The Wild Goose is a video series that takes viewers on a journey to deepen each individual’s connection with the Holy Spirit.

For those that have accepted Jesus as their Lord and Savior through the sacrament of Baptism, the Holy Spirit becomes part of us, guiding us through life’s trials and consoling us when life becomes too heavy.

For me, life’s battles were unexpected. I was not a bad child. I went to school every day, got good grades, and took care of my younger siblings the best way I knew how being a child myself. The anger and hatred I seemed to attract confused me, leading me to a place I almost nearly didn’t return from.

The Spirit as Paraclete (Consoler/Advocate)

“The Holy Spirit is the One called to our side, who draws near when we cannot. He heals internal wounds and can transform our burning heart.”

I left my home and everything I knew in Iowa, at 22, to pursue to attend graduate school in Providence, Rhode Island. I wanted to escape my environment, have a fresh start and pursue research on the brain and human mind at a genetic level, to determine where we, as scientists and doctors, could intervene in the fight against mental illness. This desire was fueled primarily by watching my mother struggle with severe, chronic mental illness for most of my childhood and early adulthood.

In my early adolescence, I would sit near my lamp late at night, reading baking manuals and praying for God to make the pain of my existence stop. My parents were always angry with me and often took out their frustration with each other on me. It is around this time that I began to self-harm, developing an eating disorder to cope with the trauma. It wasn’t until much later that I would understand that for my mother, her unprovoked rage was a symptom of her yet to be diagnosed illness.

When her illness took firm hold of her mind, my father became the devil while I became the devil’s advocate. I was 17 and didn’t understand where the anger was coming from. By this time, I kept entirely to myself, hardly speaking to either of my parents and staying out of their sight as much as possible. Nighttime became a safe haven where I could explore my interests like music and art. Everyone was asleep, so the quiet was mine.

Over time, my mother’s behavior became more erratic. Without the Holy Spirit whispering to me that her thoughts were a result of a chemical imbalance, I could have ended up angrier and more distraught than I already was at the entire situation. I had always wanted to be a psychologist as a child, but I never knew about the physiology of the brain. There was no way for me to know, brain chemistry is not taught in grade school. I know now that it was divine insight from the Holy Spirit, guiding me through an otherwise hopeless situation. Guiding me to get her medical help, instead of dismissing her struggles as “difficult behavior”, as most people do to those that struggle with mental illness.

I shared this insight with my father, who didn’t listen to me at first. It wasn’t until, by divine intervention, that my father’s company’s department had been invited to attend a seminar on mental illness. According to him, he told me excitedly when he returned home that evening, there was likely a chemical imbalance in her brain! I stared at him, stunned that not only had I already told him this, weeks earlier, but that for some reason his workplace had even given a seminar on mental illness, right when he needed to see it. My Advocate, My Consoler, was finding a way forward for us, through the insights of a teenager.

The Spirit “Heals Memories” and Reorders Your Inner Life

“The Spirit helped purify memory by shifting the top of the list to God’s love and gaze, and by guiding you toward forgiveness and reconciliation”

What came next was brutal for everyone involved. Our family was turned entirely on its head within the space of 6 months.

After being put on medical leave by her work, my mother was hospitalized against her will; committed for being a danger to herself and/or others. Being the oldest, I became the one responsible for helping my father go to the courthouse, file the paperwork and prepare for what was to come. I became his consoler, his confidant and supporter at 18, while juggling school and work. By this time, I was in my first semester of college at University, unsure of where my life was going. This is around the time I started to pray to fall asleep and not wake up. It seemed simpler than fighting a losing battle that I didn’t even know how to fight.

The day she was taken I will never forget. I came home from school that day to be there for my siblings. There was a ring of the doorbell sometime in the late morning. We already knew what was about to occur because the court had informed my father and my father had informed us. They came as a pair. Two police officers who announced their reason for entry as gently as they could. My mother did not want to go with them, understandably, she wasn’t doing anything wrong. From the bottom of the staircase, me and my siblings watched as the police officers grabbed her by the arms and pulled her away. She was still in her nightgown, confused and afraid.

After being stabilized for several weeks, my mother returned home. She seemed better, calmer. This calm didn’t last long though because soon after, she stopped taking her medication, as most mentally unwell people do. She didn’t think she needed them and understandably, disliked the side effects. She ended up in the hospital again, and this time, my father did something he had not warned me of. He had court ordered her to remain away from the house, preventing her from returning home. She couldn’t be within 100 feet of my youngest siblings. It wasn’t until my oldest younger sister called me upset about having to drive them up and down the driveway so they could visit her, that I understood the full implications. My mother was on her own. She couldn’t call her own children; couldn’t see them without prior authorization.

Her calls began to come in the middle of the night. My mother, unable and unwilling to talk to anyone else, would call me around 3 am, second semester of University. Most of the time she didn’t speak fully, just mumble about how the things she believed I was doing to her were evil and how the devil was using me. By this point I was accustomed to her psychosis and the threats that sometimes accompanied them, so I would simply stay silent until she would either hang up and/or call back again, or until she would fall asleep. It hurt to hear her say such things; I had been placed in the middle of her and my father’s arguments as far back as I could remember and was being condemned for it, even in her psychosis. Despite this, the Holy Spirit was with me during these calls, consoling me, reminding me that her words were not her own, and encouraging me to remain on the phone with her to keep her company, as she didn’t have anyone else.

I started sleeping in the back of my classes, under tables in empty rooms in the Chemistry Building, and on couches in the counseling building to recover the lost hours of sleep. I wasn’t one to get sick easily but that semester I developed a nasty cold. I went to the doctor when it didn’t appear to improve, and they told me that I had developed bronchitis. My entire body ached and I had a deep cough that wouldn’t improve. I didn’t have enough money for cold medication let alone food. By this point, I was very ready to sleep and never wake.

These thoughts were relatively innocuous at first. Just thoughts that would pop into my head, but I would dismiss, knowing it was against the commandments. While the Catechism teaches that suicide is contrary to justice, hope and charity, it also teaches that grave psychological disturbances and anguish can diminish responsibility. The Church sees suicide as gravely wrong while recognizing that serious psychological distress prevents a person from choosing in a straightforward, moral way. So I held on. I prayed even when my prayers felt unheard and I hoped for a better future for my mother. Slowly, things at home began to improve in my third year of school and by my senior year, I was preparing to pursue graduate school away from home. Surviving those years felt like a miracle, and I was ready to start a new life. I didn’t have any ill feelings about what happened, looking at it as a time of growth preparing me for what was ahead.

The Spirit Guides at a Crossroads

“At each crossroads, the Spirit suggested the next best path. I didn’t listen much at first but after some time, I learned to distinguish His voice from darker ones and to keep choosing life step by step.”

It wasn’t until I was in Providence, Rhode Island that these thoughts began to get louder. I began to feel like a failure. Like I was a disappointment and that I was not intelligent enough to be in the graduate program (despite being near the top of my class our first year). Everything I did felt like going through the motions but not really living. Things changed drastically when I met Alex.

Alex was in my program, one year below me. She was arguably more prepared for graduate school than I was, having secured an HHMI grant and an NSF grant before her second year. I applied to these same grants but because tokenism is still very much alive and well in higher education, they gave the grants to her and gave the honorable mentions to me. I did not mind though, I was happy for her and all her accomplishments. A win for her was a win for all of us (which in this case was only about 5 black students, in a department of over 60 graduate students). She wanted to get to know me, and at first, she was very thoughtful and kind.

Eventually she began inviting me to parties she would have at her apartment. At first, I would attend so I could be around other people of color, which was a first for me, being from Iowa. It quickly turned into me trying some of the substances offered. The first time I tried liquor, I blacked out 10 minutes later for a full 14 hours, nearly falling out a window and throwing up all over her bathroom floor later that night.

The next thing I tried was a concentrate from a pen. I liked how easy it was to conceal. Looking back now, it feels as though she was trying to drag me into the mud, because soon after I started using these substances, the mania that had gripped me a summer before, put me in the hospital the following year. After that, all she did was slander me behind my back to mutual friends and classmates, while keeping me around to buy things.

One day when I couldn’t quiet the noise, I took nearly all the prescriptions in my cabinet in a blind attempt to manage my distressing mood and emotional state. I mixed this with liquor, (which I drank all day), an upper (which I took every hour), a blood vessel dilator (which should NOT be mixed with an upper)…and I didn’t care what else. I was so tired. Bone crushingly tired. Today I was ready for the noise to stop.

Originally, I had every intention of falling asleep alone and having my heart give out while I lay passed out on the floor. I was with Alex at the time, one of her parties, and had snuck out to the hallway to find quiet. Instead, I was taken to the hospital by instruction from my therapist at the time. After a quiet prodding from the Holy Spirit, I had texted her in distress, telling her that I felt like giving up, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to because I had my siblings to live for. I could feel my heart beating too erratically and I couldn’t see straight. My therapist called and asked if I was alone. I told her I was with a friend, and she asked to speak with said friend. She asked Alex to take me to hospital immediately to get help for what sounded like a suicide attempt.

I broke down at the front desk and had to be helped into a wheelchair. In the hospital, I was placed on suicide watch overnight. I talked for several hours with a kind woman who asked me about my life and what had brought me there. She encouraged me not to give up, that it sounded like I had a bright future, even if I couldn’t see it right now. There weren’t any beds available for me at the hospital, so I was transferred elsewhere. I was effectively missing for 72 hours.

In the second hospital, after several questionnaires and interviews with psychologists and psychiatrists, I was colorfully diagnosed with bipolar 1 disorder, PTSD, polysubstance use disorder and social anxiety. I was held for a week to stabilize on new medication before I was assigned to outpatient care in the community. Meanwhile, Brown University counseling and psychological services had flagged my file and dropped me as a client because they didn’t want any liability for any other potential issues in the future.

I had no family. No friends. I was alone and I did not see a future for myself.

To be continued…