It stands to reason that parenting doesn’t come with a manual because every child is different. How easy it would be to know exactly when and how a child will react, or calculate the date at which they will begin to crawl, walk, and talk. Or what to do to turn off a public meltdown like a light switch. There are a plethora of parenting books out there, but at the end of the day, one can only glean general advice that may or may not apply.
Adults are the same way. We’re all uniquely created. Psalm 139:14 (NIV) says, “I praise you, because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.”
My interpretation: “God doesn’t make junk!”
We aren’t junk. I know this now. It’s taken me a long, long time to know this. John 3:16 says that God LOVES us. We sang songs about this, even in the spiritually-abusive churches I attended. But why was this not displayed? One minute, we’re worms; filthy rags, destined for hellfire. We slip up even a little, then we’re separated from God and we can miss the rapture and go to hell. The next, we’re singing ‘Jesus Loves Me.’
This thinking kept me bound in fear constantly as the years passed in the church. Fear, depression, anxiety— all symptoms of underlying mental health conditions, exacerbated by my environment. I saw what I perceived to be strong, “perfect” Pentecostals around me, and it slowly killed me inside to know I wasn’t like them. My heart just didn’t feel as… in it. They prayed an hour a day and fasted regularly. I could barely focus enough to pray more than five minutes without falling asleep. Fasting was a no-go for me because of a medical condition.
When I read the Bible— the strongly-recommended King James Version, like a good Pentecostal— I had trouble interpreting the vague, flowery text (one reason I relied so heavily on the preached/taught interpretations). I wanted to read and write fantasy and sci-fi novels, but anything to do with magic and aliens was seen as evil. And so my imagination was chained unless I covertly sinned and wrote in secret (which, I confess, I ended up doing).
And why did I have such a hard time “witnessing” to people? We were constantly commissioned over the pulpit to bring people to church; to tell them our testimony. I could make friends (though it took me a long time to come out of my shell enough to do so), but, over time, I found that I didn’t want to change them. They were my friends because I liked them.
My initial haughtiness I had when I first got into the church had long since faded, and now I felt low beyond low. I thought it was a sin to love myself. How could I lie to people and tell them that church was a bed of roses and there was joy unspeakable when all I felt was unspeakable sorrow? Over and over, I brought it to the altar. I claimed victory. I’d feel great after an evening service, perhaps, but then that feeling would fade quickly. It was nothing but a band-aid on a wound that cut to the bone.
Between all of my own issues and dealing with Stella’s increasing behavioral issues and obvious developmental delays, I began to feel like an overall failure. And the only advice I could ever get from the church was “Pray about it. Give it to God,” or some other lovely platitude. Even at the altar, when I sobbed and begged God to send me a friend, some real support, I would look around to find no one. No hand laying on my shoulder to pray with me. And I assumed it meant I wasn’t worthy. In reality, that probably was not the case, but when you’re so deep in mire, your vision is clouded.
My panic attacks were coming on strong and constant. I became afraid to be around people more and more. I didn’t want to leave the house, or hardly get out of bed when I was home. Thoughts of leaving this world played through my mind on repeat. The house was going to heck in a hand basket, and things were reaching a breaking point. One night, during a particularly bad panic attack, my husband got frustrated and asked me what was wrong with me. I started crying and told him, “I just want to die! I want to die…”
At that point, I should’ve gone to a hospital. Paul should’ve taken me. Looking back, I know that now. But we were in an environment where mental health was still not talked about as openly, and not doing well was not okay. Paul didn’t know how to handle it. He felt as helpless as I did. Somehow, I survived in that moment. I clung to my husband, and we made it through.
After that awful night, I did something new: I sought help from a psychiatrist.
My nerves were riled with anxious energy, sitting in that waiting room. Would I have to lay on a couch? Tell her about my childhood? Was she going to hypnotize me? Would I still be a good witness to her even after she learned of all my issues? I’d heard all kinds of things about “shrinks,” and I wasn’t fully sure what to expect.
When it was finally my turn to go back to the office, I took a deep breath. I was greeted by a pretty, smiling woman with dark, curly hair in a light gray pantsuit. She introduced herself as Dr. Rolling and had me sit in a black, cushioned leather chair across from her at her L-shaped, cherrywood desk. The sunlight was pouring through the wall of windows at my back. It was a pleasant atmosphere.
“So, tell me about yourself?” she asked.
My story came out slowly at first, but was soon pouring out like the tipping of a bucket. Dr. Rolling listened intently, making lots of notes. She didn’t pass one iota of judgment when I told her about my storms, and my panic attacks— any of it. In fact, she showed more empathy than I’d experienced in a long time. And she offered something other than just well wishes.
I left with a diagnosis of ADHD and an anxiety disorder, but more importantly, I left with help. She started me on new medication to try and help alleviate some of the symptoms. It was explained how my brain chemistry works differently and taking medication for mental health was no different than taking it for high blood pressure or anything else. It relieved some of my fears, and from then on out, I felt completely comfortable going to see Dr. Rolling.
The medication did not completely cure my storms, but it took the edge off. As I would find out, sometimes life has a way of getting you down regardless. In 2010, at age three, Stella was kicked out of her Christian-run preschool because of her increasing behavior issues (she’d bit another child). She still wasn’t potty-trained, in spite of our best efforts. Her language skills were mostly echolalia, repeating words and phrases she’d picked up from us or her favorite tv shows. We had her evaluated by a pediatric neurologist, who came back with a diagnosis of autism. At the same time, she was also evaluated and enrolled in the local Title 1 preschool, where they were better equipped to teach kids who had differences like Stella. I left my job at the bank to work from home for my mother’s online-based business so I could focus on her.
The reaction from the church was mixed. Some people were supportive. Others thought she needed it prayed out of her. There were some who insisted she needed it spanked out of her. All the while, I was fed fear-mongering information from various popular sources at the time, and found myself falling into a deep pit of “what-ifs”, and wondering if I was somehow failing as a mother. This did little to aid my nearly non-existent sense of self-worth as a Christian.
In 2012, life began to shift yet again. I gave birth to our second child, Parker, in January. During my pregnancy that prior year, I had joined an online group of women who were all due to give birth at the same time, and formed some life-long friendships as a result. These women weren’t Pentecostal, but they were amazing, just as they were. None of them wore skirts, or had uncut hair. They wore makeup and jewelry, and even used four-letter words (gasp!). But I’d finally found people I could be honest with and talk about my storms to. I was supposed to witness to these women— be an example of the church and Jesus to them, but instead, I found that I loved them just as they were. I was taught that people like them were of the devil, and that they were bound for hell. But all I felt was unconditional love— the kind Jesus showed.
It’s ironic that the church discourages people from becoming “close” with people who aren’t in the church, when Jesus himself chose to hang out with publicans and “sinners”. He went to those that society deemed as less desirable in some shape or form. He fed them, spoke with them, healed them. It’s my understanding that healing can be invisible. It’s not always the healing of a physical wound— sometimes it’s the building of a bridge across an ugly, ancient rift. Or an anchorless ship finding a safe harbor at last. Or… perhaps a lonely soul finding kindred spirits.
From these ladies, I gradually learned lessons of kindness, acceptance, and grace over the many years to come.
In 2013, I was evaluated and received my own autism diagnosis at last. The church people began to subtly pull away from me when I let the news be known. I remember the uncomfortable aversion of eyes. Even the pastor’s wife gave just about no response when I excitedly texted her, because I finally had answers I’d been searching all my life for. It was disheartening. After all, I wasn’t broken, just different! Why did I suddenly feel like a leper among the people I’d known for years?
My 2012 Mommies, however, held me up and embraced me wholeheartedly. It was this love that held me as life at home and church slowly descended into a new phase of turmoil… that would ultimately lead to my exit from the church and the start of a new journey.
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