The other day I wrote about a new member of the house who was possibly manic. Without going into too much detail, the house decided that we were not the best fit for his needs.
It was pretty emotional. Dramatic. JR really wanted to be there. He tried so hard to fit in. Went above and beyond in cutting the grass. Cleaning the kitchen. Reorganizing the garage. Taking out the garbage. But his unstable mental state was apparent.
At one point JR broke down. One housemate suggested he go to the infamous “10th floor”. The psychiatric wing of the county hospital. The same place I got put in a chokehold and charged with assault by a behavioral tech.
Oh HELL no. I aint going back there. Last time I was there someone tried to rape me and he got stuck in the neck! He jumped off the couch. I suggested that he take a breather. Smoke a cigarette outside on the porch. I volunteered to be excused from the rest of the house meeting to talk to him.
He was obviously distressed. Triggered by his previous experience at the 10th floor. I could identify with his feelings. I was no fan of that place either. But I spoke to him of my personal journey with mental illness. Some of the pits and spirals of my illness and addiction. My own manic episodes. My psychotic delusions. How I was able to find stability through medication, sleep, and support. I explained to JR the difference between my manic spirituality versus my current relationship with God. He felt like I was “reading his mailbox”.
By the end of the conversation he felt more at ease. We discussed a gameplan. Get a hotel room. Go see a provider. Get on the right medication. Get to work. Get on the right track. After a few weeks of stability I could try to help him find another Oxford House to go to.
I agreed to take him to a motel. He wanted to go to the cheapest one closest to his job. When I saw the location I remember hearing it was a bad neighborhood. Knowing my own triggers I asked a housemate to ride with me. I’m glad I did.
When we got to the place I felt bad for JR. The place stunk like weed. There was somebody drinking on the stairs. A homeless man was sleeping under a tree. How is anyone going to stay clean at a place like this?
I gave him a hug. Told him I was praying for him. That he was my brother and that I loved him. To be honest, I don’t know if he will make it.
So many times I had been in JR’s position. So many people who loved me who tried in vain to help me. Who could only watch in horror as I self-destructed. Destroying everything in my path. The anti-Midas touch. Such a heartbreaking situation for everyone involved. Tonight I saw a small glimpse of what I put my loved ones through.
Tonight also reminded of my time as a peer support. I remembered my experience working with struggling individuals. There is no saving someone. There was no saving me either. All I could do today and in the past was talk someone off a ledge. Guide them towards the right resources. The rest was up to them and God.
What is the solution? How do we help these lost souls? Where do I fit in? I ask God these questions with no tangible answers. My one comfort is that God is sovereign. He carried me through the tough times. Sometimes the rough stuff is what enables God to form character. Even with every tragedy in my life there has always been a silver lining.
Because of my own hardship I was at least able to help the house handle a delicate situation. I was able to help JR calm down after feeling triggered. Share some insights. Some resources. What happens next is up to him and God. But mostly God.
God, watch and care for my lost brother. Thank you for all you’ve done for me.
Scenic Views From the Bipolar Rollercoaster 