A Beautiful Madness - A Gracious God

Photo by Faris Mohammed on Unsplash

PREAMBLE

I had meant to write this for a long time, and finally, my landlord, Google, has given me a conditional quit notice if I don't want to use this space. So, here I am. Sharing my musings here, after a long time.
I am writing this for two reasons:
1. For those who have been concerned to understand somewhat, why I have been mostly silent and distant
2. For those who struggle to be encouraged or reminded that you are not alone, and to invite you to audaciously believe.

Borrowing words from one of my literary foremothers, Harriet Jacobs, "it is not to awaken sympathy for myself" that I write about my personal experiences. Rather, "I do it to kindle a flame of compassion in your heart," for yourself and others who struggle as I do.

Here is what you must not do while or after reading this. You must not pity me. You must not rebuke me for oversharing. If you do, you have missed the point and need to reread this post from the beginning.

If you want, you can pray for me, share your thoughts as comments, share songs, Scripture passages, quotes, and stories that renew your strength, reconsider the other silent and distant people in your life and pray for them, ask me meaningful questions, or do absolutely nothing with this. But you see pity and rebuke -- DON'T. I beg you, please.


A NEW BEGINNING

You may already know this, but in 2023, I started a PhD. Sometime in September 2022, I had dreams that nudged me to experiment with applying for my PhD. It was supposed to be a mock trial, a rehearsal, because I doubted myself, but I guess I was believable. Some people took me seriously, and that's how I got an irresistible offer. It was like a dream, and it happened in the midst of chaos. It was the most irrational and unreasonable season to introduce that type of stress into my life, but it was the necessary turn my life had to take, and it was in fulfillment of a desire I had carried for almost 20 years, at the time.*

This PhD journey has been giving. I enjoy learning through reading, discussions, research, writing, presentations, performances, and teaching. I am where I am supposed to be. I feel alive in a way that I had forgotten was possible. It has also been taking. People joke about earning PTSD along with their PhD degrees, and they are not lying. I have joked a few times that there is no difference between those of us on this journey and those who choose a journey of recreational drug addiction, because of the toll it takes on our bodies. Only that one journey often ends with a public celebration, and the other often ends with less honorable circumstances. I will not be the one to say that one journey can lead to the other, and I will not say which it is.

Rest assured, I am only on one journey. It is a beautiful journey of discovery, fulfillment, and justice. It has given me more than it has taken from me. I am enjoying it most days. And every day, every moment, God holds me.


A BEAUTIFUL MADNESS

https://unsplash.com/photos/a-circle-of-flowers-with-a-sky-in-the-background-FuOfzjxFaV4

Madness, also known as "craze," is often used as a pejorative. Growing up, "You are mad," "You are crazy," or "You dey crase" was one of the worst insults, only inferior to "Your mother", "Your father," or "Bastard." It conjured images of okorowanta, unkempt, dirty beards, living in the garbage dump, and often naked or in tattered clothes. You shouldn't marry a family that has madness running through them, and one mad person in the family is enough to say that they have madness in their blood.

The first time I was officially diagnosed with depression, I was ashamed because people looked at depression as madness, and I did not want to be mad. Not only for me, but for my entire family. I didn't want to ruin my siblings' chances at good marriages. I kept my depression as a dirty secret. One day, a beloved and I fought, and they called me mad. I told them that they, too, were mad. It would not be the first time someone would call me mad, and I would return it to them. I, too, had mindlessly called people mad. It was an insult, but we kind of knew we were not mad, and it provoked anger, not pain or shame.

"You are mad."
"You are mad."
"But I am not the one seeing a psychiatrist."

This time was different. My secret was exposed, and this was no regular insult. There was some truth to it. I was seeing a doctor for mad people. I must be mad. Shame. Pain. Almost like the black hole of depression.

Among other unpleasant things going on in my life, I have been living with depression for a long, long time. I am living with depression. If you call it madness, maybe you are right or wrong. I don't know, and I don't care. I just know that I am no longer ashamed of madness. What does it matter? Who defines madness? A lot of artists and thinkers suffer from depression, yet they have gifted the world so much beauty. So, maybe I am open to madness.

Even though mental health awareness has improved. In some of my communities, people still see depression as a character weakness, as cutting corners. Depression is an illness like other illnesses. It is not a personal failing or a sign of weakness. It could be caused by different factors, some of them other medical conditions, some biological ones, and some by stressful life events. Like many other illnesses and disabilities, it could happen to anyone at any time, regardless of your family history. The Depression Project is doing great work on social media to help people understand depression and people with depression better (Instagram: @realdepressionproject). Their resources helped me understand why I could not communicate with my people as I desired. It helped me understand my forgetfulness and find coping strategies.

It's Not You, It's Me.
Selective silence and isolation have been one of my coping strategies. With all the work that goes into a PhD journey, and supporting my mental health, I cannot keep up with everyone and everything. It is not you, it is me. I have so many unfinished conversations and projects, but I have to take it one day at a time, and accept that I don't have to be the one to finish everything I start.

Because I am in a country where the four seasons are apparent, I am learning what depression looks like in different seasons. In fall (autumn), I learned to notice the slow fade and the importance of keeping a warehouse of love, joy, and laughter. In winter, I learned the importance of the sun. I need the sunlight. In spring, I learned about the frustration of constant rainfall, and to appreciate the uplifting smell of roses, and how color brightens the room. Depression in summer is different. Life is beautiful around you, mostly. Fun things are happening. Work should be lighter. But thick darkness still envelopes you. You have held yourself through winter and spring, and by the time summer rolls in, you let go. You can't hold it in anymore. In summer, I learned to get help, because I am not meant to do this journey alone. Professional counsellors, medication, family, journaling, music, food, dance, walks, sunlight, these are all God's gifts for those of us who live with depression.

I am no longer ashamed of my depression. What you need to know is that I am not a source of danger to myself or others. I am not causing any harm. There are no weapons in the dark hole. It is just darkness. There is no method to this darkness, or this madness. This depression is not proof of character failure. It is evidence of a broken world. This person in the darkness is light, and this madness, it will bear beautiful fruit.


LEARNING ROUTINES
They say that life begins at 40, and a fool at 40 is a fool forever. I am in a rush to shed some foolishness before 40. I don't like routines, and that is foolishness. Routines are wise. They are the rhythms for the music of life. While they should come with margins that enable spontaneity, and they shouldn't be too rigid that they become plastic, the lines help us write our life straight. The rhythms help us sing in harmony and melody.
I am adding these routines one at a time, and shedding some stuff that made my life a burden. Like saying yes without pausing to think. Like checking my phone, even though it increases anxiety for me. Like Candy Crush.
Routines are hard, though. I am learning to give myself grace and to not let one missed day make me give up on new routines.


STRONG WOMAN, STRONGER GRACIOUS GOD

A friend wrote something recently, titled Strong Woman no More. What she doesn't know is that my devotional reading the day before was about how I can rely on God's strength, and that I was still reflecting and journaling on it when I saw her article. It was the reinforcement I needed, even though her life and experiences are different from mine. She can get help from her husband, domestic staff, friends, church community, and doctors. My life is different from hers. I have no husband, no wife, no domestic staff. I am living in a country where healthcare is confusing and driven by capitalism (and the country of my birth isn't any better). No shades to my family and long-time friends, but they are far, far away from me, and there isn't much they can do for me. It's enough burden that I am no longer there for them as I used to be. Life is just lifing all round, and in some cases, Nigeria is happening. As for church community, I am in a country driven by individualism and capitalism. People do their best, but their culture is different, and I try to space out my neediness so that I don't traumatize them.

Regardless, I can rely on God's strength. And that is the crux of this. I can rely on God's strength. God is the strength of my life and my portion forever. God is not overwhelmed by my troubles, burdens, and neediness. God is not helpless or too far away to help me. God is close to me. God's grace has brought me far and helped me do really hard and impossible things. I gave up on myself a long time ago, and then I gave up on God, not in an atheistic way, but in a fatalistic way. But God's mercy has picked me up whenever I have given up on God. I know that I can do all things through God who strengthens me (Philippians 4:13). My God is Nanarau, who owns us all. My God is Woyingi, the most merciful, most benevolent, more than any mother you could imagine. My God is Zibarau, life-giver. I believe that my God's strength is made perfect in my weakness.


The end for now....


*It was also an answer to my prayer for God to take me out of Nigeria if BAT became the President. I had suffered the eight years of famine with PMB, and did not want to suffer another time, especially when I had been persistently disenfranchised and deprived of my right to vote.