I think too much. That was one of the statements of my psychologist this last week. Part of that is related to insomnia. What else is there to do at this time of morning? So I analyze, and over analyze.
Lately, the issue of vocation has been weighing heavily on my mind. I never imagined leaving the ministry. My intent was to continue to serve in my congregation until I retired, and then, to serve as a retired pastor in some supportive role.
One of the things that I remember fondly about ministry was the passion which surrounded it. There were ample things to do that fully engaged me as a person. I never dreaded going to work. I worked more than I should because much of the time I was thoroughly committed to that which I was doing. One of the real privileges of serving as a pastor is that one's faith and daily activity merge into one.
I miss that.
Today, I'm not passionate about the work I am doing. "Drudgery" is a word I've thought about far too much. Its not that the work I do is bad, making cabinets is an honorable vocation. Doing it well, commendable. And there are genuinely good people that I work with.
What is lacking is any sense of a passionate commitment to what I am doing. Time is marked in tedious ways. The day's progress is measured not in accomplishment but in making it to the next break. Similarly, the week is marked by certain milestones. Monday is payday. At the end of Tuesday the week is half over. Wednesday we are 'over the hump'. And Thursday is our Friday - and the beginning of a three day weekend. Not a fulfilling way to live life.
And so I'm exploring options, and hoping to rediscover a passion in the work that I do.
And then I think too much.
Is the need to be passionately engaged in my work a natural desire that makes life meaningful, or part of the pathology of being bipolar? It was in response to my raising this question that my doctor suggested I was thinking too much.
The problem is that over the course of my life it was during manic phases that I was most passionately engaged in what I was doing. I was on a mission. And it went beyond a passionate engagement to a compulsive drive. In that state of mind I could not do anything else. Typical of those moments was not just a desire to respond to a present need, but to be a savior. Lofty goals were set. Liberate not just a woman from domestic violence, but provide a way out for all women. Support not just a single congregation in Russia, but be a driving force in the re-establishment of the entire Christian church in Russia. Renew not just my congregation's ministry, but transform the ELCA and reverse the trend of decline that the whole Church is experiencing.
Passion? Or pathology. A reasonable quest to find meaning and purpose in one's life, or the unfortunate symptoms of a disease that holds me captive?
One of the things that makes my current occupation seem "safe", is that I cannot imagine a circumstance arising that would trigger that manic compulsiveness that leaves me out of control. But must one abandon passion for safety? Give up on all meaning and purpose for the sake of stability?
I hope not.
In the mean time, I must say, that having a new grandchild is good medicine. Good medicine indeed.
Monday, March 28, 2016
Sunday, March 27, 2016
While it was still dark
Hope. A promise to cling to even while it is still dark.
On that first day, the women went to the tomb while it was still dark. Their motivation was likely no more than to do the right thing, in the midst of their grief, for one they loved. Hope was the furthest thing from their minds. Even as they found the tomb empty, hope remained illusive. Their initial conclusion was much more believable than resurrection. The body is gone. Someone had desecrated the grave and stolen the body. Is nothing holy and sacred?
I like John's witness to the resurrection in part because he recognizes that hope is not the immediate, first reaction to the empty tomb. Rather, the first response was that insult had been added to injury. "They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him!" Was it not enough that he had been killed?
For Mary, hope finally comes as Jesus calls her by name.
Our focus this morning will be on Jesus' resurrection. But perhaps we should also spend time with Mary and contemplate her own experience as resurrection. Were resurrection only about Jesus, then our faith would be reduced to the question of whether on that day, an anomaly occurred. An isolated departure from the norm. Hard to believe, perhaps, but also irrelevant to our own lives.
But its not simply about Jesus.
Jesus' calls Mary by name, and with her, calls all of us into a resurrection world.
Its not that death vanished. It remains. The mortality rate among Christians remains the same, last I checked, 100%. And yet in the midst of that reality, life triumphs.
Paul writes "If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied." Agreed.
And yet if resurrection is not a very present reality in this life, we are also to be pitied. It is not that one day death will lose it dominion, its that it has already lost. We live our lives, in the context of death, as a resurrection people. The reality of death is not denied. Its simply rendered impotent.
"Where, O death, is your victory?
Where, O death, is your sting?"
One day my thoughts will likely focus on life after death. But today, early on this Easter morn, my meditation is on life in the context of death. In faith, we choose life. We could allow ourselves to be defined by death, but we do not. "Remember, that you are dust, and to dust you shall return" is not the final word spoken over us. Into that dust, God breathed life. And continues to do so.
The title of this blog is "Confessions of a Bipolar Pastor". There is a danger of allowing this disease to become definitive. In allowing our very identity to be caught up in that which would destroy us, we are submitting our lives, ultimately, to the reign of death. "Mary!" Or in my case "David!"
God calls us by name, and invites us to live as a resurrected people, defined not by the forces of death which are the context in which we live, but rather defined by his love which is the basis for life itself.
Since I entered into treatment, first for my alcoholism and depression, and subsequently, for the diagnosis of bipolar disorder, there has been an awareness of and focus on all that has been lost. Resignation ruled the day. I resigned my call. But more significantly, I found myself resigned to live as a victim of this disease.
This, I believe, was also the state of mind, early on that morning while it was still dark, as Mary walked toward the tomb. It was all about resignation to the reality of death, a death they had witnessed, and a death which changed everything. And then grace happens.
And resignation gives way to resurrection. What this will mean for me, as one who walks as yet by faith, not knowing what the future holds, is yet to be determined. And yet, this morning, while it is still dark, I cling to hope and the promise that life, not death, will have the final word.
On that first day, the women went to the tomb while it was still dark. Their motivation was likely no more than to do the right thing, in the midst of their grief, for one they loved. Hope was the furthest thing from their minds. Even as they found the tomb empty, hope remained illusive. Their initial conclusion was much more believable than resurrection. The body is gone. Someone had desecrated the grave and stolen the body. Is nothing holy and sacred?
I like John's witness to the resurrection in part because he recognizes that hope is not the immediate, first reaction to the empty tomb. Rather, the first response was that insult had been added to injury. "They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him!" Was it not enough that he had been killed?
For Mary, hope finally comes as Jesus calls her by name.
Our focus this morning will be on Jesus' resurrection. But perhaps we should also spend time with Mary and contemplate her own experience as resurrection. Were resurrection only about Jesus, then our faith would be reduced to the question of whether on that day, an anomaly occurred. An isolated departure from the norm. Hard to believe, perhaps, but also irrelevant to our own lives.
But its not simply about Jesus.
Jesus' calls Mary by name, and with her, calls all of us into a resurrection world.
Its not that death vanished. It remains. The mortality rate among Christians remains the same, last I checked, 100%. And yet in the midst of that reality, life triumphs.
Paul writes "If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied." Agreed.
And yet if resurrection is not a very present reality in this life, we are also to be pitied. It is not that one day death will lose it dominion, its that it has already lost. We live our lives, in the context of death, as a resurrection people. The reality of death is not denied. Its simply rendered impotent.
"Where, O death, is your victory?
Where, O death, is your sting?"
One day my thoughts will likely focus on life after death. But today, early on this Easter morn, my meditation is on life in the context of death. In faith, we choose life. We could allow ourselves to be defined by death, but we do not. "Remember, that you are dust, and to dust you shall return" is not the final word spoken over us. Into that dust, God breathed life. And continues to do so.
The title of this blog is "Confessions of a Bipolar Pastor". There is a danger of allowing this disease to become definitive. In allowing our very identity to be caught up in that which would destroy us, we are submitting our lives, ultimately, to the reign of death. "Mary!" Or in my case "David!"
God calls us by name, and invites us to live as a resurrected people, defined not by the forces of death which are the context in which we live, but rather defined by his love which is the basis for life itself.
Since I entered into treatment, first for my alcoholism and depression, and subsequently, for the diagnosis of bipolar disorder, there has been an awareness of and focus on all that has been lost. Resignation ruled the day. I resigned my call. But more significantly, I found myself resigned to live as a victim of this disease.
This, I believe, was also the state of mind, early on that morning while it was still dark, as Mary walked toward the tomb. It was all about resignation to the reality of death, a death they had witnessed, and a death which changed everything. And then grace happens.
And resignation gives way to resurrection. What this will mean for me, as one who walks as yet by faith, not knowing what the future holds, is yet to be determined. And yet, this morning, while it is still dark, I cling to hope and the promise that life, not death, will have the final word.
Saturday, March 26, 2016
And on the third day he will be raised.
I wonder if he knew. Yes, I know the Gospels have Jesus predicting his suffering, death, AND resurrection. Personally, I believe that some of these statements in scripture are only possible because they were written decades later, with the advantage of 20/20 hindsight. I am one who believes that Jesus humanity precluded his knowledge of the future, as it would for all of us.
"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me!" These are not the words of one who knows how temporary his sufferings would end up being. I once had a parishioner state that there was no way Jesus' suffering could have possibly have been as bad as his own. It only lasted a short while. His point was simply that though being nailed to a cross might be excruciatingly painful, the suffering was short lived and did not compare to that of those who must endure suffering for a lifetime. "Life's the shits, and then we die." is actually a somewhat optimistic statement. I had another parishioner who stated, following a visit to her physician, that if her doctor told her one more time that she'd have to learn how to live with it, she'd give him something that he'd have to learn how to live with. (Elsie was a feisty, old gal.)
The most devastating thing about much of the suffering we must endure in life is that it is not clear to us that the suffering will be short lived. The impact of the suffering is multiplied when one anticipates that it will last a lifetime, that there is no end in sight.
As one descends into the abyss, there is not a light at the end of the tunnel. If there was, it would not be "the abyss", that deep dark place from which there is no apparent return.
"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"
"In you our ancestors trusted;
they trusted, and you delivered them.
To you they cried, and were saved;
in you they trusted, and were not put to shame."
"Yet it was you who took me from the womb;
you kept me safe on my mother's breast."
Even with the words of utter despair still lingering over the Psalmist's soul, hope springs eternal. It is a hope based not on the ability to see the future, but in the experience of the past. Others have walked this path before and did indeed escape the abyss. The ultimate act of faith is not made post resurrection, but on the second day. As one lays in death's strong bands. It is made from the dank darkness of a stone hewn tomb, with a massive boulder blocking the exit and shutting out all light.
Missing from the Holy Week narrative are the words "Arise, my child, and come forth from the grave." We hear Jesus' cry of despair from the cross, but there is no answer, just silence. And scripture does not record for us God's calling Jesus forth from the grave. There are no witnesses of the resurrection. Just an empty tomb. And the eyes of faith which see, and subsequently recognize the risen One in the garden.
Faith clings to the hope that Jesus' narrative will be ours as well.
"Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life."
"So we too might walk in newness of life."
In you our ancestors trusted;
they trusted, and you delivered them.
SO WE TOO. . .
Just as Christ was raised from the dead--
SO WE TOO. . .
Faith is God's gift to those in the abyss. I'm hesitant to say that apart from the abyss one cannot experience a genuine faith. But I will say it is in the midst of the dark night of the soul that faith comes to fruition. And hope is born. A flicker of light on a dark and lonely night. And a promise, that Easter morn is coming.
"Arise, my Child, come forth!"
"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me!" These are not the words of one who knows how temporary his sufferings would end up being. I once had a parishioner state that there was no way Jesus' suffering could have possibly have been as bad as his own. It only lasted a short while. His point was simply that though being nailed to a cross might be excruciatingly painful, the suffering was short lived and did not compare to that of those who must endure suffering for a lifetime. "Life's the shits, and then we die." is actually a somewhat optimistic statement. I had another parishioner who stated, following a visit to her physician, that if her doctor told her one more time that she'd have to learn how to live with it, she'd give him something that he'd have to learn how to live with. (Elsie was a feisty, old gal.)
The most devastating thing about much of the suffering we must endure in life is that it is not clear to us that the suffering will be short lived. The impact of the suffering is multiplied when one anticipates that it will last a lifetime, that there is no end in sight.
As one descends into the abyss, there is not a light at the end of the tunnel. If there was, it would not be "the abyss", that deep dark place from which there is no apparent return.
"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"
"In you our ancestors trusted;
they trusted, and you delivered them.
To you they cried, and were saved;
in you they trusted, and were not put to shame."
"Yet it was you who took me from the womb;
you kept me safe on my mother's breast."
Even with the words of utter despair still lingering over the Psalmist's soul, hope springs eternal. It is a hope based not on the ability to see the future, but in the experience of the past. Others have walked this path before and did indeed escape the abyss. The ultimate act of faith is not made post resurrection, but on the second day. As one lays in death's strong bands. It is made from the dank darkness of a stone hewn tomb, with a massive boulder blocking the exit and shutting out all light.
Missing from the Holy Week narrative are the words "Arise, my child, and come forth from the grave." We hear Jesus' cry of despair from the cross, but there is no answer, just silence. And scripture does not record for us God's calling Jesus forth from the grave. There are no witnesses of the resurrection. Just an empty tomb. And the eyes of faith which see, and subsequently recognize the risen One in the garden.
Faith clings to the hope that Jesus' narrative will be ours as well.
"Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life."
"So we too might walk in newness of life."
In you our ancestors trusted;
they trusted, and you delivered them.
SO WE TOO. . .
Just as Christ was raised from the dead--
SO WE TOO. . .
Faith is God's gift to those in the abyss. I'm hesitant to say that apart from the abyss one cannot experience a genuine faith. But I will say it is in the midst of the dark night of the soul that faith comes to fruition. And hope is born. A flicker of light on a dark and lonely night. And a promise, that Easter morn is coming.
"Arise, my Child, come forth!"
Saturday, March 19, 2016
Caution: An unwelcome friend
I realized something the other day. I'm 59 years old and have never turned down a job offer or a Letter of Call from a congregation. I've had a conviction that these opportunities are gifts from God, and that when God opens a door, its for a purpose. On a less pious note, I've never explored new positions simply for the sake of exploring them. When I've sought a new call, or job opportunity, it has been for good reason. And so, when options open up, I have acted.
I now am in the third major phase in my working career. I spent five years in business prior to seminary, then 25 years in the ministry, and now trying to settle into yet another vocation in the remaining time before retirement. Since leaving the ministry I have attempted to restart my custom furniture business. I enjoyed the work but it wasn't profitable. So currently, I'm working at a cabinet shop, more profitable with a steady paycheck, but not particularly enjoyable. I find myself at a point in my life where I've 7 to 10 years of productive work left before retirement, and wondering if there is a viable option that is both profitable and enjoyable.
This last week I stumbled across a job opening at a local company that manufactures airplanes. I applied and so far am advancing through that application process. The company has a very specific mission oriented purpose. The primary motivation in designing their aircraft was to provide a state of the art airplane to meet the needs of missionary and humanitarian organizations serving around the globe. Of course, it has other uses. Put floats on it and its a dream machine for ferrying people to back country lakes for fishing expeditions. Among other things.
I am really intrigued by the possibility should it become an opportunity. It would combine my love of building with a sense of mission and calling. And when the day is done, I could stand back and look at an incredible airplane as the product of my labors on the team. A lot of satisfaction in that. Part of the problem working in the cabinet shop is that 'a box is a box, a box, a box, and not much more than a simple box. . .) Sing to the tune of the theme song from "Mr. Ed". If you do not know what I am talking about you are clearly a young, culturally deprived, person. But back to the point. Like building my boat, building an airplane is a lot more appealing than building a box. I will have to learn the fine art of riveting.
I pray for the opportunity.
And then the internal voices start nagging at me. My depressed side says that no one would consider hiring a 59 year old washed up preacher with no metal working experience. My manic side says the opportunities are boundless, that in the end I'll know how to build the entire aircraft, and as an aside, will be invited to serve as the company chaplain. (Yes, its that Christian of a company that it is not inconceivable that they would consider having a chaplain.)
And then there is the cautious side, that unwelcome friend that threatens to take the joy out of everything, that warns against any new adventure, lest it be another manifestation of mania. Countering those voices is one that says, "No, its not mania, you're not trying to buy the company, only working for it -- relax, if its meant to be, its meant to be."
What disturbs me about this disease is that it has deprived me of the opportunity to evaluate options on their own merits. Instead, everything is seen through the cautious filter of knowing that I'm bipolar, and the suspicion that the opportunities I pursue, and the choices I make, may be just one more manifestation of this disease. Do I desire a change in employment because I'm depressed and hope that a change of scenery will improve my mood? It has before. Or does my ambitious pursuit of other opportunities reflect the manic side of me that will accept any challenge, that believes nothing is impossible, and yearns for a platform from which the world may be changed?
In all likelihood, should the opportunity materialize and I'm offered a job with decent compensation and benefits, I will accept. That's been my nature since I mowed lawns as a young boy. I mean, having never turned down an employment opportunity in my life, why would I start now?
But because of this disease, I will also wonder. Is it the right thing to do?
I now am in the third major phase in my working career. I spent five years in business prior to seminary, then 25 years in the ministry, and now trying to settle into yet another vocation in the remaining time before retirement. Since leaving the ministry I have attempted to restart my custom furniture business. I enjoyed the work but it wasn't profitable. So currently, I'm working at a cabinet shop, more profitable with a steady paycheck, but not particularly enjoyable. I find myself at a point in my life where I've 7 to 10 years of productive work left before retirement, and wondering if there is a viable option that is both profitable and enjoyable.
This last week I stumbled across a job opening at a local company that manufactures airplanes. I applied and so far am advancing through that application process. The company has a very specific mission oriented purpose. The primary motivation in designing their aircraft was to provide a state of the art airplane to meet the needs of missionary and humanitarian organizations serving around the globe. Of course, it has other uses. Put floats on it and its a dream machine for ferrying people to back country lakes for fishing expeditions. Among other things.
I am really intrigued by the possibility should it become an opportunity. It would combine my love of building with a sense of mission and calling. And when the day is done, I could stand back and look at an incredible airplane as the product of my labors on the team. A lot of satisfaction in that. Part of the problem working in the cabinet shop is that 'a box is a box, a box, a box, and not much more than a simple box. . .) Sing to the tune of the theme song from "Mr. Ed". If you do not know what I am talking about you are clearly a young, culturally deprived, person. But back to the point. Like building my boat, building an airplane is a lot more appealing than building a box. I will have to learn the fine art of riveting.
I pray for the opportunity.
And then the internal voices start nagging at me. My depressed side says that no one would consider hiring a 59 year old washed up preacher with no metal working experience. My manic side says the opportunities are boundless, that in the end I'll know how to build the entire aircraft, and as an aside, will be invited to serve as the company chaplain. (Yes, its that Christian of a company that it is not inconceivable that they would consider having a chaplain.)
And then there is the cautious side, that unwelcome friend that threatens to take the joy out of everything, that warns against any new adventure, lest it be another manifestation of mania. Countering those voices is one that says, "No, its not mania, you're not trying to buy the company, only working for it -- relax, if its meant to be, its meant to be."
What disturbs me about this disease is that it has deprived me of the opportunity to evaluate options on their own merits. Instead, everything is seen through the cautious filter of knowing that I'm bipolar, and the suspicion that the opportunities I pursue, and the choices I make, may be just one more manifestation of this disease. Do I desire a change in employment because I'm depressed and hope that a change of scenery will improve my mood? It has before. Or does my ambitious pursuit of other opportunities reflect the manic side of me that will accept any challenge, that believes nothing is impossible, and yearns for a platform from which the world may be changed?
In all likelihood, should the opportunity materialize and I'm offered a job with decent compensation and benefits, I will accept. That's been my nature since I mowed lawns as a young boy. I mean, having never turned down an employment opportunity in my life, why would I start now?
But because of this disease, I will also wonder. Is it the right thing to do?
Saturday, March 12, 2016
The Bugler
The bugler sounds the reveille
A haunting heralding call.
Awake my soul, cast off the night,
Day beckons with the dawn.
A quest, conquest, and endless hope
Charge on, tally ho, go forth.
Catch the dream, oh chosen one,
Opportunity lingers naught.
'Tis not so much the end result,
but the pursuit of it that counts.
A restless and compelling march.
The future bids us come.
Foes raise their leery voices high
And caution screams to halt.
"Do not, cannot, and should not go."
"Shut up, be still, depart."
Adrenaline courses through the veins,
Tomorrow awaits the bold.
The artist paints the future bright,
Each stroke a slight of hand.
Alas, the bugler plays again,
A somber, wearying song.
The lonesome taps now mourn the sun
as it withers from the sky.
The fog rolls in,
obscuring sight,
The air is heavy, hard.
The trudging soldier groans.
Brick walls, chasms great,
now stay the savior's hand.
Hope lost, darkest night,
Floundering, desperate deeds.
No moonlit night will sooth the soul,
It purpose all but lost.
Gone now the mighty deeds of yore.
Gone too, all visions bright.
No lullaby to welcome rest.
No peaceful dreams await.
Only night, painful night.
And endless wait.
The watchman hears the ticking clock,
It slows. It fades. It stops.
The darkest hour lingers on,
An agonizing fate.
Until a faint and distant light
A hope to ward off death,
Brings anticipation and relief.
And then. . .
The bugler sounds the reveille
And the march begins again.
A haunting heralding call.
Awake my soul, cast off the night,
Day beckons with the dawn.
A quest, conquest, and endless hope
Charge on, tally ho, go forth.
Catch the dream, oh chosen one,
Opportunity lingers naught.
'Tis not so much the end result,
but the pursuit of it that counts.
A restless and compelling march.
The future bids us come.
Foes raise their leery voices high
And caution screams to halt.
"Do not, cannot, and should not go."
"Shut up, be still, depart."
Adrenaline courses through the veins,
Tomorrow awaits the bold.
The artist paints the future bright,
Each stroke a slight of hand.
Alas, the bugler plays again,
A somber, wearying song.
The lonesome taps now mourn the sun
as it withers from the sky.
The fog rolls in,
obscuring sight,
The air is heavy, hard.
The trudging soldier groans.
Brick walls, chasms great,
now stay the savior's hand.
Hope lost, darkest night,
Floundering, desperate deeds.
No moonlit night will sooth the soul,
It purpose all but lost.
Gone now the mighty deeds of yore.
Gone too, all visions bright.
No lullaby to welcome rest.
No peaceful dreams await.
Only night, painful night.
And endless wait.
The watchman hears the ticking clock,
It slows. It fades. It stops.
The darkest hour lingers on,
An agonizing fate.
Until a faint and distant light
A hope to ward off death,
Brings anticipation and relief.
And then. . .
The bugler sounds the reveille
And the march begins again.
Friday, March 11, 2016
This I've lost
It's 4 am. I've been up for two hours now. Caught up on Facebook. I've surveyed the recent developments in the NFL with free agency now beginning. Enjoyed a fresh cup of coffee. Sat out on the porch listening to the sounds of the night. And now turn to writing.
This is typical. Everyday begins about 2 am. It doesn't seem to matter when I retire in the evening, the body clock kicks in at 2. Ever since I began working in Coeur d'Alene, which requires that I be on the road by 4:45 or so, I've had the alarm set for 4 am. I've yet to wake up to it. It is not needed. By that time my day has long since been underway.
It didn't used to be this way. I used to struggle to fall asleep, but once I did I went into a very deep sleep and then had a hard time waking up. I could do all nighters. My thought processes gained momentum as the day wore on. My most productive times were late into the evening. And if my natural cycle were followed, each night would get later. It was as though my body functioned on a 25 hour clock. If I went to bed at 10 pm and slept 8 hours, then the next night I would be awake till 11. Then twelve.
My first efforts to regulate this and help fall asleep were to walk myself to exhaustion. I became a fixture on the streets late at night in the towns where we lived. In Thompson Falls the local police officer would often pick me up and we'd visit for a spell. Turns out the reason that he was called out at that time at night is that a prowler had been reported. "Wait, is it me?", I asked. "Well, now that you mention it, yes. I finally got to the point I'd ask the dispatcher for a description, and if it matched yours, I tell them to let the one who reported the 'prowler' that it was just the Lutheran pastor out for his nightly walk." These walks would last a few hours.
Then I discovered Scotch. It was a mixed bag. I continued to stay up late, but to drink, not to walk. Part of this was because my wife was uncomfortable with my drinking, and would head to bed early to avoid it. And so, except for the times she would wake to the sound of the ice filling another glass and come out and complain, I would enjoy the freedom of solitary, lost in my own world of alcohol induced thought until the sedative effect finally kicked in and I would retire to the bed to sleep, or as my psychiatrist insists, pass out.
And so I became an alcoholic. I first realized that I was dependent on alcohol to sleep. But I convinced myself that I was not an alcoholic because at will I could go without drinking. This I did on Saturday nights so that the congregation would not smell alcohol on me Sunday mornings. But by Sunday morning, I started shaking uncontrollably. Detox.
Following chemical dependency treatment I was put on sleep medications. Everything changed. Now I could go to sleep. I just couldn't stay asleep. I've become an insanely early riser.
One of the considerations that I've explored with my doctors is whether sleep deprivation, and its negative effect on brain chemistry, is a major factor the the causation of my mental health condition. The brain is dependent on a health sleep cycle to rejuvenate its chemistry. Without a healthy sleep cycle that chemical balance necessary to good health is not possible.
Drug induced sleep, when possible, hasn't seemed to help. Some of the medications have been better than others. Ambien caused horrendous nightmares. Lunesta and others helped me sleep four to five hours, but without an extended release version, failed to keep me asleep. The best option, to date, was Rozerem, Its a melatonin based drug, which according to my psychiatrist is about 12,000 times as powerful as over the counter melatonin. It's the equivalent of a whole lot of turkey dinners, to be sure. But expensive, and after having to change insurance coverage, and being denied coverage for it, I had to go off it because I simply couldn't afford it.
What we are trying now is to rotate through a variety of medications, hoping that by doing so I won't become addicted to any, nor will my body habituate to them, thus destroying their effectiveness. Good idea, but I am up at 2 am.
And so I make friends with the night. I listen to the silence. It is a peaceful time. Its the new norm. My dog sleeps by my side in her crate, barely stirring anymore as she's become accustomed to my schedule. Even my wife, who has always been a light sleeper, rarely wakes anymore as I rise, shower, get dressed, and begin my day.
But as much as I've been able to adapt, it is as though I've lost a dear friend. And with any loss there is grief. And I pray to God, that if anything could be restored to health in my life, it might be this one thing. I close, remembering a song by J. S. Bach, "Come, Sweet Death", which in my heart, I change to "Come, Sweet Sleep" as a prayer:
Come, sweet sleep, come, blessed rest!
Come lead me to peace
for I am weary of the world.
Oh Come! I wait for you,
come soon and lead me,
close my eyes.
Come, blessed rest.
This is typical. Everyday begins about 2 am. It doesn't seem to matter when I retire in the evening, the body clock kicks in at 2. Ever since I began working in Coeur d'Alene, which requires that I be on the road by 4:45 or so, I've had the alarm set for 4 am. I've yet to wake up to it. It is not needed. By that time my day has long since been underway.
It didn't used to be this way. I used to struggle to fall asleep, but once I did I went into a very deep sleep and then had a hard time waking up. I could do all nighters. My thought processes gained momentum as the day wore on. My most productive times were late into the evening. And if my natural cycle were followed, each night would get later. It was as though my body functioned on a 25 hour clock. If I went to bed at 10 pm and slept 8 hours, then the next night I would be awake till 11. Then twelve.
My first efforts to regulate this and help fall asleep were to walk myself to exhaustion. I became a fixture on the streets late at night in the towns where we lived. In Thompson Falls the local police officer would often pick me up and we'd visit for a spell. Turns out the reason that he was called out at that time at night is that a prowler had been reported. "Wait, is it me?", I asked. "Well, now that you mention it, yes. I finally got to the point I'd ask the dispatcher for a description, and if it matched yours, I tell them to let the one who reported the 'prowler' that it was just the Lutheran pastor out for his nightly walk." These walks would last a few hours.
Then I discovered Scotch. It was a mixed bag. I continued to stay up late, but to drink, not to walk. Part of this was because my wife was uncomfortable with my drinking, and would head to bed early to avoid it. And so, except for the times she would wake to the sound of the ice filling another glass and come out and complain, I would enjoy the freedom of solitary, lost in my own world of alcohol induced thought until the sedative effect finally kicked in and I would retire to the bed to sleep, or as my psychiatrist insists, pass out.
And so I became an alcoholic. I first realized that I was dependent on alcohol to sleep. But I convinced myself that I was not an alcoholic because at will I could go without drinking. This I did on Saturday nights so that the congregation would not smell alcohol on me Sunday mornings. But by Sunday morning, I started shaking uncontrollably. Detox.
Following chemical dependency treatment I was put on sleep medications. Everything changed. Now I could go to sleep. I just couldn't stay asleep. I've become an insanely early riser.
One of the considerations that I've explored with my doctors is whether sleep deprivation, and its negative effect on brain chemistry, is a major factor the the causation of my mental health condition. The brain is dependent on a health sleep cycle to rejuvenate its chemistry. Without a healthy sleep cycle that chemical balance necessary to good health is not possible.
Drug induced sleep, when possible, hasn't seemed to help. Some of the medications have been better than others. Ambien caused horrendous nightmares. Lunesta and others helped me sleep four to five hours, but without an extended release version, failed to keep me asleep. The best option, to date, was Rozerem, Its a melatonin based drug, which according to my psychiatrist is about 12,000 times as powerful as over the counter melatonin. It's the equivalent of a whole lot of turkey dinners, to be sure. But expensive, and after having to change insurance coverage, and being denied coverage for it, I had to go off it because I simply couldn't afford it.
What we are trying now is to rotate through a variety of medications, hoping that by doing so I won't become addicted to any, nor will my body habituate to them, thus destroying their effectiveness. Good idea, but I am up at 2 am.
And so I make friends with the night. I listen to the silence. It is a peaceful time. Its the new norm. My dog sleeps by my side in her crate, barely stirring anymore as she's become accustomed to my schedule. Even my wife, who has always been a light sleeper, rarely wakes anymore as I rise, shower, get dressed, and begin my day.
But as much as I've been able to adapt, it is as though I've lost a dear friend. And with any loss there is grief. And I pray to God, that if anything could be restored to health in my life, it might be this one thing. I close, remembering a song by J. S. Bach, "Come, Sweet Death", which in my heart, I change to "Come, Sweet Sleep" as a prayer:
Come, sweet sleep, come, blessed rest!
Come lead me to peace
for I am weary of the world.
Oh Come! I wait for you,
come soon and lead me,
close my eyes.
Come, blessed rest.
Saturday, March 5, 2016
Visions and Dreams
Thoughts. Day dreams. Visions.
"Your young men shall see visions and your old men shall dream dreams." (Acts 2:17)
To be able to visualize that which is not, and then to be able to cultivate that dream till it becomes a reality is an essential quality of human creativity. Our capacity to be creative is an imprint of the image of God upon our souls. This I believe. And one of the gifts I have come to appreciate in myself is this creativity. One of the dimensions of that for me is that throughout my years in the ministry I could never find contentment in nurturing and caring for that which was, but was always drawn to that which might be. And it all starts with being a visionary person. It is one's imagination that is the driving force.
"Discover your passions and pursue them." These were the words of counsel I once received. It was vocational advice. Good advice. Especially if life presents the opportunity.
But then in response to that advice I have found myself wondering if my counselor would say that if he actually knew the secret thoughts and desires that lurk just below the surface in my mind. Part of the struggle for me is discerning when the visions that occupy my mind are genuine potentials to be pursued or bizarre fantasies that really should be let go of as idle thoughts and daydreams, best kept secret.
And I wonder to what extent the inner thought processes, the visions and dreams that occupy my consciousness, are the stuff of my natural giftedness or a manifestation of mania. I feel that I am like an iceberg. For every dream that reaches the surface, there is so much more below the surface. And time is running out. So many dreams, too few resources and too little time.
I don't know the extent to which my visions and dreams are normal, and the degree to which they are symptomatic of this disease.
One of the extreme dreams that recurs is to be the president. Yes, that president. I've come to believe that it is part of the savior mentality that dominates my manic side. Sometimes this dreaming becomes quite specific. Health care has been a hot topic in politics. In my 'presidential mode' I envision solutions. One of them of late is to replace the whole system of managing malpractice through civil litigation with a nationalized program for compensation and discipline similar to the workers compensation system. The program would be paid for by a simple percentage tax on all medical procedures. It would be structured such that less lucrative medical practices, such as rural health care, would not be priced out of the market just because of the high cost of malpractice insurance. Victims of malpractice would be justly cared for, just as workers who are hurt on the job. But they wouldn't win the lottery. And the cost of health care would be greatly reduced.
Actually, I think that is a good idea. Manic? Maybe, maybe not. At least I haven't I haven't gotten to the point of showing up at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue assuming that is my home.
The struggle is this. I have always been a creative person. Now I know that I am also bipolar. Where does a healthy dose of creativity stop, and mania begin? How does one distinguish between the healthy passions that should be pursued because they they are the driving force behind all creativity, and the compulsions to be curtailed because they are just symptoms of this disease?
One of the ways to help discern is to engage other people in the process. If others consent to and affirm these dreams and visions then they must be okay and worthy to pursue. Except for one thing. I am quite good at persuasion when I am in a manic phase. Very good. For example, I recognize now that I was in full blown manic phase when I was pursuing my dream of transforming the church through the development of senior housing. Yet manic, or not, I convinced a whole lot of people to go along with my agenda. But even now that my diagnosis is out, and others such as my wife and bishop are aware of my condition, there still remains the question. When others are cautious of my plans and schemes is it because they have a firmer grip on reality? Or because they simply cannot envision the potentials and possibilities?
"Your young men shall see visions and your old men shall dream dreams."
But are the visions of a young man, or an old man's dreams, delusions? That is the question, and it is not an easy one.
"Your young men shall see visions and your old men shall dream dreams." (Acts 2:17)
To be able to visualize that which is not, and then to be able to cultivate that dream till it becomes a reality is an essential quality of human creativity. Our capacity to be creative is an imprint of the image of God upon our souls. This I believe. And one of the gifts I have come to appreciate in myself is this creativity. One of the dimensions of that for me is that throughout my years in the ministry I could never find contentment in nurturing and caring for that which was, but was always drawn to that which might be. And it all starts with being a visionary person. It is one's imagination that is the driving force.
"Discover your passions and pursue them." These were the words of counsel I once received. It was vocational advice. Good advice. Especially if life presents the opportunity.
But then in response to that advice I have found myself wondering if my counselor would say that if he actually knew the secret thoughts and desires that lurk just below the surface in my mind. Part of the struggle for me is discerning when the visions that occupy my mind are genuine potentials to be pursued or bizarre fantasies that really should be let go of as idle thoughts and daydreams, best kept secret.
And I wonder to what extent the inner thought processes, the visions and dreams that occupy my consciousness, are the stuff of my natural giftedness or a manifestation of mania. I feel that I am like an iceberg. For every dream that reaches the surface, there is so much more below the surface. And time is running out. So many dreams, too few resources and too little time.
I don't know the extent to which my visions and dreams are normal, and the degree to which they are symptomatic of this disease.
One of the extreme dreams that recurs is to be the president. Yes, that president. I've come to believe that it is part of the savior mentality that dominates my manic side. Sometimes this dreaming becomes quite specific. Health care has been a hot topic in politics. In my 'presidential mode' I envision solutions. One of them of late is to replace the whole system of managing malpractice through civil litigation with a nationalized program for compensation and discipline similar to the workers compensation system. The program would be paid for by a simple percentage tax on all medical procedures. It would be structured such that less lucrative medical practices, such as rural health care, would not be priced out of the market just because of the high cost of malpractice insurance. Victims of malpractice would be justly cared for, just as workers who are hurt on the job. But they wouldn't win the lottery. And the cost of health care would be greatly reduced.
Actually, I think that is a good idea. Manic? Maybe, maybe not. At least I haven't I haven't gotten to the point of showing up at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue assuming that is my home.
The struggle is this. I have always been a creative person. Now I know that I am also bipolar. Where does a healthy dose of creativity stop, and mania begin? How does one distinguish between the healthy passions that should be pursued because they they are the driving force behind all creativity, and the compulsions to be curtailed because they are just symptoms of this disease?
One of the ways to help discern is to engage other people in the process. If others consent to and affirm these dreams and visions then they must be okay and worthy to pursue. Except for one thing. I am quite good at persuasion when I am in a manic phase. Very good. For example, I recognize now that I was in full blown manic phase when I was pursuing my dream of transforming the church through the development of senior housing. Yet manic, or not, I convinced a whole lot of people to go along with my agenda. But even now that my diagnosis is out, and others such as my wife and bishop are aware of my condition, there still remains the question. When others are cautious of my plans and schemes is it because they have a firmer grip on reality? Or because they simply cannot envision the potentials and possibilities?
"Your young men shall see visions and your old men shall dream dreams."
But are the visions of a young man, or an old man's dreams, delusions? That is the question, and it is not an easy one.
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