There are no words

And that's okay.

“If you feel a prompting to rush, know it doesn’t come from the Lord,” my mother-in-law whispered while doing the dishes.

I was taken aback, completely embarrassed. My husband and I had been staying at her house for approximately four weeks now. Did I somehow indicate to her I was ungrateful for our stay? Could she tell I was itching to get back home? I certainly hoped not.

“Thank you Masako,” was all I could muster up. My face burned like hot coals. I was *this* close to opening my mouth in defense however I wanted nothing more than to end the conversation. I puffed out a sigh and walked away.

Later that evening my husband and I reflected on the remark while lounging on her maroon leather sofa. Perhaps I was too quick to take offense. Admittedly, I was about ready to pack my bags and leave while I had an ounce of dignity left.

But after many tears were shed, we both realized something. She wasn’t insinuating we were in a hurry to leave her home. Rather, the remark served as an open invitation for us to take our time with the healing process. We put down our fortress of defense, bowed our heads, lifted a prayer, and posed a question to the Lord we’d both been wondering for weeks now:

Lord, when is it safe to go back home…safe to go back to normal?

//

It took two bouts of postpartum psychosis, two admissions to a behavioral center, and being diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder for me to realize I needed help. The Lord has since been stripping away any remaining shreds of pride, hence the decision to live with my in-laws for the foreseeable future.

Both psychosis episodes involved me hearing “voices” to do the unspeakable. I was only slightly tethered to reality, and at times, believed how I behaved in the present could somehow dictate or change the past. For example, I associated my daughter’s NICU stay in December with the amount of water I consumed at the behavioral center, driven by the profound sense of connection between her and my body. I feared any slight reduction in water intake could harm her so I kept guzzling away. Eventually, my body rejected water entirely and I ended up puking clear liquid that entire night.

During my first psychosis episode in February while driving with my baby in the back seat, I also genuinely thought that my survival, as well as my daughter’s, hinged on my ability to quickly consume multiple bags of potato chips at the behavioral center. I believed it would flood my system with the adrenaline I needed to keep us both alive. Every time I blinked I envisioned myself back in the driver’s seat. I even vividly recall the night shift nurse, Dr. Collins, singling me out that evening, telling the other staff, “Keep an eye on her, this one’ll be doing the most.” There was quite the mess between bags of potato chips, overflowing trash bins of snack debris, spilled water, and inevitably, more throwup.

Reality felt hallucinogenic.

My body was delayed in processing the weight of traumatic events in my life. And because I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to write everything in narrative form, I’m simply going to list a handful of things I did/saw/felt:

• I dreamed I experienced Jesus’ pain. The bleeding of his eyes, the whips on his back—I didn’t believe I was worthy for Him to take my place

• I dreamed my body exploded and was sewn back together

• I soiled myself, repeatedly

• I incessantly itched my face until I was bleeding from dried eczema spots

• I violently pulled on my hair

• I ran in circles

• I screamed. Oh, how I screamed that I wanted see my baby

Between my two stays, I spent 12 days total at the behavioral center. Yet all it took was for a doctor to deem me “stable” enough to leave, and *poof* just like that, I got to go home. It doesn’t make sense to me. Am I glad to be home? Of course.

But it’s not fair I have to live with the painful memories.

//

One rainy afternoon, having been home for several days, I openly told my pastor the experience was nothing short of demonic, convinced that mental illness is in direct correlation with the works of Satan.

“You sound confident,” he looked at me startled. His legs were crossed as he rubbed his widow’s peak.

“I’ve never been more confident in anything,” I told him. Pastor Ward is a reasonable man. I needed him to believe me. To hear the desperation in my voice. We sat there for a while, both staring at my hands tremble.

"Well, words matter,” he followed. “And I want to make sure we get our words right.”

He then went on to lovingly course-correct my theological understanding of the experience. He reassured me that because I have the Holy Spirit, I couldn’t have nor ever will be possessed by a demon. He also shared this passage from John regarding my thoughts on mental illness being correlated with demonic works:

And His disciples asked Him, saying, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Jesus answered, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but that the works of God should be revealed in him.

I wanted him to be right. I knew he was right and biblically sound.

Yet why did I feel the urge to growl and murmur under my breath—was there not some sort of demonic darkness within me? Why did Room 230 feel like a manifestation of purgatory? And why with an EXIT door just down the hallway, did it feel like I was a mere misstep away from death itself?

“I just want to feel back to normal again,” I let out a deep sob with a mascara-stained face.

“I know, I know.” He gestured toward me and leaned in for a hug.

//

I'm currently reading a memoir called A Quiet Mind to Suffer With. His story shares many parallels with mine: a broken-spirited man who experienced psychosis with underlying and aggravated OCD. He calls this part of himself the Howling Boy. The part of himself wreaking with an odor of sin he doesn’t recognize. I want desperately for that side of me, the Howling Girl, to be seen. I want to sit with her and simply listen. To give her all the time in the world. Even if she’s foaming at the mouth. Even if her words are muddied. But for Kathy’s sake and her safety, I’m not sure they can be in the same room. At least, not for an extended period of time.

Words matter. I know they do. It’s why the writer in me is ashamed I haven’t written down every feeling, every sensation that took place in my body, every word I uttered. I feel each fleeting memory coursing through my veins. My detail recall is full of color. Yet the words seem to fall flat. If I were to sum up my current state, I’m ashamed I lack the skill and capacity to paint a true picture of my suffering.

For days, I’ve been emotionally biting at my flesh in search of the right words. And for months, even in the behavioral center, when I couldn’t so much as write my name, I’ve been gnawing at this idea that this needs to be a book.

That’s when a what-if obsession was born: If I can’t vividly share my story, what if no one truly understands me?

//

Over and over again, the Lord has reminded me that my innate worth is tied to my personhood in Christ, not to any sort of formulaic outcome I can conjure up on my own. Christ understands me.

He’s reminded me of Psalms like Psalm 119 —

81 My soul longs for your salvation; I hope in your word. 82 My eyes long for your promise; I ask, "When will you comfort me?"

83 For I have become like a wineskin in the smoke, yet I have not forgotten your statutes. 84 How long must your servant endure? When will you judge those who persecute me? 85 The insolent have dug pitfalls for me; they do not live according to your law.

86 All your commandments are sure; they persecute me with falsehood; help me! 87 They have almost made an end of me on earth, but I have not forsaken your precepts. 88 In your steadfast love give me life, that I may keep the testimonies of your mouth.

He’s brought to my attention excerpts from other Substack writers on the genre of the memoir:

Writing for the purposes of processing is sacred work, full stop. Writing as reckoning, writing as catharsis, writing as self-expression is one of the most profound personal practices for listening to your life, and every life deserves that deep listening.

Satan wants to convince me that if this story is not told in published form for the public eye to see, I’ll lose out on my purpose. I know, however, that the Lord doesn’t operate in a hurried spirit or a spirit of fear, but of power and love and of a sound mind. Writing a tangible hard-cover copy may not be the answer now, or ever. But writing as a means to process my grief is.

So I lay this “dream” at his feet.

If it does pull through one day, praise God. If it doesn’t, I’ll know I’m not a writer. I’ll know I’m a daughter of the King called to write about His goodness in the land of the living.

As for the words, I have none.

Regardless, my living testimony is more than enough.