The art of brokenness

This plastic apron crinkles as I move. I look around the room at the other plastic apron wearing adults and my eyes brim with tears. I hold my paintbrush a little tighter. I look down at my green wrist band, noting the reds and blues around me. Like tiny little declarations of our deepest struggles. Reds for addiction, blues for depression and greens for depression and anxiety. As they use those hands wrapped in declarations to create art from their troubled hearts; I am struck by the unbearable reality of this situation.

The more I create, the more this pain in my chest rises up. With each brush stroke anxiety eats me alive and a lifetime of pain overflows from the cracked and broken place that was once my heart. The longer I paint, the more I feel, the worse my painting gets. It’s like looking at my anxiety on a piece of fabric. How did I get here? I sit in the corner of the art therapy room. Its January 2020 and I’ve been admitted to this psychiatric hospital.

I sink deep into myself. The pain washes over me, my anxiety chokes me and I sit silently painting as tears stream down my face. I hear a voice in my head “Please. I will be good. Please. Don’t leave me. I will be good.” My broken self crumples into ashes and I am washed away on a tide of grief. My sobs choke out of my throat. “Times up guys!” the OT announces. “Please wash your brushes and head to your next session.” Art therapy is over. I quickly pack up and make a run for my room where my head explodes with the devastation of my soul.

I lie on my bed as my room mate walks in. “How are you holding up?” She asks. “I’m Okay.” I reply. Always okay but never whole…

I have been diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder and major depressive disorder. Here I am. Holding myself together with tissues and paint. My declaration of mental illness rubs against my wrist. Where is the hope? Where is Jesus? How do I climb out of this well that I have been dropped in? I am alone. I skip the rest of the sessions on my program for the day. I choose instead to climb under the covers of my bed and pull the blanket up over my head. I surrender everything in me and all of my trauma, all of my broken dreams, all of my anxiety rises up like a flood and I am swept away on a sea of hopelessness. Then He comes.

Take me by the hand; Lead me down the path of truth. You are my Savior aren’t You?
– Psalm 25: 5-15 MSG

My King. He rises up from His throne and kneels beside my bed. He looks at my pain and He loves my anyway. He looks at my shame and He loves me more. He looks at the little girl that holds her knees to her chest and rocks herself and His heart fills with compassion for me. He wraps me in His arms and begins to sing over me. He whispers into my soul that I am not alone. I am never alone.

I didn’t know it then. On that day that it would ever be possible for me to walk out of that hospital. I didn’t know it then. That I would learn tools that would enable me to live life with my illness. I didn’t know it then. Jesus was answering my prayers for help. I didn’t know it then. My walk would be a slow one to wellness.

What I knew then. Jesus had placed a roommate with me that would make every day a little bit more possible to live through. What I knew then. I could fall apart but my grief was allowed. What I knew then. I would be forever marked by this experience and Jesus had a purpose for this momentous time in my life.

Mental illness has nipped at my heels for a very long time and finally it swallowed me whole. I didn’t know that I could get better. I didn’t know that GAD was something that was happening to me and it is not something that I was doing. Its not that I can’t live well, it’s not that I can’t cope. It’s that not coping happens to me. Over the next few days and months I learnt to put one foot in front of the other.

I learned to take each moment as it came and I learnt DBT skills that allow me to not only live but want to live. Every day is a process. Therapy is my journey. I am living the art of brokenness and Jesus walks the path with me. He holds my hand and together we take each step. I wanted to write about my experience in the hopes that it would encourage others like me that live in this world with mental illness.

In my worst moments Jesus truly touched my heart, I am forever altered. I walk in the victory that Jesus promised me and despite the world around me I am closer to Jesus than I have ever been in my life. Beloved, Jesus looks at you with love. He wants to walk this journey with you. Just like He is walking it with me. The art of brokenness is a story of hope when you grab hold of the hand of Jesus.

• Cling to God’s word for it is true and trustworthy!

Joshua 1:9 “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”

Zephaniah 3:17 “The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing.”

Matthew 28:20 “Teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”