Was it worth anything?
The question I can't escape.
I was at happy hour with a close friend, a delicious pizza on the table in front of us. (Goat cheese, fig, bacon, and Calabrian honey. I’m still dreaming about it.) The conversation slowly turned to the book I’d released about a month prior. If you’re new here, I experienced postpartum psychosis almost six years ago. I thought I was a prophet, and the whole thing eventually led to a weeks-long hospital stay. I wrote about the episode and my recovery in MISSING ME. He’d enjoyed the read, a fact that left me buzzing — fellow writers can attest that there’s something special about someone who knows you in real life taking the time to sit with your work. We discussed the material (also known as my life story) before shifting to a question that I try not to think about. “Do you think any of it was real? The God part?”
I opened my mouth to yell hell no but stopped to craft a more diplomatic answer. “The delusions were all a figment of my imagination,” I said. “That’s why religious stuff is complicated for me now. I struggle to make sense of it.” I focused on the condensation on my soda glass. Many of my answers to questions about the psychosis are, for better or worse, mechanical. People have asked the same ones for years, and I’ve mastered my responses. But this one hits me differently.
My discomfort is centered on a truth I’d rather ignore: Part of me still wants it to mean something. The subject changed, but I found myself returning to the conversation as I drove home that night. I shook my head as if it’d help me dislodge the thoughts. I don’t like looking for any meaning in the spiritual these days. It’s all too reminiscent of the night God started talking to me. By the time I pull into my driveway, I’ve moved on. But the question comes up again a few weeks later when I meet with a book club, and I’m thrown into the same anxiety. I can’t run away, no matter how hard I try.
I had a special connection to God, and no one knew him as I did, so I spent a lot of time frantically writing about all the things he was telling me. Some of my journal entries are barely comprehensible. One favorite: I titled a page “WHY I HATE ALL ANIMALS” and numbered a list before losing interest and leaving it blank. (Sorry to my beloved poodle Luna.) Other parts are harder to laugh off, like me making peace with my body after fifteen years of body hatred. The self-love was short-lived after I recovered, but it was remarkable at the time. For once, I felt beautiful.
Sure, the voice told me other patients were going to kill me, and that the medical staff wanted to poison me, and that my husband might be evil. I had awful hallucinations that haunt me even after countless hours of therapy to address everything that went down. I developed post-psychotic PTSD after the episode, which is too sensitive a subject for me to talk about in depth with anyone other than my therapist and psychiatrist. Still, there were moments where I felt so secure, so loved, and so special that I can’t help but look back warmly.
People sometimes ask me what the voice sounded like. It was reassuring, even when it was telling me horrible things. It felt like it was coming from deep within. It made me feel smarter than I’d ever been. Funnier. Wiser. The voice consumed me in a way I can’t explain, even though I’ve spent years trying. I’d never known anything so thrilling, and I never will again. I treasure my present sanity, but I’d be lying if I said it was all horrible. Suddenly, the Bible meant something again. God was as close as I’d always wanted him to be.
I grew up in a Christian denomination that placed heavy emphasis on the supernatural. We weren’t the kind of Pentecostals that wrestled with snakes, but we did fiercely believe that healing was real. Picture a world where any ailment is immediately curable with a few words. The thing is, it’s not an imaginary situation for millions of people. Ask, and it shall be given to you; seek, and ye shall find. I bought it with all my heart, and I got uncomfortable when my prayers to get rid of my constant anxiety didn’t work. Someone was wrong — it was either him or me. How could I know who to blame?
Even once I left for a tamer form of Christianity, I felt riveted when people claimed to hear from God. At my most skeptical, I was still intrigued by the prophetic. I remembered myself as a little girl desperate for God to make me feel better and feeling like a failure when he didn’t answer. I questioned whether my doubt back then disqualified me from the blessings everyone else received. It’s safe to say I’ve long had a complicated relationship with the divine. That’s why I can’t forget the pure ecstasy I felt the first time he called me a prophet.
During one of the first appointments after my release, my psychiatrist explained that people with religious histories are more likely to experience my flavor of delusion during psychotic episodes. It makes sense to me. At my least rational, my brain gave me something I’ve always wanted. I grew up singing about Jesus being closer than a brother, silently wiping away tears I didn’t realize I was shedding. I never knew if I was crying because I was moved by the words or disappointed that it didn’t feel true for me. My religious fanaticism was a generous move on my mind’s part in a twisted way. Everything was falling apart, but God was finally here. What else could I ask for?
I’m at my favorite coffee shop as I write this post, and a Christian song just started playing through my headphones. I didn’t realize it, but I’ve been listening to a playlist of my top songs of all time. I move to skip it, as is my instinct, but decide to let it finish. I feel a pang as the lyrics wash over me: “From the head to the heart / you take me on a journey / of letting go / and getting lost in you.” In a different era, I’d press my eyes closed for a moment and feel grateful for the goodness of God. Instead, I wonder whether I was ever feeling something heavenly or if I just really like live music. Honestly, Beyoncé’s Homecoming album elicits the same rush of energy I used to feel in the pews.
Against all odds, I haven’t given up on it all, although I sometimes look at that decision and wonder whether it’s the right one. I struggle to make sense of an all-powerful God who didn’t intervene and bring me back to reality as my loved ones desperately prayed for me to snap out of it. My deliverance came from massive doses of haloperidol, not the Holy Spirit. And sure, if we’re being generous, we can dream of a world where he guided the doctors toward the right medications, but it feels like I’m undermining their hard work for the sake of my spiritual comfort.
Whether any element of the psychosis was influenced by the divine remains a mystery. For what it’s worth, my gut tells me no. What I do know is that it changed me for the better in unexpected ways. I find myself more patient and less quick to judge the people around me. I don’t take my mental wellness for granted, and the moments I once considered mundane are valued more. My life won’t ever be the same, but there are good parts. Really good parts. What could be more holy?
A heads-up — there are fewer posts this month because my daughter was hospitalized last week and I’m still playing catch-up. Thank you for understanding!
This is my favorite read of yours here! And, I love your writing in general. This one is very thought provoking and close to homw for me. I hope your daughter is okay!