clear throughout the whole palace guard and to everyone else that I am in chains for Christ. Because of my chains, most of the brothers in the Lord have been encouraged to speak the word of God more courageously and fearlessly.” (Philippians 1:12-14)
In no way am I comparing my story of bipolar and depression to Paul’s ministry, but those words ring true. As I have shared my stories and my pain, countless people who have suffered in silence have told me they wept when they read my story because it sounded so much like their own. They have been encouraged to speak to others or seek help for their problems.
The words of theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer in Confession and Communion are really about sin, but his words could just as easily be about suffering and shame. One could substitute the words “suffering” or “shame” for “sin” and Bonhoeffer’s profound thoughts tell us a lot about how to deal with suffering:

“In confession the light of the gospel breaks into the darkness and seclusion of the heart,” Bonhoeffer wrote. “The sin must be brought into the light. The unexpressed must be openly spoken and acknowledged. All that is secret and hidden is made manifest. It is a hard struggle until the sin is openly admitted.”

I have found that what Bonhoeffer wrote about sin has been true in my battle with mental illness as it relates to suffering. It is indeed a “hard struggle,” until we can tell our story, ask others for prayers and support, and break free from the chains of shame. When those of us who suffer from mental illness talk openly about our pain and suffering, our secrets and our shame, we begin to understand that our disease lies to us. 
It tells us something is wrong with our character. That is a lie. It tells us God must not care about us. That is a lie. It tells us we are not good enough. That is a lie. It tells us we will never get better. That is a lie, too. They are lies we have to fight every day not to believe.
A breakthrough moment for me came on that flight to Houston for my three-week stay at The Menninger Clinic. While I felt relieved and encouraged knowing I was going to a place where I might get some answers and some help, I was also scared. My biggest fear was coming home the same way that I left or failing to find a treatment plan that made me better. I even put pressure on myself to make sure it worked since family and friends had become so invested in me. I didn’t want to let anyone down, a pathological problem I’ve had all my life.
Flying on a peaceful night on a quiet plane, my views on suffering and my prayers changed when I read my daughter’s letter.
For as long as I can remember, I had prayed for healing. Like Paul asking God to remove the thorn from his side, I had asked God to cure this cancer of the mind that had caused so much suffering and despair.
My prayer changed that night. For the first time, I didn’t pray for God to heal me. I just prayed that His will be done, no matter what that meant for me. If it was God’s will that I suffer, so be it. If it was God’s will for me to go through storm after storm so I could help others, so be it. ...

Hope isn't dangerous; it's all some have

I sat down just now to bang out a blog on fear. I planned to trot out quotes from FDR, the 23^rd Psalm and my own harrowing experiences in dark places with no way to get out.

Then I decided to write about hope. Fear and hope may be the two ends of the mental health spectrum that best describe how I feel at any time. Not my physical feeling. Not my mental state. The state of my soul.

Hope is the most powerful thing in the world, not a dangerous thing as “Red” suggests in The Shawshank Redemption. It has been the difference between giving up and pressing on for me, probably even life and death.

My hope comes from my faith. It is also comes from something God put in my chest when I was born. The only reason I’ve kept fighting when I’ve wanted to give up so many times is that, no matter how bad or pessimistic or miserable I felt, there was always some small glimmer of hope deep in my soul telling me not to give up.

I can’t write this blog without acknowledging that I did give up, overwhelmed by pain and confusion and disillusionment. I guess you could say I lost hope that day. I’ll write more on that later. If all this seems a little contradictory or dualistic, well it is. So is life with Bipolar Disorder.

I don’t know what else to credit for my improvement other than faith and hope. God had another plan for my life. A second act. It includes some suffering too, but all for a greater good.

Ever since I left for The Menninger Clinic last September, my faith has been a lighthouse in the foggy distance. There have been moments of misery, times of deep despair that challenged my faith and tried to break me. But they didn’t.

In 10 months since the worst day of my life, I’ve rediscovered my family, made a professional change that has so far worked out swimmingly, gotten in better shape, lost 30 pounds and learned to trust God more fully. I would call that a pretty good comeback.

I hesitated to share all this because I’m a bit superstitious when it comes to my mental health. I know a spectacular crash can happen at any time for any reason. That’s just how it is, and that’s why fear lurks somewhere in the dark corner of our souls even on the good days.

I share it because I’ve talked to too many people suffering from mental illness. They need more than a good therapist. They need more than the best drugs. They need a little hope.

Red is right. Hope can feel like a dangerous thing, and I suppose sometimes it is. But if we can’t hope for better days, for a better life, what do we have to live for? That would be the most dangerous thing of all.

Mental illness hurts loved ones, too

I was sifting through banal emails at work, deleting junk in my inbox.

Then one from my wife caught my eye. The subject line read “Your submission to teen ink.” I settled in with a warm cup of coffee, hoping to find another uplifting poem or story written by our 14-year-old daughter, Sutton.

Then I read the message from my wife at the top of the email. “Check out her link. It breaks my heart. I hate to think to think she feels this way.” 

I clicked on the link and found this poem she’d written…

This thing, 

This monster,This demon.
Depression.
It is a black hole, endless and infinite.
It swallows me whole, Shredding my soul.Ripping my body to pieces.
Thought by thought, Word by word, It presses on.Consuming me. Controlling me. Changing me.
This darkness, This plague. It takes over me.
Until it is me. 
It has conquered me, and it has become me.
The darkness and I are one.
I can't remember how to turn on the lights.

My heart sank. I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach by a horse. I panicked. Thoughts raced through my mind at warp speed.

How could I, of all people, have missed the signs?

How long has she felt this way? Did she inherit my disease?

How could this happen to such a bright light in a dark world?

Where can we take her to get help?

My wife sat down with Sutton to talk about the poem. She insisted it wasn’t about her. It was about her daddy.

Mixed emotions filled my head after hearing the news. I was touched that she understood and shared in a profound and powerful way all that I have felt. I was also troubled when I realized how much young people sense and know about their parents.

My wife and I had a talk and agreed we had to be more careful. I had to find a way to “fake it” when possible, although I’m sure Sutton would see through it. She can see it on my face when I walk in the door after a difficult day. She senses it even on the weekend, if I’m listless and disengaged.

We decided if we had any disagreements due to the strain bipolar puts on marriages, we couldn’t have them in front of our kids.

The experience caused me to think about the devastating impact mental illness has on families. Here’s a sobering statistic for you: Ninety percent of all bipolar people who get married end up divorced.

I suspect the majority of those divorces happen because the patient's partners just can’t do it anymore. They can’t endure the manic highs, which often result in impulsive or reckless behavior. They can’t handle the devastating lows, which leave their partners wallowing in a pit of misery, unable to show compassion or emotion.

Severe mental illness hurts more than the patient. It hurts loved ones, too. They pray fervently for help that doesn’t always come. They lie awake at night, wondering what happened to their husband or wife, son or daughter. They wonder if it will ever get better, doubting how it could after failed treatments and years of suffering.

My wife and I have been married for 18 years, but my illness has taken its toll on our marriage. She’s often left frustrated and exhausted during times when I’ve struggled to do much more than roll out of bed and get dressed.

Mental illness hurts more than spouses. It hurts children, young ones and old ones with parents who can hardly function and often become a burden. It is hard for me to imagine how difficult it must be to care for a mentally ill parent years before they reach old age.

Patients like me have all sorts of resources. We have psychiatrists. We have therapists. We have drugs that may or may not work but at least give us a chance.

Other than therapy, I’m not sure what loved ones have. They probably don’t have time for therapy either since they often become single parents by default.

Churches don’t do much—at all—for the 25 percent of their congregations suffering from mental illness. They do even less for loved ones hurt and confused by the mental illness sucking the life and joy out of their homes.

I do not have the answers, but chipping away at the stigma of mental illness is a start. If an individual can’t or won’t let others know they suffer from mental illness and need prayers and support, they don’t get any prayers or support. 

The reason some never drag their illness out of the dark and into the light? Stigma. That’s what that word we toss around really means.

My mind and my prayers aren’t on me tonight. They are centered on my family and other families struggling to deal with a loved one’s mental illness.

They need our help as much as I do.