March 8: Saint Theophylact

In my wildest dreams, I never thought my life would turn out the way it has (so far). On the day my wife and I got married, I knew that she had an uncle who was bipolar and a great aunt who was also bipolar. (Recently, a cousin of hers was also diagnosed with bipolar.) But, as I gazed into her smiling face on that October day, I never thought mental illness would set up permanent camp in our lives. I saw 2.5 kids. Maybe a dog. A full-time university teaching job. A full-time teaching position in a local school system for my wife. That's what I saw.

Over the years of dating my wife, I had witnessed the kind of havoc her uncle's illness created, the months he spent holed up in his bedroom, the suicide attempts, the summer manias. But, on our wedding day, I never saw mental illness as part of my immediate, minute-by-minute existence. Even if I had, I still would have said "I do," but I would have also prepared myself a little better for the excitement to come.

Nobody really plans to entertain mental illness as a house guest. It just sort of shows up at your front door like weird Aunt Lulu from Buffalo, and the bad thing is, you have to let her in.
You remember my Lenten prayer list (the list of people who've hurt, betrayed, or fucked me over)? One person who has been at the top of that list has a mental illness. She just likes to pretend that she doesn't. She's suffered from depression and delusions (hearing voices nobody else can hear). Currently, she's convinced her psychiatrist that she's cured. The chemicals in her brain have miraculously balanced themselves, and she's the happiest, most well-adjusted person on the planet. Call the Billy Graham Crusade. She's ready to testify. She's off her meds and couldn't be happier. (If your bullshit meter is going off, it should be.)

This person doesn't want to be labeled "crazy." She comes from a generation that still views mental illness as some kind of character flaw that can be cured with hard work, exercise, and 64 ounces of water per day. (The water thing could do the trick if it's used to wash down a few Zoloft or lithiums.) That's what she believes, and that's fine.

The problem is her treatment of my family member with mental illness. I could try to sugar-coat it, but let's just be completely honest here: this person is a bitch to my wife. As I've thought about , stewed over it, prayed on it, I've come to the conclusion that this person is scared. She has a mental illness and doesn't want to admit it, is actually terrified of it. She sees my wife, who also has a mental illness, and recognizes her biggest fear, the King Kong on her back, so to speak. So, this person resorts to being rude, cruel, and just plain nasty to my wife.

It's a human response, to be sure. She tries to justify her actions by saying my wife is lazy, manipulative, and selfish. But it all boils down to the fact that this person's got Aunt Lulu at her front door, and she doesn't want to invite her in.

Which brings me to Theophylact, today's saint. The thing I like about him is that he always answered the door. A ninth-century bishop, he was famous for his kindness to the sick and poor and mentally ill. The prayer that follows his biography in my book says, "May our Lenten sacrifices focus on our need to respond to the most desperate of Your loved ones." It's not easy confronting yourself, or Jesus, in the face of someone who frightens you. Theophylact did it, always, with hospitality, compassion, and love.

I don't expect the person I'm writing about today to change. That would mean she would have to admit her own fear and weakness. Again, not an easy thing to do. It's much easier to be a nasty bitch.

And Aunt Lulu will just keep knocking.