Quenching the spirit

the hidden cost of being undiagnosed and desperate to please God

These monthly essays are a part of my work of building my own autonomy and writing about my own life however I want. Being vulnerable about parts of this doesn’t feel good, but we’ve already started building such a beautiful community here that I feel pretty ok about sharing this. That being said, this post is for paid subscribers only. And there is a trigger/content warning re: suicidal ideation, so check in with yourself before reading, ok? 

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I went to see a new doctor last week. I was nervous. Maybe I have white coat syndrome, maybe I’ve just had a lifetime of traumatic things happening to my body and I just never know when I will be believed or not¹. It actually went ok. But one of the most interesting things that happened was that based on the (honest) answers I gave to the two questions about mental health, I was flagged. I needed to fill out the longer mental health questionnaire. 

I’ve had to fill this out before², both times when I had a newborn and was struggling after almost dying in childbirth (yes, it happened to me both times! I am nothing if not unlucky³). Back then, I lied. Both to myself and to the questionnaire. This time, I didn’t want to lie. I wanted to practice being honest with healthcare professionals for the first time. I already trusted this doctor a bit, but not fully. When she brightly said we could fill it out together, right there in that room, I started crying. I’m not really a crier, not anymore. So I was surprised, and she handed me a tissue. I told her I was crying because if I answered it that day, I would be honest, and it would worry her. 

I explained that I was falling apart emotionally. Partly because my child, who had been in a prolonged mental health crisis, was finally doing better. It was my turn to fall apart. But I needed to do it on my own timeline. I was able to be honest and say I couldn’t fill out the form that day. The doctor nodded, and we scheduled an appointment for the following month. 

The graciousness in that response--the care, concern, but the willingness to take me and my own insight seriously--stuck with me (It should be noted this doctor knew I was in therapy, was exercising everyday, was journaling, and that people in my life were aware of my struggles). That doctor’s visit was a tiny step towards trusting myself. It is terrifying to be honest, especially when we have been conditioned to expect and even embrace pain as a sign we are holy. We are overcomers. Resilient. Caregivers. Do-ers. 

But sometimes, we are just really, really sad humans⁴. 

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When I was 18, I found myself at a pentecostal Bible college in Southern California. I applied to the only two colleges I had really heard of as an option for me (this one was my sister’s ex-boyfriend’s school) and went to the one that accepted me first⁵. 

I had some experience with pentecostals; my mom was really into the charismatic movement, and while the churches my dad pastored were never filled with the spirit, she would always find one that was and bring me and my sisters there. So I wasn’t surprised when this school was full of chapels where people spoke in tongues and people prophesied to each other. What DID surprise me, however, was that in order to be seen as a real Christian, you had to speak in tongues. 

I never had before, although I had prayed for it fervently. Hours upon hours, begging God for the special sign of blessing. Now I was at a school where it was literally called the second baptism, where our theology classes revolved around the book of Acts and parsing out the specialness of the baptism of the holy spirit. I was anguished. I was working a crappy job on campus, taking out loans, majoring in Bible/Theology and cross-cultural missions, showing up to every chapel and taking copious notes in every class. I was there to be the best Christian. And here was something, a signifier, an entrance into the inner elite, that was simply outside of my grasp.

Now, I can understand it a bit more. I was autistic. I wanted to be a Good Person. But I also couldn’t lie and couldn’t fake something for anybody. My dorm leader encouraged me to practice babbling in the shower. Friends told me certain phrases to say, over and over again, that would eventually turn into the gift of tongues. I rejected it all. If this was going to be a supernatural gift, then it would have to come from God. I was revolted at the idea of “practicing” this sacred gift. This special prayer language. This beautiful conduit to God, this way to feel love and peace.