I’ve always been one for remembering things. I have a lot of knickknacks or pieces of jewelry or clothing that remind me of a person, or a place, or a time.  I have the New Testament my dad carried in WWII.  I have a jewel-toned turquoise blouse that belonged to my roomie in college, then we shared it, then she gave it to me and I’ve had it ever since.  With the advent of hot tea season here in the Pacific NW, I’ve been enjoying a “Toadally Texan” mug (with a silhouette of a horny-toad) that my dear friend gave me on my visit last summer; when I look at it, I remember Terryl, and my visit… and I smile.  No wonder then, that I love the story from Joshua 3 and 4 where the Israelites cross the Jordan, and Joshua has one man from each tribe choose a stone from the middle of the riverbed to pile up on shore as a reminder for generations to come of what the Lord had done for them.

One other way I remember things is that I write them on my calendar.  I have a BIG calendar on my wall.  Not one of those with the pretty picture on half of it.  18′ x 30″, nothing but days and days with lots of lines in them.  In addition to the usual suspects of appointments and such, I track birthdays (though this year I managed to forget to move my s-i-l’s over a day, so wished her happy birthday a day early – oops!) and anniversaries (with which one it is).  I keep track of deaths in the family of friends, reminding myself to pray for and send notes at major holiday times.  But one of my favorite things about my calendar is that I also keep track of all kinds of events of the past.  I can tell you exactly which day we moved into this house, or bought each of our cars, for example.  When Jillian was hospitalized with rotavirus, when Phil had his leg surgery, Cherry had her appendix out, the day Jillian, the baby of the bunch, was taller than Mommy – all are duly noted.  It is tremendous fun through the year to be reminded of those events in our lives.

Today is an anniversary of an important event in my life.  In September of last year, I began seeing a counselor after years of marital and family conflict.  On the advice of that counselor, I went to see a psychiatrist.  Exactly one year ago today, I was diagnosed with Bipolar II.   For many people, I realize that this would be dismal.  What an awful thing to get hit with, huh?  In reality, though, it was a blessing!  I (and my family and friends) had been suffering its effects for some thirty years, without knowing what was going on.  Getting that diagnosis, rather than being something to be depressed about, was actually a relief.  Having a NAME for something, being able to pin a “why” on what’s going on – even when the explanation is bad, it’s easier than the not knowing.  So, what has this year meant?

First, let me tell you what being bipolar was like.  Bipolar II is a somewhat milder form of its more infamous big brother, with highs not quite as manic, and lows not quite suicidal, and on either end you don’t generally get psychotic.  Bipolar isn’t just about fluctuating moods, though!  My mind was constantly racing, never quiet; if I was upset about something, I was like a hamster in a wheel and couldn’t get away from the constant cycle of those repetitious thoughts.  I sometimes had very odd, disquieting impulses.  For example, I hated being near the edge of heights because I always had the impulse to throw something off; an “odd” impulse when you’re talking about my camera or my glasses, but very disturbing when you’re talking about my baby!  I thought about cutting a finger off whenever I used a knife, wondered what it would be like to drive my car off a bridge, and so on.   (Obviously, I never acted on any of those impulses.  I never talked about them, either.  What do think I am, crazy?)  I couldn’t see myself to recognize when I was pushing too hard, being too vehement, being too convinced of my own rightness.  When something upset me, I watched myself explode with anger, ranting and raving and venting, unable to stop myself even as I knew I was not being rational, feeling utterly trapped.  (Oh, how I loathed myself for that!  Oh, how I prayed and prayed and repented and repented, to no avail.  Duh!)  It wasn’t always like that, of course; there were moments along the cycle up and down when I was in the middle and relatively normal.  As close to normal as I get, anyway!  Most people who’ve known me have had no idea of what was really going on.  But not even my kids, not even Rob, knew the half of what was going on in my mind.

The search for finding the right medication and the right dose for bipolar averages 18-36 months, but in my case, we found it in 6!  Within a few weeks of starting lamatrogine, it was like waking up from a dream.  My family and friends noticed a difference, which definitely witnesses to the reality of the change!  My mind has been able to get off the hamster wheel of obsessive preoccupation with thoughts of the things that have been such sources of conflict here at home, and break free of many other traps as well.  I am no longer a prisoner of anger, although, it having been such a habit for so long, there are still remnants.  (Seeing now that my previous anger wasn’t something God held me responsible for – hence the seeming lack of effectiveness of repentance – is tremendously relieving;  now I get to work on dealing with the anger that He DOES hold me accountable for!  Yikes!)  Although most of the situations of conflict haven’t changed, I’ve let go of caring about them.  If they change, great; if they don’t, oh, well.  I am changing myself, and changing what lies within my sphere to change.  I’m not waiting for others to change first, or even change with.

God’s grace doesn’t depend on our understanding, and only someone who has been down to places I’ve been to can understand how amazing it is that He holds on to us when we can no longer hold on to Him.  His grace never changes, but I am experiencing it now in new ways, able to understand in new perspectives not clouded by malfunctioning grey matter.  I am being challenged in areas of trust and gratitude.  I know that my family suffered much pain because of my condition; I am learning to accept that somehow even that is part of God’s plan for their life, that even the ugliness is part of the beautiful Good that He works in all things for those Who love Him.  I am on a journey of discovery of who I am – not me-as-wife, not me-as-mother, but just ME, who I was created to be, bipolar and all, for it still affects me, though it no longer dominates me.

Bipolar isn’t curable.  My meds could stop working.  I have no promise that the clarity in which I walk today will be there for all my tomorrows.  But for now, I am thankful for this reprieve, and here I raise my stone from the Jordan, or maybe my Ebenezer.

“Here I raise mine Ebenezer.

Hither by Thy help I’m come.

And I hope by Thy good pleasure

Safely to arrive at home.”

Let the good times roll – but may that particular stone stay put!