During one of my manic episodes, I was convinced there was a conspiracy against me. Everyone was manipulating my surroundings to create a narrative I couldn’t figure out. I wanted to know who was in charge. I also wanted to know who was safe.
I texted my pastor at the time to see if he could meet with me. I drove to the bar next to our church on a hot June afternoon and met him at one of the tables outside. I tried to tell him my concerns, but he dismissed me and said, “Let’s just pray.”
He bowed his head and started mumbling a prayer that made no sense to me. The string of words exited his mouth and floated off like bubbles blown by a young child into the warm, humid air around me.
[For more of this story, written by Charlotte Donlon, go to https://www.washingtonpost.com...nore-mental-illness/]
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