“You mean you are going to have another kid?”
“Yes,” said Mr. and Mrs. Randall. (Excerpt from A New Baby, one of the stories I wrote at eight years of age.)
“Well then,” replied Kathy, “Well then, I’ll just go and pack up.”
“No, Kathy,” said Mrs. Randall, “Don’t do that. You don’t know what the baby will be like.”
I recently discovered my handwritten stories that survived a house fire. Rereading them, I laughed and cried. I felt such an appreciation for little Lisa. The humour and simplicity triggered memories of childhood. When I was eight years old, I knew I wanted to be an author when I grew up.
I look back on these stories with wonder. I was writing about what I knew and had been reading as a child. In the afternoons, I would sit cross-legged on the living room floor and write these short stories with my pencil.
A few of the titles were A New Baby (quoted above), A Surprise Party, and Fluffy, a cute story about a classroom pet. They were stories about welcoming new siblings and struggling with math homework. Also, the joy of an unexpected pet duck, conflict with classmates, and the wish of a surprise party with the whole school invited.
“When they drove up the driveway her mother knew every little thing to know about Fluffy.
“‘Well,’ said her mom, getting out of the car, ‘I guess I better get a snack for you two.’”
These are precious reminders to me that I have always been a writer. When imposter syndrome shows up, I can silence the thoughts that tell me to give up. Writing was something I did for fun. I have always enjoyed spending time with a notebook and pen and reading a book.
“In that moment I remembered again,” recalls Sarah Clarkson in Book Girl, “that a woman who reads is a woman who ponders, who knows the holy secret of time spent in quiet, the power that comes from stepping back from the madness of screen and email, schedule and headline, to seek an inner place of hush in which she may know her own heart and the voice of the Holy Spirit afresh.”
Today, writing is not only fun for me but necessary for healing. At first, I struggled to write about my mental illness. I am thankful for the handful of people who went before me showing it was possible. I thought, if they can share their journey, so can I.
“I am not alone.” I repeat this often to myself because I can feel so alone. And I know I’m not the only one who feels this way at times.
When I got sick as a teenager, I felt alone.
When I received a diagnosis of a chronic mental illness, I felt alone.
When I experience sensory hallucinations, I’m the only one who can see or feel them.
But I am never alone.
Jesus is beside me in the seasons of loneliness and fear. When it feels hopeless, I reach for his love. Sometimes the only vocal prayer is “Help!” or “Jesus!”
Mother Mary and all the saints surround me in a heavenly community. I need only lift my thoughts towards them, and the spirit groans out a prayer for help. There have been many saints who have experienced mental illness too. This helps me see holiness is possible for anyone.
Living with bipolar disorder can be isolating. My brain works differently than others. The illness affects my thoughts, mood, and behaviour. I can experience periods of high energy that can lead me to a crash of depression if I don’t regain balance.
I am learning lessons about the meaning of presence versus performance. The Lord is patient with me. He loves me even in my stumbling and striving. I am buoyed up by his love in the sacraments of reconciliation and the Mass.
Often, I sit in his presence in the chapel and tears are my prayer. Jesus knows exactly what they mean, and they bring healing in their release.
He comforts me when I recall the Scripture “I am with you always” (Mt 28:20).
My identity as a child of God is a great gift that brings solace in the face of depression. For the Lord promises to never abandon me. God gives us our identity. It’s not the illness that defines us. We are images of the Creator. And God saw that it was good.
Even from the broken parts of my life, newness and transformation can take place.
Writing is a form of prayer too. I speak to the Lord in prayerful letters giving me space to pause and reflect on my needs and the good in my life.
Every word I write about the pain in my past or present lets in light to the suffering parts of my heart. I know that every poem, piece of prose, or fictional story I create is a way to heal from suffering. And I embrace the process.
The short stories of my youth motivate me to continue to become the author I dream of becoming.
Lisa Rumpel’s podcast, The Will to Thrive: Stories of Resilience, is available on popular streaming services. It is updated once a month on Wednesday.
