The Prison In My Mind

Sadness has been closer to me than my deepest love, and more committed than any dear friend. I do not remember a time when it has not been nearby. From childhood, the cloud of melancholy hovered over me like an umbrella for one. In my youth, I knew not what it was, but began to welcome it as a secret indulgence. Being a young adult, it remained challenging to adequately expound on what I was feeling. So, I acted it out with numerous suicide attempts. In the beginning, I was merely screaming for help and hoping someone would pay attention. Over time, my approach changed to a deep desire to permanently hush the cries inside my heart. On those few occasions I would confide in someone about my bleak moods, my words would be quickly dismissed with, “Girl, ain’t nothin' wrong with you.” So, I would work to convince myself that there was nothing wrong with me, despite my manic behavior.

Imagine you are having your worse day ever! Consumed with emotion, you want to swipe everything from the tables and counters to the floor (like they do in the movies). But, you cannot do that because you are a dang adult and the action is frowned upon. You are supposed to do responsible stuff. So, you ignore the rage, and fury, and disappointment, and sadness, and remorse, and shame that is all beginning to ball up into one big boulder of agony. Then, you pretend the boulder of agony is not there because “in time, it will get better.” But instead of it getting better, it festers loudly! Now, you have all these emotions in one gigantic ball, rolling back and forth inside the walls of your mind. Soon, it begins to feel like some dang water torture! Drip…drip…drip…You know it is there, but you do not know how to even handle it at this stage. So again, you ignore. Drip…drip…but the distress only becomes incredulously louder! The entire commotion rolls back and forth in your head. Drip…drip…drip…rolling back and forth, hitting the same dang spots over and over again. And the fact that I used two analogies simultaneously to explain my internal torment, should reveal just how crazy grueling it is to keep all that misery at bay. Now, imagine enduring that with no end in sight…

In 2010, after years of battling the internal persistence to end it all, I started to seriously consider it. I would habitually imagine driving through an intersection at full speed. I pondered it for weeks, before noticing how far off the deep end I was. The thought of my children growing up motherless is what pushed me to find another solution. I remember sitting in my car, sobbing for God to fix me, pouring out my sorrow on him, pleading for him to take it all away. I had prayed this prayer a million times in a million different ways, but on that day, I heard a response so clear in my mind. “Fatima, go to the dang doctor!”

I sat in my car for a while, processing the whole go to the doctor comment. I truly had never considered it before. Somewhere in my belief system, I viewed asking a physician for mental help as admission of being a nut job. But if I am still being as honest as I was at the top of this discussion, I was acting a bit Nut Jobish. All jokes aside, I had long considered admitting the need for mental help a sign of weakness. Sure, you can walk around acting crazy, but you dare not tell someone you are. Reaching out to an actual medical professional seemed like I was giving up on a miracle. I was looking for more of a tongue speaking-anointing oil on my forehead- passing out on the floor type of miracle, not a doctor visit-miracle. I know, I know, thoughts like that are better off not spoken, but we are keeping it real, so there ya go...

Weeping uncontrollably, I listened to the doctor finally provide a reason for the rollercoaster of emotions I experienced regularly. Clinical depression was not something I had even heard of before, but the medicine to treat it helped my emotions settle for the first time in my life. Over time, I began to feel more balanced and clear thinking, not easily emotionally driven like before I had started the treatment. The experience woke me up to the truth that miracles often manifest through the hands of mankind. It was the help I needed for that season in my life.

I always told myself that things would get better once I made it to a certain level of success, then I would no longer need medicine to help me cope. By then, medication had been my go to for several years. Except as time went on, it had become harder to quiet the shouting in my head again. I overcompensated by looking for something to control. I became obsessed with being the best at everything, seeking excellence for self-gratification. Yet, the sadness slowly regained its position, fighting against the medicine that helped to modify my mood. So, I added alcohol to the pills for an extra boost, but nothing could numb the intensity of my thoughts towards unhappiness. Ironically, the place I used to run to as a child for safety, had become the worst place for me to occupy.

I am convinced that mental torment is the worst torture, and a silent killer. Even so, only when I believed I was having a nervous breakdown, did I decide to seek talk therapy. The medication for my clinical depression had brought me far. But it could not fight against the guilt, shame, loss and other emotions still locked inside my soul. I had no idea how much of a text book case I was for anxiety and depression. It was surreal to read some of my coping habits in an introductory pamphlet. Hiding in bed, in an effort to disappear from the world, and using the excuse of being tired to alleviate concern was so me. The deflecting I did to avoid discussing my sensitivities. I did not even know this was a thing, but I definitely excel in it. Seeing my behaviors in a manual helped tremendously. For the first time since confessing this battle, I felt understood. With therapy, I gained tools to manage my feelings in a more prolific way, and at a snail’s pace, I began shedding the tough skin I had adopted as self-control.

I am in a constant battle to not succumb to the prison in my mind, and the incapacity to free myself has made me question my salvation a few times. How can I speak of God’s sovereignty and still be stuck? Truth be told, everyone around the world is struggling with something, regardless of their spiritual enlightenment. We are all depraved more than we truly can comprehend. It is a part of being human. Pastor Greg Ford, from One Church in Ohio, provided a liberating message on struggle. He said, “In order to be struggling, you have to still be in the fight.” I love that! I used to feel so bad, those days that were too tough to face, as if my faith was weak, because I was battling this silent spirit. But, this is also a reminder of my need to lean on God. He is still in control, and has never lost the power to step in. Though, the tough awareness is that He may choose not to. God’s permission to allow this imperfection to remain present within me, has allowed me to experience compassion, understanding and patience towards others who share in this struggle. And, to speak boldly for all of us in this fight.

I wish it was clear why I have never been able to live completely without running back into that cloud of wretchedness. But whether God ever reveals the answer behind this mystery or keeps it isolated, I will carry on facing the facts in faith, remembering to be grateful for each day that's nice and sunny, in my mind.

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