She talked about it in code. She would say things like, “You know, that time I spent at Camp Minnehaha.” Few knew about her brief hospitalization in the psychiatric unit. Coworkers had been told she was out sick. People assumed the flu given that the virus had been making its way around the office. Our pastor didn’t know. We didn’t tell him. No one at church knew about her time at Camp Minnehaha or about the depression and anxiety that culminated in a crisis that lead to that time. No one knew about it afterwards either. We didn’t tell anyone outside the immediate family about the search for the right doctor, the trial and error of medication, the worry that a return to “camp” would be necessary.
Looking back, I wonder why we didn’t tell anyone. We are not people who shun medicine for mental illness. As a pastor, I have referred many people to counselors, therapists, psychiatrists. Our family has availed itself of many of those professionals. I have said to folks wary of trying medications, those who’ve thought more prayer was the answer, “If you had diabetes, you’d take insulin, right?” I have visited church members young and old in psychiatric units.
And yet, despite my education, my beliefs about modern medicine and even my theology, at that time when the mental illness in my family went from chronic and manageable to acute and frightening, we told almost no one. We talked about it in code. We made it through and found the right professionals and the right medication and there were no more excursions to “camp.”
But there have been times since when it was a distinct possibility. So close one time that a call was made, but there were no available beds. What a relief and how simultaneously terrifying. Thanks be to God, we don’t have to go. Dear God, what if that’s really the help we need? And yet again, we told almost no one. We went about life the best we could.
Why the silence? There were family members, a very few, very trusted friends who knew, but mostly we circled the wagons and retreated until the storm had passed and we could go back to chronically manageable, mostly good days. I don’t know if we were ashamed or afraid. In our culture and, yes, even in the church, it is shameful to not have it all together, to not be able to pull yourself together. It is frightening to let others know just how vulnerable you truly are.
Mental illness isn’t yet viewed like other illnesses. We know a lot more about the science of it, but we still don’t relate very well to the people struggling with it. I understand the unpredictability of mental illness and the reality that most are managed — not cured — makes a ministry of presence challenging. We’ve gotten pretty good at caring for those having hip replacement surgery. We’ve gotten better about ministering to the dying. We still have difficulty figuring out what to do with the young man diagnosed with schizophrenia or the new mom trying to manage her bipolar disorder.
The National Alliance on Mental Illness reports that in any given year one in four Americans is suffering from some form of mental illness. Some studies have shown that pastors are often the first person those suffering reach out to for help. Other studies have revealed how unprepared those faith leaders are when people do so. Few faith communities have plans and resources in place to help those with mental illnesses and their families.
The result is that too often those suffering tell no one or they talk in code or they disappear from our churches.
This issue of the Outlook explores mental illness and the role faith can play in helping or hurting those living with it. It is a call for the church to begin to talk openly about mental illness so that the lingering shame of it can be lifted. It is, I hope, a small step in alleviating the isolation that adds to the suffering of those already hurting. Going to “camp” shouldn’t be shameful and no one should be there alone.
Grace and peace,
Jill
