This is something I’ve wanted to share for a long time. I’ve had a bunch of reservations and thoughts
against doing it, but ultimately I’ve realized that bringing glory to God is
infinitely more important than my image, how other people perceive me or my
family, and my fear of upsetting people.
When I was growing up, only two things were articulated to me by
adults outside my immediate family:
1)
some kind of praise for being
“so smart” or playing the violin “so beautifully”
2)
“What’s wrong? Why don’t you
ever smile?”
Most people might receive the first one graciously, with a smile,
but it just made me so angry whenever I heard it. That was all anyone ever said to me; it made
me feel like a robot—just a brain and a body.
No soul. Then when the second
question would cross someone’s lips, I would become furious. Why didn’t I ever smile? What did I have to smile about, when all that
I was ever valued for was so superficial?
What value did I hold—to others, or myself, or God?
I had a pretty decent childhood for the first 10 years, growing up
in a small town where everybody knew their neighbours. I was a bit of an intellectual, which made it
challenging for me to make friends, but that wasn’t the end of the world, and I
eventually did find my niche among my peers.
When I was 10, a major bombshell was dropped: my mom left. She didn’t just pick up and leave, she went
back to school so that she could have a better career and earn a better living
for our family after staying at home with me and my brother for 10 years. That was her story anyway, and my dad’s
story. I didn’t dare question it to
their faces, and I wasn’t given an opportunity to voice my opinion, but in my
mind, my mother was running away from me.
I was a screw-up. The bulk of our
last four years together had been spent learning to play the violin, and nearly
every practice session that we had together ended with us screaming at each
other and me in tears, wondering why she thought so lowly of me, when not
another adult in the world had anything bad to say about me. I was just a kid—I couldn’t articulate that,
nor was I given the space to.
Her
absence was hard on all of us. My
brother was just starting school full time, and my dad seemed vested in
facilitating that transition. I was an
afterthought. My dad was obviously
stressed, and, understandably so, but that translated into him being very short
with me. All of a sudden, I was too fat,
my clothes were too tight, I had too much acne, my hair was too greasy, and I
was dumb for not being able to fit in at school and be normal. The words hurt, but my thoughts hurt even
more; with every negative comment directed at me, the hole in my heart that
began to form when my mom left got even bigger. It felt like I was being
stabbed in the chest. Sometimes it
physically hurt to breathe. I was so
angry, it hurt. That was a clear sign to
me: if my life is this painful, I must
not be meant to live. At the age of
10, I became suicidal.
It started out with small things: cutting and bruising. These weren’t such a big deal—I knew there
were other people who did them. A couple
of times, things got really bad. I
twisted my bedsheet into a rope and thought of where I might tie it up. The ceiling fan in my room would surely break
under my weight, and I wouldn’t be able to make it to the unfinished basement
to tie it off on a pipe or a truss without being seen. I just tied it around my neck and choked
myself, crying the whole time, letting out all the pain until I passed
out. When I came to a few moments later,
I was embarrassed—ashamed at what I had just done, and angry and grateful at
the same time to still be alive. I sat
in the silence for a long time thinking everything over. What had just happened? I didn’t dare move, for fear that I would
lose the moment. As well as I understood
that people shouldn’t romanticize suffering, it just felt natural to me, and,
in a way, it was comforting. Despite
this terrible war that I was caught up in, something in me wasn’t ready to give
up just yet—but what was that, and why did it matter?
My mom came back home to stay two years later. Although things had settled down, they
weren’t the same. She was a different
person than when she left, and so was I; we had grown apart, but that was the
way things were. The depression and
suicidal thoughts continued on and off through high school. Despite my best efforts to close that chapter
of my life for good, things started ramping up toward the end of grade 11 and
into grade 12. I became so consumed by
my own negative thoughts that I couldn’t function. I would go days without eating and spend
entire weekends locked in my room to avoid contact with anyone. When I could, I’d sneak down to my parents’
liquor cabinet and drink whatever was there, just to numb my mind enough to
forget why I was so upset and angry.
Later on, prescription drugs became my weapon of choice to combat this
pain. Some days I felt like a shadow of
what I was meant to be; I had a feeling that someone, somewhere, even if it
wasn’t me, wanted something better for me, and I was just letting them down by
not getting my shit together, sucking it up, and living that life. On other days, I felt like a zombie: already
dead, not in control of my mind, and not understanding why my body was still in
the land of the living when my soul was clearly not. My body felt like a hindrance to my spirit,
and the lies continued to be planted in my head that my physical and spiritual
bodies needed to be separated so that my spirit could be free; I was incapable
of being a productive member of society, and didn’t deserve to live.
It was after my first year of university that I realized that
something needed to change. I had left
home for school thinking that I was going to make the best friends of my life,
who understood me for me, and we’d get along famously, never leaving each
other’s sides as we drank ourselves stupid.
Things didn’t quite happen that way.
No matter how hard I tried to fit in, I was still different; I realized
how superficial, empty, and insincere the lifestyle was that I was trying to
live. I just stopped. I withdrew and shut down. Being alone was nothing new for me; it seemed
something that I was engineered for, and as much as that thought upset me, I
accepted it as truth. I didn’t deserve
to be happy. I started popping
prescription painkillers like candy, just because I could. My life became all about the pursuit of
numbness and apathy. I avoided everyone
and everything to get lost inside my own mind and wait for time to pass,
naively hoping that when I awoke from this state, everything would be better.
I was in a low place, and thought things could only get better. Instead, they got worse. In second year I began having severe panic
attacks—episodes of intense, irrational fear where I firmly believed I was
going to die. I didn’t tell many people about
what was happening to me. I was really
ashamed at the fact that I just couldn’t seem to pull myself together, and I
had zero idea of why any of this was happening.
Sure, maybe I had been a little high-strung and worried about stuff
before, but never to the point where I would lose control of my mind and body
and freak out like a crazy person. The
knee-jerk reaction of the medical system was to throw a pill at it and see what
would happen. First came the
sedatives. I loved those—so much that
within about a month I reached a state of addiction where I needed the maximum
safe dosage just to make it through the day, and if I felt like I needed more,
I took more, so I could make myself sleep and forget about the world when I
wanted to. Then some doctor (rightfully
so) decided that I needed something else to help my mood, and prescribed
antidepressants. Within two days I was
in the ER with very adverse side effects, and ended up being committed. That hurt.
A lot. I had been labeled
clinically insane, incapable of caring for myself—in the words I’d been brought
up with which to classify these types of people: stupid, dumb,
incompetent. I stayed locked in the
psychiatric ward in perpetual fear for two days until I was able to put on
enough of an “everything’s okay” façade to be discharged. They wanted to keep me there for 6-8 weeks,
but I wouldn’t have any of that; I had classes to attend and exams to
write. I couldn’t be in the
hospital. I refused to admit that I had
lost that much control over my own life.
The months following that were very difficult. My mom had to come to London and live with me for the remaining
month of school before Christmas because I was incapable of taking care of
myself. She drove me to all my classes
and exams because I couldn’t get on the bus due to the fear of having another
panic attack. I spent the Christmas
holidays that year getting used to a new medication and all its side effects:
insomnia, nausea, anorexia, migraines, and severe muscle spasms. My family made fun of me because the
medication caused me to shake uncontrollably.
If I didn’t feel stupid, rejected, and abandoned before, I did now. The following semester, I led a very simple
life: I woke up, went to school, came home from school, and did absolutely
nothing—on a significant portion of the days, I just skipped the whole school
part and stayed in bed the whole day.
God didn’t cross my mind much, but somewhere deep down I had this idea
that maybe someone, somewhere, wanted something better for me in this life—I
knew I sure didn’t deserve it, but if someone wanted to give it to me as a
gift, I would accept it.
After several months of seeing numerous doctors and therapists,
trying various holistic methods, and going on all kinds of diets to try and
wipe out my anxiety, nothing was working.
I was hopeless, a lost cause, damaged goods, my life was ruined and
would never amount to anything.
Growing up, my family went to church. I sort of knew who God was, and heard people
talk about him, but no one ever asked me how I felt about him, pushed me to
learn more, or dedicate my life to him in any way. I was uninspired. I was jealous of people who knew God, envious
of functional families who could talk about God and pray together—and love each
other. I’d heard stories of Jesus
bringing people out of really dark situations.
My absolute last hope was that maybe, despite my horrendous sins,
self-loathing, brokenness, and hopelessness—maybe Jesus would have something
different to say about me; maybe he would bring me through this storm.
In September 2012, I got connected with IVCF. These Christians weren’t like the ones I had
known; they weren’t conceited or judgmental.
Right from my first altercations with these people, I felt a really
profound authenticity and love just radiate.
I felt things that I didn’t even know I had been missing. I hadn’t ever paid much attention to love
before, it was just another thing I felt like I didn’t deserve to receive or
give, because I was so damaged. Lies
from the pit of hell, I would later learn.
Less than a month into this venture, I was hit by another major
blow: I had had a jaw surgery earlier in the summer, and the surgical area had
become infected. After numerous x-rays
and examinations, it was apparent that the hardware used in the surgery had
failed, and I booked an appointment to have everything ripped out that was put
in. I was pretty devastated, as this was
only the second in a long line of surgeries to replace a congenitally missing
tooth and finally give me a mouth full of teeth for the first time in my life
(maybe give me something to smile about).
My mom was more upset than I was (somehow), and wasn’t speaking to
anyone, which made me feel like even more of a burden and a failure, even
though this defect was purely genetic, not my fault. My dad pulled me aside, away from her, and
said to me something along the lines of “Your mom likes to worry a lot, but you
don’t have to. Put this on God’s
shoulders. He’s got big shoulders.” I was floored. This man, my father, who had the hardest
heart of anyone I’d ever known, had just told me to give my burdens up to
God. So I did, and I had people pray
over me that I would be healed of this infection. A couple of weeks later, when I went in for
the operation to have everything removed, the surgeon took a look, and saw no
sign of an infection ever being there.
There was no need to operate. God
was slowly revealing himself to me, one situation at a time.
In January, after a few months of learning and growing in Christ,
God asked me to take a leap of faith bigger than I’d ever dreamed of, and called
me to mission with IVCF in Bangladesh. People in the community had been dropping
hints and trying to persuade me that this was something I should be doing for a
number of weeks, but I had shot them down; they didn’t know about this mental
illness that I suffered from that severely impaired my ability to
function. There was no way I would be
able to get on a plane and go to the other side of the world and spread the
gospel, which I was barely familiar with at that point—but God had other
plans. 3 days before the deadline to
apply for the trip, I was stuck in the mindset of “this sounds cool, but it’s
something I would never do”, when God flipped my perspective upside-down yet
again. I was having a panic attack in a
crowded room with no way to escape discreetly, wanting to pray to God to make himself
known to me in this situation and provide peace and calm, but scared to do that,
knowing that if he did take the anxiety away, he would be showing me that he
had domain over this anxiety that was standing in between me and
Bangladesh. And I fought against the
notion of prayer so hard, but God’s will was so much stronger than mine. The second I bowed my head, I stopped shaking
and became still, and a wave of calm came over me; I felt an indescribable
peace I’d never felt—like God was telling me that everything was going to be
ok. I believed it. Tears started rolling down my face and I
continued to pray, out loud, praising God for this amazing thing, knowing that
this was his way of telling me that this anxiety wasn’t going to prevent me
from following him to Bangladesh. So after a weekend of prayer and discernment,
I decided to follow God on this mission, despite everything all the other
voices were telling me about how I shouldn’t and couldn’t do it.
The trip itself was a remarkable experience in so many ways, as you
can imagine. I could spend quite a great
length of time talking about any one aspect of the Bengali culture, food,
poverty, lifestyle, or hospitality, but what really stuck with me was something
much deeper: love. This was my first
extended time spent living and working with people who were supposed to become
like my family. I wasn’t expecting to
reveal to them as much as I did, and for us to leave genuinely caring so deeply
for each other. My only experience with
family had been my own, and to me that meant coming home every day and locking
myself in my room to avoid being seen so I wouldn’t have to be ridiculed,
insulted, or ordered around—it was like I wasn’t human to them. I didn’t have feelings and I didn’t
matter—they were my human masters that I was built to serve, not God. I had a fair bit of anxiety in Bangladesh, but
this was the first time anyone had ever asked me what they could do to help me
when I was feeling that way, without just making small talk. There were people on the team who held me,
talked to me, massaged me, sat with me, stayed up with me, listened to me, read
to me, and were screamed at by me, all in the name of keeping me calm, cool and
collected.
It wasn’t just my teammates showing me love either. In the mornings, five other women from the
team and I would go to volunteer at a daycare centre/rehabilitation centre for
destitute women and their families.
These women and children, despite the horrific things they had been
through to land up in this place, were the bearers of such an incredible,
authentic love and care. On more than
one occasion, I had to leave whatever room we were in and try and collect
myself during a panic attack. More often
than not, a kid or a woman or two would follow me out, asking in Bengali if I
was ok, and I’d say (in broken Bengali) that I was, trying to get them to go
away—I didn’t want them to see me like this.
I was the missionary here, I was supposed to be the one totally put
together and unphased by anything, called here to bring the gospel to these
people because God had found me worthy of that calling… but these women and
kids were smarter than I thought. They
totally didn’t buy that I was ok, and after a couple of vain attempts of saying
something to me in Bengali (which I didn’t understand—but was probably
something like, is there anything I can do for you?) they just stared at
me. This was something I wasn’t totally
used to, since in Canadian culture we make a point of looking like we’re NOT
staring when someone is obviously different.
Things were quite the opposite here—almost like they made a point of
staring to make me realize that they really did genuinely care about me, and
because of the language barrier they couldn’t know what I needed, so they just
watched me like hawks. It was their way
of making sure I was ok. That was like
seeing the face of God. Every single
time, that was enough for me to get back in there and engage with these people.
Following Jesus, to non-believers (or at least to me as a
non-believer), often seems like an easy way out—like using Jesus as a scapegoat
and an excuse to not work hard or conform to the ideals of the secular
world. I’d be lying if I said that
following Jesus wasn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done. If God was the genie that a lot of people,
Christian and non-Christian, seem to think he is, everybody would pray all the
time and get exactly what they wanted, there would be no war, no suffering… but
God doesn’t work like that.
Nowhere,
ever, in the Bible or anywhere, does it say that following Jesus will be
easy. But having someone to take up your
burdens, love you unconditionally, forgive you of your sins, help you forgive
those who have wronged you, comfort you in trouble—and oh yeah, to die on the
cross so that you may be saved and have eternal life in heaven with this
awesome dude—THAT is SO worth it.
That being said, my life on this side of the grass is nowhere near
perfect. My relationship with my parents
is still really broken. Although I’ve
been able to forgive them for their wrongdoings against me (Eph. 4:31-32), I
still don’t believe they understand the magnitude of how damaging these actions
and words were. They are only human,
like me, and have made mistakes trying to do the best they knew how to do when
the pressure was on. That happens to the
best of us. Even so, I still long for
them to get to know God in the same way that I do, and I’ve been praying that
someday we’ll all be able to be reconciled by the love of Jesus. That time hasn’t come yet, God is still
getting us all ready—but when it does happen, it’ll be so amazing… In the
meantime, though my father and mother
forsake me, the LORD will receive me. Psalm 27:10
My mental illness is by no means gone. I’ve only recently been cleared of all
prescription medications. With Jesus,
I’ve been able to kick my addiction to sedatives, but that didn’t magically
make my anxiety go away. Coming off the
antidepressants was a huge test of my faith.
This drug had sheltered me from feeling a multitude of emotions that I
was too weak and bewildered to process alone.
After about a week of zero medication, I began having crazy withdrawal
symptoms: a really bad headache that felt like someone was physically shaking
my head, rattling my brain around in my skull, and prolonged episodes of
heightened emotions and crying. I
thought I had experienced some intense emotional stuff since beginning to be
vulnerable with God, but this was on a whole other scale. I went through (and am continuing to go
through) situations where I chose to ignore God, knowing that choosing in to
whatever he had in front of me would cause me to feel these really intense
emotions of sadness, regret, hopelessness, and fear, and I had reached the
point of mental burnout where I knew that feeling or processing more emotions
was redundant. Gradually, I’m learning
to trust that what God has for me is good, and that he will never give me more
than I can handle with him. Being
mindful of this isn’t always easy (actually, it’s usually pretty hard), but
every time it comes more quickly, and I spend less time worrying about what
might happen, and am able to focus more readily on where God wants me to be and
what he wants me to do.
As recently as a few weeks ago I’ve had suicidal thoughts and have
self-harmed simply because that physical pain is quicker and easier to deal
with than the complex emotions that lead me to it. God’s had some pretty awful stuff to say
about this, but he’s also placed me in such a loving, caring community where I
can feel safe and supported raising these issues, and feel loved as I work to
the roots of these issues and invite God into that space where he has the final
word, and by his grace and his grace alone I can be forgiven for these sins. These same people have also lovingly kicked
me in the butt to get the psychological help that I need for this, which I
never would have been able to do alone.
I’m an extremely broken person.
I’m not the type of Christian that sees myself as “holier-than-thou”—I
have merely chosen to accept and choose in to this grace of unfathomable
abundance that God has extended to us humans through the death of his only son,
Jesus Christ, on the cross. Consciously
doing this all the time on a minute-by-minute basis is absolutely the hardest
thing I’ve ever done, but in addition to grace, our God is also abundant in
peace, love, and hope (1 Tim. 1:14), all of which he has shown me at exactly
the right time. The greatest thing that
I can do with my life is to share this incredible truth of our abundant,
faithful, unfaltering God, and I want nothing more than to serve him by living
out and proclaiming this gospel. That’s how
crazy this is. Our God can turn a suicidal
drug addict into…me, his faithful servant.
My story is still being written (Phil. 1:6). I know that there will be more struggle and
hardship, maybe worse than what I’ve already been through, since as my faith
gets stronger, the enemy is just going to fight back harder—but there’s no one
I would rather go through it with than our strong and mighty God. Also, as I mentioned earlier, the reward for
that is pretty great (James 1:12, Matt 25:21, 1 Cor. 2:9, Rev. 2:10).
