Necessary Suffering

In "Falling Upward" Richard Rohr speaks about "necessary suffering" apart from which we may never move beyond the false selves that we have created throughout the first half of life to the true self and the spiritual maturity that awaits us in the second half of life.  I've thought a lot about this, and reflected on my own experience.  Rohr is, in my opinion, a true theologian of the cross to the extent that he recognizing that the suffering which threatens to destroy us, may in fact be that which redeems us.  But in the end, we'd still rather read a self help book than experience the depth of human experience, and the necessary suffering that is part of life.

I preached a sermon about this a couple years back, and in the congregation was a woman whose husband had died following a long bout with cancer.  The reaction was understandable.  If losing one's husband is part of the 'necessary suffering' required to move toward a more mature spirituality, she would much rather remain forever spiritually immature and have the companionship of her husband.  On the other hand, there is an existential tension in play here.  On the one hand the one thing we never want to suggest is that God imposes suffering on us to to make us better people.  On the other hand, at the end of one's life, looking back over all that we've experienced, it is often the 'necessary suffering' we've endured that has done more to shape who we are than anything else.  

There is part of me that would will that Bipolar were a disorder for which there was a test to diagnose it from the beginning.  Would that a simple mental health screening could identify any such disorder and allow for treatment from the start so that we avoid the suffering that too often is the defining characteristic of the disease.  And yet, another part of me recognizes that apart from the suffering that the disease causes, treatment would never be embraced, and in the end we would be destroyed.

One of my most pronounced manic episodes saw me pursue senior housing as a strategy for extending the mission of the church.  I had significant success, and also failure.  After it all was over, and I was experiencing the depression that naturally follows a manic episode, I turned to my bishop for counsel and advice.  One of the things I told him was that I'd be just fine if I could have one major project after another to throw myself into.  This was prior to diagnosis.  What I was basically asking for was the opportunity to live my life in a perpetual manic state.  If one could maintain that state, and channel it, there's no telling what might be accomplished.  Necessary suffering came into play, however,  in the form of a healthy dose of reality that tempered the unbridled optimism of a manic high.

There is a problem with trying to maintain a perpetual manic high.  It's not unlike a race car.  A normal car with typical use can go for 100,000 to 200,000 miles without major breakdowns.  Racing cars are different.  In our personal vehicles we typically operate them at about 2 to 3 thousand rpms.  This they can handle indefinitely.  Racing cars, by contrast, are pushed to the limit and the engines have an extremely short life expectancy.  If not replaced, they at least have to be rebuilt for each race.  Such is the toll of the extreme conditions under which they are operated.

The problem with attempting to sustain a manic state is that it is like running an engine at 6,000 rpm.  You can get by with it for a while, but not for long.

For me, depression was the necessary suffering that in the end freed me from being consumed by the effort to maintain mania.  Not only did it force an end to the manic pursuits, but it paved the way for treatment and yes, a healthy balance and new experience of my own spirituality.  To use Rohr's frame of reference, I had built my 'false self' around a manic perception of my identity and it was only the suffering of depression that was able to shatter this self image and open up the possibility of a healthier spirituality.  

As the title of the book suggests, Rohr calls this movement 'falling upward'.

But it doesn't happen without a fight.

I still find my self desiring to tap into the energy of a full blown manic episode to advance my sense of purpose and accomplish my goals.

Currently, I'm a bivocational person, working 36 hours a week as a cabinet maker, and 25 hours a week as a pastor.  This involves getting up at 3:30 am so that I can be to work at the cabinet shop in Hayden by 5:30 am, where I work until 12:30.  From there I travel to Otis Orchards to do the pastor thing.  The commuting adds about 2 1/2 to 3 hours to the work day.  In order to really pursue the mission developer work required by my parish, I need more time available in the evenings when people are available.  Where does one find the energy to really have at it?  The exhaustion I now experience would not be there were I in a manic episode.  

My current schedule leaves me thoroughly exhausted at the end of the week.  Saturdays involve marathon napping.  

Some would say I'm doing too much.  My perspective is that I've done far more.  Mania brings with it a capacity for engagement that is, well, shall I say, impressive.  Yet a race car engine can only sustain 6,000 rpm for a short while.  This I know.  

The struggle is to let go of the self identity shaped by mania.  And perhaps bipolar people are the only one's who fully understand this.  One's true self is not shaped by the disease.  And yes, it is often the suffering that reveals this.  

Theologically, and spiritually, I understand that my true self is defined not by the disease but in relationship with my God.  What I don't know is whether I've suffered enough yet to fully embrace this true identity, or if I'm still building my own castle and kingdom.  Time will tell.

The True Self

As one who is bipolar there is an underlying question of identity.  Its not dissimilar to the "I am" of Alcoholics Anonymous. "My name is Dave, and I am an alcoholic."  The honesty of claiming that identity, of stripping oneself of all pretense of denial, is key to healing.  Yet it raises a greater question of identity.  Are we to be defined by our disease.

I am bipolar.  A statement of identity.  To know me, is to know this.

Or not.  Perhaps to know the true me you must see beyond the disease.  

I have been open about my disease.  Part of that is to deny shame a place in my experience.  I should be no more ashamed of being bipolar than I am of having had to have my mitral valve repaired.  It is simply a medical condition that needs to be treated.  It has been.  It continues to be.  But it is not me.

Or maybe it is.  

One take on this condition is to understand being bipolar as being one who is capable of experiencing a broader range of moods from the norm.  We all experience highs and lows.  Its just that one who is bipolar experiences higher highs and lower lows.  Another aspect of being bipolar is that the transition between the highs and lows can be, for lack of a better word, violent.  And uncontrollable.  Not that we don't try to control it.  We do.  I self-medicated with alcohol for a decade or so, and that worked until it didn't.  Alcohol gave me some sense of control.  I knew how I would feel after one, two, and three drinks.  If I were depressed, a Scotch lifted my spirits.  During manic phases, it calmed me.  And then it didn't work anymore.  I was drinking myself to death in a vain effort to find the relief that now alluded me.

Thankfully, the crash that followed created the opportunity for diagnosis and treatment.  Better living through chemicals.  A more stable existence follows.  The goal is to achieve a functional stability. The problem with experiencing the highs and lows of manic and depressed phases is sustainability.  And durability. One could die.  That last point is important to remember.  One could die.  

But there remains the question of identity.  Who is the true self that the "I am" refers to?

My wife would tell you that she is thrilled to have me back again.  When my bipolar disorder was becoming increasingly pronounced life had become a rodeo.  One moment I was riding high on top of the beast, and the next moment at danger of being trampled.  Rodeos are entertaining unless of course you love the rider.  Two thousand pounds of bull crashing down on someone you care for is terrifying, not entertaining.  So it is with being bipolar.  

And yet there remains part of me that feels that with the stabilization of my moods there also came a diminishing of my capacity.

When I explore vocational options with my pastor, who tries very hard to understand my condition, his response is frequently to raise the flag of caution.  "Is this wise?"  Rightfully there is a reason for caution.  Accepting a challenging position could easily trigger a manic episode, and adversity is prone to trigger depression.  How much does one trust the safety net of the psychiatric meds?  

And yet the purpose of those meds is to enhance one's life, not deprive one of life.

Somewhere within the mystery of all this lies the true self.  The person God created me to be.  The person that is both loved, and capable of loving.  

Finally the "I am" is not a reflection of the disease, but of the divine.  And for now, it is best to simply leave it at that.