It was my senior year in college at Emory University. I was hypomanic. Teetering on full-blown. There was a speaker panel going on in the auditorium. I decided to check it out. I remember initially not knowing who was there, but being drawn to a message of civil rights and unity.
Full of manic confidence, I walked up to the main speaker. I introduced myself. I told him I had dreams of fighting for civil rights. I told him I’d like to collaborate with him one day. He told me that he liked my initiative and gave me his business card:
Unfortunately, the dream of collaborating with that man ended the other day. But John Lewis was an amazing man. A civil rights icon. He walked with Martin Luther King in Selma, 1963. Was a United States Congressman for over three decades. He was awarded the nation’s highest civilian honor, the Presidential Medal of Freedom. The country lost a true American hero.
It’s hard to believe that I once came across such an important figure in our nation’s history. That I had a brief conversation with him. He believed in me enough to hand me his business card. And that was when I was manic.
When I think of all the important people and celebrities I’ve met in the past, I get sad sometimes. What was the point? Why did I shake hands with this man? What did he see in me? Will I ever reach the potential I once believe I had?
While I may not ever become an icon, I do believe that there has to be more to my story. I only pray to have a positive human impact on society one day. Give a helping hand. Advocate in areas I know a lot about. Mental health. Police brutality. Criminal justice reform. Addiction. How much or how little will depend on what God allows. I’m just taking his lead today.
You better shut up or else I’m gonna cuff you. Oh yeah? I’d like to see you try
Typical manic brashness. Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. In my episodes I become the ultimate rebel. Loud-talking. Potty-mouthed. Attitude of not giving a —-.
The correction officer walks towards me. I take a step back. Before I can react the officer is punching me in the face. I drop to the floor. The hits keep coming. I guess this is what always happens.
Oh daaang. Did you see them beat up that chino? They wrong for that! The inmates are appalled.
They try to clean me up. I’ve been through this before. Hell no, I want the world to see what you did to me. I refuse medical treatment.
I take my mugshot with my face covered in blood. I grit my teeth and put on an angry face.
Eventually they book me in. The next day I’m served with an indictment. I can’t believe what I’m reading. I was booked in on a gram of marijuana. A misdemeanor. Now on the paper it read that I am being charged with a second degree felony. Assault on a public servant. I am facing two to twenty years in prison. The sheet read that I got in a “karate stance” and struck the officer in the face, and “fell and bit my lip” while they tried to restrain me.
And thus began a long journey of recovery.
I ended up being locked up for nearly two years. Intense prison/rehab/behavioral modification program. Ninety days in a Salvation Army program. Three years probation. Two years in a sober living home.
Even though I was falsely accused of a crime, I did what I had to do to stay free. I stayed sober. I stayed on my medications. I paid my fees. I paid my dues.
Sometimes I’d look back and get upset. I didn’t even do anything. I got beat up by an officer. And now I am getting charged with a crime? In many ways, that situation echoes the situation I am in now. I was shot by the police and now I am being charged with a crime.
I realize today that this is how the legal system works. It is meant to be transparent. But in reality it only appears to be. Many times the blindfold of justice is really a blindfold on the public. Criminal charges are thrown around to cover up mess-ups in the system.
I could go on and on. But I know that getting in this mindset fills me with anger. Today I have no room in my life for anger.
After 2012, I put my head down. I did everything I had to do. I worked hard. I saved money. I bought a car. I met a beautiful girl. I got married. I started a family. I started a career. I even bought a house.
Even though it all started because of a terrible mishap, God used the situation for good. I began using my story to help others. I became an advocate for mental health. I had a purpose. My life was good for awhile.
I know today, I am on a similar path. It all started with a terrible tragedy. But I know how this works. Everything will work out.
I did a double shift. Things were going fine. Until the busser lost my credit card receipt. For a split second I thought, is she getting back at me for asking her to clean one of my tables the other night? Maybe she did it on purpose because she didn’t like my tone. No, I shouldn’t think that of others. I’ll go out of my way to be kind to her, I’m sure it was an honest mistake. Turns out it was.
Then came the stiffs. $61 check. $0 tip. $57 check. $0 tip $42 check. $0 tip. $25 check. $0 tip. Four checks in a row. Back to back to back to back. Coincidence? I don’t believe so. The last one especially struck a nerve.
It was a mentally ill, possibly homeless African-American man. He was talking to himself. He’d stare into space and smile for no apparent reason. My coworkers were annoyed and making comments about him. It seemed they were more flustered about it than I was. The man ended up walking out on the entire tab.
Instead of let it get to me, I said a prayer for him. In a lot of ways, he reminded me of people I’ve met when I was homeless on the streets. Reminded me of folks I’ve come across in mental hospitals. In jail. In a way he reminded me of myself. Thankfully, I haven’t experienced the long-term loss of self (yet). But in my younger days, I did walk out on a few tabs. Something I’m not proud of. Especially being a server now. But I use that memory to remind myself how I made others felt with my actions. Maybe it’s still comes back to haunt me from time to time.
Having one or two tables in a row leave me nothing might have made me feel a little down. But then it was three, then four. Two, maybe a coincidence. But four? I could feel God was sending a message. I wrote the other day about my reward being in heaven. It felt like God was asking me How much do you really believe that?
I shrugged off the loss of tips. My reward is in heaven. Then things got busy at the restaurant. Table after table. All great tips. And then boom. A $100 check. A $70 tip. Thank you Lord for the blessing.
I left work feeling loved. I knew God was sending me a message. Leave it to Him. It will all be alright.
Then I get home.
Check my phone. One of the alerts mentioned a protest in Salt Lake City about a police shooting. I begin reading about Bernardo Palacios. He was reaching for a gun when the police shot him. The cops were found to be justified in the shooting.
The man had a real gun. It was loaded. He dropped it three times and tried to pick it up. When he was shot, he was aiming the gun at the police. And people are protesting about this. Why wasn’t he tased. The family and Black Lives Matter have all chimed in on how disappointing the courts ruling was.
Immediately the thoughts started going through my head. And what about me? I had a BB gun. I was shot with an AR-15. I was supposed to die that night. Where are the protests? Oh wait, this was last year before all the civil unrest went down. Oh wait, the police conveniently forgot to leave out the part that the gun was not real.
Anger. Resentment. Comparisons. Frustrations. Then I remember, my reward is in heaven. God showed me a glimpse of what He could do during my few hours at work. Couldn’t He do the same with this situation? How little is my faith?
Before I could start feeling sorry for myself, I received news that a brother from my old church is in the ICU with the coronavirus. This brother visited me in prison in 2012. He traveled over two hours to see me. I know he and his family has prayed for me numerous times. I love this brother. And now he is fighting for his life. And I’m complaining about my life?
I immediately began to pray. God, whatever is going on, you are in control. One situation after another. What a whirlwind of a day. But I know that God has a purpose in my life. In the homeless man’s life. In the life of my sick brother.
God, whatever your message is, keep me open to receive it. Let your will be done.
As the title suggests, I’m not mad. Not today. While some aspects of the situation likely could’ve been handled differently, I come from a place of peace and harmony.
What happened was tragic. It was painful. It is something I wouldn’t wish on anybody. But the growth and life lessons learned have been irreplaceable.
That being said, I was upset. The questions arise. Why was I shot? I didn’t hear any commands. If I did I would’ve told them it was a bb gun and would’ve followed their orders. Why did the police let the media believe it was a real gun? Are they trying to cover up their own mistakes? Whatever happened to de-escalation?
If I let myself feed into these thoughts I know it will lead me down the wrong path. Fight mode. But I know today that the fight is not mine, but God’s.
God will make this right. Not me. Not a civil rights attorney. Not a sympathetic media outlet or the public. God. Has. It. Under. Control. Afterall, he saved me from the brink of death. I was dead. Flat-lined. God did his thing and brought me all the way back. My life today is filled with hope, contentment, and blessing. How can I be mad?
Yet my experience fits into the broader discussion about police brutality and over-aggression. I’ve thought about the protests and the unrest in this country. I often ask myself, how do I fit in?
The best answer is probably somewhere in the middle. I don’t share the African American experience, but my mental illness puts me at odds with the police more often than I’d like. Yes, I’ve been brutalized with nightsticks. I’ve been put in a chokehold while a room of officers watched and helped to press charges against me. I was shot by police at close range with an AR-15.
But on the flip side I’ve had equal as many encounters with compassionate, understanding law enforcement officers. Some have gently taken me to a mental hospital. Some of the kindest words of encouragement spoken to me while I was recovering in ICU were the officers who stood watch.
I know not everyone who wears a badge is good. I know not everyone who wears a badge is evil. Maybe they are actual human beings? Normal people who will to do good in their own way, but allow human, corrupt tendencies get in the way. Am I not equally fallible? What would it be like if I wore a badge? Would I be a beacon of honor and incorruptability? Shoot, I used to cheat on my taxes and sneak food when I worked at IHOP. What kind of mischief could I get into with a gun and a badge? With every job comes the temptation to do wrong.
I know I’m not perfect. I know police are not perfect. Mental illness is a hard thing to understand. Policing is a hard job. Could the police do a better job than they are currently doing? Absolutely. Could they have not shot me in the torso and nearly killed me? Totally. Yet I know my anger and resentment is not the answer.
I choose to embrace this issue of police reform with love. If I only love those who love me, how am I different from “bad people”? And then again, I don’t believe there are bad people. Just normal people who make poor choices. Like me. I shouldn’t have even been in IHOP that night. I should’ve taken my meds. But God allowed it to happen. Such a life-altering, life-defining moment. I know there’s a purpose for it. I don’t know what it looks like. But I know what it feels like. It feels like love.
Scenic Views From the Bipolar Rollercoaster 