On an early Sunday November morning a little more than five years ago, I was quickly overcome by an onrush of a familiar feeling. Sunday was my day to go to the gym for my customary two hour workout, a routine that my family had become accustomed to over the last few years. But on that day I just wanted to stay inside of the house with the curtains closed. I couldn’t do that though, because I knew that my mom would suspect that something was amiss. What was I going to do?
While my mother was preparing for her weekly trip to Christ the King Church, a routine that I’d become familiar with, a possible solution began swimming with the other racing thoughts inside of my brain. I grabbed my cell phone from on top of my bedside table and dialed my middle sister’s cell phone number.
“I think I’m going to switch up my routine a little bit today,” I said.
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “What are you thinking about doing?”
“I think that I’m going to go to church this morning. With momma.”
Silence.
“Hello. Are you still there?” I said.
“Why?” said my skeptical middle sister. “Why all of a sudden are you itching to go to church?
Why indeed? I was sixteen years old the last time I’d attended service at the Cathedral Basilica on Colfax—I was raised Catholic. But I hadn’t stopped attending services because I didn’t believe in the existence of an extraordinary power. In the first few years after I’d abandoned the church I’d became infatuated with praying vigorously in constrained spaces, where the noises of the outside world could not float into my space. My bedroom closet had been my preferred place of supplication. I’d kneel down, clasp my fingers, and implore the divine being to deliver what I wanted.
I would listen for the voice of god as I prayed. And of course I could never hear this individual. Meanwhile, bad things kept happening to me in spite of the consistent prayers, and the only voices I’d been able to hear were those that were a symptom of my diagnosis, and these voices were the complete antithesis of angelic. So in addition to eschewing involvement with the church, I would stop praying.
But on that November day, the place of last resort figured greatly into my strategy for escaping the suspicions of my family. I couldn’t let my mother and sisters find out about my relapse. For If they knew that I was sick again, their hearts would break.
“I just feel like I need to go. I haven’t been in so long and I don’t want mom to keep going to church by herself. So…..”
“All right. That’s fine. But you’re doing all right. Yes?”
“Yes. Everything is good.”
*****
I was incapable of taking anything in during the actual rendition of the service. Not the sermon from the Irish priest. Not the architecture within the space. My attention was focused on the one-hundred or so people who occupied the pews. I needed to know if they were furtively staring in my direction and taking offense to my presence in their place of worship. And to my complete surprise, none of them seemed to be. The parishioners were listening intently to the preacher’s sermon, singing along with the church’s pianist, and reading scripture.
The moment for acknowledging my presence came when it was time for church attendees to greet each other and extend peace. My stomach began to churn as I turned to my right with arms extended for my mother. After releasing my mother from my embrace, I was going to have to proffer a hand to strangers. Would they scowl? Would they shrink from my hand? Or would they act if I wasn’t there?
A very thin woman with flowing gray and blond hair, blue jeans, and sweat shirt was standing in the pew before me. She turned around, smiled, reached out her hand to me and said, “Peace be with you my friend.”
Friend. I exhaled heavily and replied, “Peace be with you too.”
Next was the elderly couple that had been sitting to the right of the blond woman. The husband stood bent over and wore a thick coat and glasses. He reached two arthritic hands in my direction, taking my right hand in between his two claw shaped ones and said the words: “Peace be with you.” And then he was followed by his even tinier wife, who offered her spotted bony hand with the blessing. When the opportunity for extending peace had run its course, and we’d returned to our places in the pews, I was hunched forward from the weight of the guilt and shame. There was nothing to fear from the parishioners who were attending church that morning. I was the one to be wary of. For I was the man whose view of the world was being thrown off balance by my untreated bipolar disorder. I should have been admitted to the nearest hospital, accepting emergency treatment from a certified psychiatrist. But on this day, I relied on the presence of my mother and the warm confines of the church. It was enough.
Of course life wouldn’t allow me to spend every day at the house with my mom—I had a job—and I couldn’t go to church every single day. So I endured an emotional break down three months after my first outing to church, and I was forced to take a two week break from life.
*****
The day before I was set to go back to work, I stopped by the hospital to see my new psychiatrist. A tall blond woman, a recent transplant from California—everyone from California is moving to Colorado— who was about ten years younger than I was, led me to her office. I sat down on a comfy brown couch positioned directly across from the window that provided a view of the east side of my home town. The psychiatrist spent the next thirty minutes probing me with questions, assessing my responses, and typing notes into her Electronic Medical Record(EMR) as we spoke. She pre-ordered Olanzapine and Fluoxetine medication for the upcoming year. After she finished entering her last note, she turned to face me for a debrief.
“You’re going to take your medication every day, right?” she said smiling.
“I definitely will,” I said. “I need to keep up with it this time. My family is counting on me.”
“And you owe it to yourself to remain healthy.” she said.
“Yeah. I’m getting tired of having to live through this revolving cycle. Me getting sick, then recovering. Getting sick again and then having to check into the hospital. I want to move forward.”
“That sounds good. I also want you to focus on controlling your weight. Gaining weight is common for people who take Fluoxetine and Olanzapine regularly.”
“Yep. I’m going to restart my gym habit as soon as I can.”
“Okay. Awesome. Do you know of any other activities that you enjoy?”
“Going to church seems to help.”
“Church. Yes, church can be good. Do that. Whatever works for you.”
“Sure. Whatever works.”
***
I will be celebrating five years without a major incident in early January, 2020. I can attribute a significant amount of my success to maintaining my exercise and medication regimen, consistent visits with my clinical team, interaction and reaffirmation from dependable friends—one of my friends is a fellow sensitive grappling with her own illness—and prodding from family members who make sure that I keep up with my routine. However, there are times when the trials and tribulations of the world break through the fortifications that I’ve painstakingly erected.
I answer phones at a non-profit hospital for a living, as stressful a job as there can be on certain days of week—Wednesdays are the worst. Unnecessary demands are made of my time by clients and co-workers, I’m certainly underpaid, and I’ve been passed over for promotions multiple times. I’ll be repaying my college loans to the federal government for the foreseeable future, some in my family are putting pressure on me to get married, Donald Trump is the president of the United States, I’m anxious about becoming older, and I am a large black man with an African sounding name. There are times when it feels like I’m under siege on all sides and vulnerable to regression, even when I’m doing everything right. Spending a quiet hour at the chapel, a place where there is no judgment, competition, or expectations, on Sundays with other parishioners is the best medication. As soon as I step beyond those wooden double doors after the denouement of a church service, I am better.
After attending hundreds of Sunday church services during this last half decade, I’ve pretty much memorized how they go. I know how to navigate the tome for the correct gospel passages and hymns. I knew when to sit. I know when to stand. I know when it’s time for the priest to give his sermon. I do enjoy reading the scripture selections, more so for the quality and thoroughness of the writing than I do the inherent message, although I do realize the value of author’s reason for writing the passage.
******
Last Sunday I arrived at Christ the King Church with a new goal: taking the time to recognize aspects of the church that had escaped my attention in the past. My mother and I left the Elantra on the west side of the church; the area of the property was shaded from sun. As my mother and I walked along the slanted sidewalk, I noticed how perfectly manicured and green church lawns are. When we rounded the street corner we were greeted by the sun.
I ran the bottom of my fingers atop the green hedges that are situated along the winding sidewalk that led us to the front doors. Upon our arrival we were greeted by two ushers dressed in blue blazers. The older of the two men extended a hand.
“How are you doing?” said the usher as he gripped my hand. “It’s good to see you here.”
“It’s nice to you too,” I said. “Nice day.”
“It certainly is.”
I tilted my chin upward to have a look at the building. It was not as majestic as the Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception. It was a large house though, with a beige brick façade. A crucifix sat on top of the house’s one and only spire. The roof was red stone coated steel. I preferred the homeliness of this structure.
“Come on in and take a seat,” said the usher.
Mom and I entered through the double doors and into the narthex. We greeted the guest priest, a miniature Nigerian man with glasses who was draped in an ornate white and gold robe, as we approached the Gospel side (the side of the church where the Gospel is read) of the church. I waved to an elderly man and his wife and then looked to the Epistle Side (the area of the church where the Epistle is read). The light of the universe was shining through one of the stained glassed windows and warming several sections of pews. I led my mom over to our usual pew, the one just to the right of a beautiful embedded sculpture. A white haired man stood where the woman and the elderly couple used to be. The pianist started playing, signaling the procession forward. The eyes of every parish person were on the priest and the alter children as they walked along the nave. When the priest took his place at the altar, before the iconic image of Jesus, the anxiety of the week began to wane.
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