Drugs and Mental Illness

Ray was a persistent felony offender my husband was representing on drug charges.  Since Ray was a carpenter who had no money, Phil asked if I felt comfortable with him coming to our house to turn the garage into a bonus room, which would be his payment and something we'd wanted to do for some time. I said he could come -- that I wasn't afraid. 

So in April of 1991, Ray, the carpenter, started his adventure of enclosing the garage. That same month, on April 21, 1991, at 12:10 a.m. my husband's dad died from a heart attack he had experienced two days previously, after returning home from a two-day fishing trip he and Phil had been on in Erin, Tn. On the night Bill died, as Phil lay mourning in bed,  Ray was drinking coffee, carrying on a conversation with me in our living room. To say the least mine and Ray's life were entwined. It was a night I regret. 

Ray, the persistent felony offender, the drug addict, the criminal who lost his license, his car, his wife, his relationship with his daughter plus his relationship with his mom (whom he lived with, who needed the lawnmower I had bought which Ray sold at a pawn shop for drug money) who also had an open wound on his left leg that would not heal, who was emaciated, gray, snaggled tooth and lonely, who wouldn't answer his phone because it might be a creditor, who constantly was looking over his shoulder because of threats made by people he had taken advantage of, who was jobless, penny-less, constantly in need of cash, as opposed to checks, (you can figure that one out can't you?) who insisted on being paid daily so he could feed his hungry demons that had to be fed regularly. 

On May 19th, one month after meeting Ray, he became a Christian. Coming up out of the watery grave Ray was saved but still a drug addict. A hard truth, but reality.

On June 6, 1991, Ray entered the hospital to "dry out" and I was there. Either in person or on the phone I went through it with him. I would call in the middle of the night and he would be throwing up. I would go visit and he would be smoking, feeding another addiction. I had no idea at the time that drug addicts use de-tox as a means of getting empty so they can start back using drugs all over again. Much to my chagrin, this was his seventh time. I brought Ray home on June 12. That afternoon he and his mom had an argument in my living room. That night I took them supper. 

I have no recollection of when the den was completed. I do know, however, that he did eventually sell drugs again, to an undercover police officer which ended up putting him in prison. Spending time but being released, I heard little from, or about him, until I saw him maybe ten years ago, buying groceries for his mother looking like a new man. I told him how good he looked and he said he and his mom were attending a little church downtown -- that both he and his mom enjoyed worshiping at. He told me his mom was in declining health and he was taking care of her. James Ray Shields II died on September 6, 2012, and Majel Lois 'Madge' Ison Shields, his mom, died on November 19th, 2013, outliving him by fourteen months. She died just one month ago.

God used Ray to teach me one of the most valuable lessons I've ever learned. When I thought God was using me to teach Ray, he was using Ray to teach me. I have never looked at myself the same since. I cannot fix your problems. You cannot fix mine. That is a simple, yet profound truth.

Never in my life had I met anyone as needy as Ray. All of the problems I noted above were simply unfathomable to me. How could he ever get out of this hole he had dug? Could even God reach him? 

Having never experienced any of his problems nor having any professional expertise myself, I came to the conclusion that all I could do was what I could do. I could talk, listen, feed, take him to the doctor, enter him into the hospital, visit, counsel, instruct, take him to church, encourage, rebuke, and show him the love of Christ. 

I could do what I could do and God could do what I could not. Lesson learned. 

Whereas Ray's problem was taking too many drugs, many people suffering from mental illness who need them won't. Whether you think it's a sign of weakness or you just don't want to add another drug to your regimen, please reconsider.

If you're suffering in silence but don't know what's wrong, if you're watching someone who is suffering but won't admit it, or if you're plain old ashamed to go get help because of the stigma mistakenly attached to mental illness listen to me. Take it from someone who's been-there-and-done-that, you will not get better until you do. 

The first doctor I went to tore a page out of the PDR, telling me to take it home and read it -- that I had described depression to him better than anyone ever had. He gave me the first of many medicines I would be taking even to date. I noticed an improvement in my thinking and ability to cope almost immediately. Anti-depressants were absolutely necessary to treat my chemical imbalance; even more so when the chemical, post-partum and situational depressions converged. I was descending into a place, I fear, from which I would never return. The medicine was absolutely necessary to keep me from going there.

Had prayer, faith, Bible study, or support from family and friends gotten rid of the illness, the medicines I am on today I would not still be taking. Having tried numerously but failed in the past to stop, I recognize I still have a problem with what happens when I try.

Several times, in my darkest hours, I sought prayers from the church. I walked to the front of the auditorium at the end of the sermon begging people to pray for me. Someone would always come, whom I knew personally, who knew what I was going through, and sit with me, hold my hand, and shed tears to empathize. For those people, I am very thankful. But what happened the next day, none of them could perform. I always found myself in a doctor’s office seeking professional help and counsel, assured that God had led me there. Nothing a friend could ever offer was ever going to be enough. I know many people who believe faith is the answer, but along with faith must come medicine.

My dad is 82 years old, in a nursing home, and has been bipolar, from what I've gathered, most, if not all, his life. Within the last five or six years, he has asked me what was wrong and I quite bluntly told him, “Dad, you have an untreated chemical imbalance for which you have never sought treatment because you've either thought you haven't had one or wouldn't have taken the medicine had a doctor told you so. I simply gave him the bottom line because truly in a nutshell that was the answer he needed to hear and I'd had this discussion with him before.

Untreated mental illness is as dangerous as untreated diabetes. Just because it's invisible doesn't mean it doesn't exist. Why suffer in silence, or in shame, when you could be taking medicine administered by a qualified doctor or specialist who knows how to treat it and have a more fulfilling life?