The Month I Chose Not to Write

For the past month, I have fasted writing my novels and books, allowing myself only blog posts and journal entries to process the events and emotions of my life. Here are some of the things I have learned.

1) Prayer is good.

I have prayed more this past month than previously, and I don’t believe there’s been one time my prayers have been fruitless. Sometimes they were painful. Sometimes they revealed the depths of my despondency. Yet every time, they showed me a truth about God or myself that was fruitful for me to know. Prayer is always worthwhile.

One thing I noticed in praying was that writing my prayers kept me more focused. Especially when I’m manic, my thoughts bounce from one subject to another in free association, and it is difficult to concentrate. Writing keeps me focused by slowing my thought processes down and giving me something to look back at and reference. When I can’t think straight and everything is spinning out of control, writing my prayers pulls me back to a central train of thought.

2) My heart wanders.

Even as I tried to refocus on God, many distractions tugged at my heart. None were bad in and of themselves—books, friends, TV shows, movies, music, etc. but I was using them to shift my attention from God to the bent and broken world. Rather than multiplying my adoration for God and my love for people, these things were at times detracting. Often, I fueled my energy into them rather than letting them energize me. My heart wanders, using even the tools God provides in ways He did not intend.

To clarify, I don’t think the things of the world (books, relationships, media, etc.) were the problem. Surely there are things out there that only corrupt and do not uplift, but I am speaking of those things that have some measure of holiness to them, whether by means of their creation or in the eye of the beholder. Reading about Celtic prayer, spending time catching up with friends, watching shows and movies about hope, and listening to encouraging music were not the problem. It is my heart that wanders—the paths themselves do not commit evil but rather those who travel by them misstep and cause pain. My tools are not the problem. My hand that wields them and my mind and heart that direct them do the harm.

In essence, I thought by fasting writing I would turn myself toward God, but it turns out offering one’s sinful yet redeemed heart to its Creator and Savior requires more than just intentionality. It requires a miracle. Thankfully, we have a miracle-working God.

3) I’m not doing as well as I thought.

I have had a lot more time to reflect because of not writing for the past month. As a result, I have noticed twisted thought patterns and problematic emotions popping up often. I have been in a mixed state—both manic and depressed—and therefore my thoughts have raced with thoughts of self-harm and worst-case scenarios. What if my mental gets so bad, I go to the hospital? What if I lose my job? Or maybe my husband doesn’t pick up the phone immediately—what if something happened to him? My son comes to me crying at night, distraught by the thought that we might forget him at school. In his thinking, I recognize the dysfunction and irrationality that so often plague me. What if he ends up with the same issues as I have? What if he doesn’t find the hope that I have?

One might think I would panic at thoughts like these, and maybe I should, but instead I shut down. My heart numbs itself. Images in my mind turn from color to black-and-white, and drab gray despondency shrouds them all. Whereas once I thought I was functioning well, I realize I have been just hanging on. Outwardly, I am doing most of the things I ought to—working, taking my son to school, eating, seeing friends, going to church—but I neglect myself and my house to not only my detriment but to the detriment of my family. I forgo chores. I don’t shower. I don’t cook. My clean clothes pile up on the dresser waiting to be hung and folded. My husband bears the brunt of the load—he does the dishes, the laundry, makes dinner for our child, feeds himself, even makes my dinner if I ask. I go to bed early, so he takes care of our child’s bedtime routine. This is no way to live.

This fast has forced me to admit I am not functioning as I’d like to be. Once upon a time, one of my first therapists said I would never hold a full-time job, shouldn’t get married, and shouldn’t have children. I have done all those things, but at what cost? At whose cost? Not just mine, but my husband’s and my son’s. The guilt of it eats at me. My mind twists and tells me I should have listened to my therapist. I wouldn’t be impacting my family this way if I didn’t have them in the first place. Thankfully, God has placed my husband’s voice also in my head. “I love you,” he says. “Unconditionally,” his actions say. And my son’s squeezy hugs and incessant affection say the same.

4) I am neither as mature nor as immature as I believed.

Many have wondered in their hearts or aloud, “Why, God? Why have You done this to me?” I don’t remember ever thinking or saying these words. I have a faulty memory, for sure, but I feel that this entire time I’ve asked questions more like, “What did I do wrong?” I’ve wondered why I can’t feel the peace and joy of God. Why am I so deficient?

This line of questioning has resulted in maturity in one sense. I have a robust view of God’s kindness and perfect goodness. As a writer, I see plotlines and through-threads in my life, and while I don’t know where they lead, I trust with all my heart they will turn out for good. Why? Because God is good. He is the beauty we all seek; He is the melody we all strain to hear. He is our ultimate good. It occurred to me once that I could give up on God. I could turn from Him to some other belief system. Yet this struck me as so painfully untruthful that I immediately rejected the idea. God is true. God is good. God is love. I am His, and He is mine. This is the maturity of which I speak.

Yet there is immaturity at the same time. I’ve leaned so hard on the side of God being “right” that I have considered myself in every instance and every case wrong. In my mind, it is a zero-sum game—if God is infinitely worthy, I am infinitely unworthy, and if God is ultimately correct, I am ultimately incorrect. On the one hand this is true. I am sinful at heart, my mind twisted with every misunderstanding. Yet, and this is a big “yet,” God redeemed me, is redeeming me, and will ultimately redeem me. Unworthy does not mean worthless. I am so afraid of looking into my worth in God’s eyes because I fear I will disconnect it from Him and imagine I am worth much in and of myself. I am afraid I will detach myself from Him blessings and start to believe I am really something, on my own, by myself. I’ve come to depend on my dependency on God to the detriment of celebrating who He’s made me to be. Maybe I need a little more faith that God can keep me, even once I recognize my worth in His eyes.

5) I want to be a person of joy.

Over the years, reactions from others have convinced me that if I don’t act like I’m struggling, they won’t believe I am. “But you’re so put together,” everyone seems to think or say. And it’s true that I’ve tried to appear that way. Even when I don’t shower for a week, I’ll put on makeup and pull back my hair to appear like I meant to look this way. I put on flattering dresses and skirts, and I speak eloquently. I smile and return the “How are you” greetings with “I’m good!” exclamations. Yet it feels like, as a result, no one believes me when I say life is really hard right now. While I want to be self-sufficient, I at the same time want help, and acting like I’m put-together doesn’t attract sympathy or aid.

So, I’ve been tempted to drop the act of sufficiency. Maybe I should stop smiling. Maybe I should lower the wall between me and my psychosis. It bothers me when people don’t believe the depths of my suffering. Sometimes they brush it off as simply “Just eat healthier and take walks.” Sometimes they suggest practical tasks, not understanding how I can feel glued to my chair, afraid that a single twitch will end the world, not just for me but for everyone. I want to say, “You try doing a load of dishes when it feels like your evil powers will crush all you love if you make a wrong move.” Even when I’m not psychotic, I’m in despair. Nothing seems worthwhile, and I stay motionless because if I don’t, the knives or the stovetop will call me to self-harm. And when both psychosis and depression calm themselves, I am simply too exhausted to be bothered with life.

Yet there’s joy. My son can call me back from the brink of insanity when he tackles me with a hug. My husband stays near my side and reminds me he loves me, that I’m special. I’m even starting to believe him most of the time. There are the times I hear my son’s voice from the backseat, not whining about how we’ve heard the same lovely song on repeat twenty times but instead singing along with it. There are the friends waiting for me at a table at the Vietnamese restaurant, ready to talk and listen and laugh and hug over the lives we’re living. There are the family members who remind me that despite all the wrong I’ve done through the years, I am still a lovely and inspiring person. And there is a God who inspired the Celts to their worship and the Puritans to their worship and the Baptists to their worship, the world to worship together as one with all the nuances one would expect from people all viewing an infinite God from different angles. There is joy, and there is beauty.

My therapist told me part of why I’m special is that I remain an optimist despite all my struggle. I want to be known for my joy. If people never understand my despair or my psychosis, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to impart a complaining spirit to those around me but hope. If they ask, I am open to share with them the afflictions I bear, but even if they never see the depths, I want them to witness the heights. Sure, knowing the depths would increase their appreciation for the heights, but I want them to know, most of all, my love, for in its purest form, it flows from God. And they too can know faith and hope and love. I am happy to tell them about it, to sing about it, to write about it, to live it. I am the daughter of a God of Joy, and I want everyone to know that.