February 28: Return of the NB

Those of my disciples who have been with me since the beginning of Saint Marty may remember a recurring character I called Nasty Bitch (NB for short).  NB was a family member who was...Well, I think the name says it all.  For a long while, she was unaccountably cruel to my wife and me.  She made Lent a couple years ago a true test of forgiveness.

Well, NB is at it again.  A couple days ago, I promised to post a picture of myself with the Oscar trophy I won at the Oscar party Sunday night.  Well, I haven't been able to post that picture.  The reason I haven't been able to post that picture is that NB, who was one of the co-winners of the statuette last year, refuses to relinquish it to me.  Yes, NB is turning a usually friendly competition into a mean-spirited fight.  Earlier this evening, I was hugely pissed.  Now that I've had some time to cool down and think about it, I'm still hugely pissed.

NB exists to make people miserable.  She's still a very unhappy person.  She has tons of money, but lives like a pauper, making people miserable.  She could travel, but prefers to sit in the living room in her pajamas watching Lifetime movies, making people miserable.  She could afford a new car, but drives a minivan that is held together by wire, paperclips, and spit, making people miserable.

I think you get the idea.  Now, her newest form of miserable is this horseshit with the Oscar statue.  I wouldn't let it boether me so much, but winning on Sunday night really made me feel happy.  I haven't had a whole lot to be completely happy about recently.  Now, NB has fucked that up for me.

It's late, and I'm tired of being pissed.  I'm not going to let this problem go.  I'm just going to let it go to sleep for a few hours.

When Saint Marty wakes up in the morning, he will start planning his revenge on NB.

Vengeance is mine!!  It's mine, I tell you.

March 23: Saint Toribio de Mogrovejo

I thought of titling this blog "The Nasty Bitch Strikes Back" (start humming the Star Wars theme with me), but I decided to take the high road. You may remember, Faithful Reader, the last time Nasty Bitch (henceforth referred to as NB) made an appearance in a post. She said and did some not-so-Christian things to my wife, so I went to her house and said and did some very not-so-Christian things is response. The ensuing guilt and remorse I experienced from my outburst ruined the better part of a week for me (think Luke after Darth cut his hand off). I finally ended up apologizing to NB, and, armed with the knowledge that I had done the right thing, the thing both Jesus and Yoda would have wanted me to do, I moved on to my next opportunity to make an wookie of myself.

Well, yesterday, when I spoke to my wife on the phone, she told me NB had said some more not-very-Christian things to her and my daughter and pretty much slammed a door in my wife's face, literally. Of course, my first response was to go to the Dark Side. I had this out-of-body vision of myself screaming at NB again, but the vision that immediately followed was of me having to suck Bantha butt again and apologize. Neither vision gave me much pleasure.

My wife and daughter were at home, out of harm's way, so I decided to pray about the situation on the drive home. I prayed for NB. Her mental state has not improved since my last outburst. In fact, I would say she has gotten worse. She looks like she hasn't slept in about two weeks, and , on a good day, her mood is sullen. On a bad day, she's just, well, a nasty bitch. Since she hasn't had an appointment with her psychiatrist, I know she hasn't started taking any medication to improve her condition. That means that she's still experiencing auditory and aural hallucinations. The last time she was like this, the voices were telling her to kill herself.

As I drove, I prayed for NB. I asked that she be made well, that she gets the help she obviously needs. I prayed that she be happy, really happy--no seeing figures standing in the mirror behind her or sneaking into her bedroom at night, no hearing voices whispering her name or telling her to harm herself. I prayed that she would turn back into the person I used to like, the person I remember going on vacations with. I prayed that she just be a whole person again. Wholeness. I've prayed similar prayers for my wife when she was in the throws of mania or addiction.

By the time I pulled into my driveway, I felt peaceful. I wasn't ready to charge over to NB's house and challenge her to a light saber duel. I was calm and accepting. I saw NB for what she is right now--a sick individual in need of compassion and understanding. That doesn't mean I shouldn't protect myself and my family from cruelty and pain. That does mean that I recognize the source of that cruelty and pain as a symptom of NB's broken mind/heart/soul. And I can pray for her.

That's pretty much what Toribio de Mogrovejo did for a good portion of his life. A 16th century Spanish professor of law, he was appointed bishop of Lima, Peru. For a quarter century, he walked through jungles, forded rivers, wrestled gigantic alien Rancors (just making sure you're paying attention), and exposed himself to things like malaria, leprosy, and heatstroke. Instead of expecting broken people to come to him for help, he went out, met people where they were, and brought them the love and compassion of God. By the time he died in 1606, he had confirmed and baptized nearly one million people.

I probably didn't go as far as Toribio would have gone for NB yesterday. Toribio would have walked to her house, sat down with her, maybe held her hand. He would have asked her how she was doing, listened to her talk about her illness, her anger, her sadness. He would have led her to a better place.

I, on the other hand, patted myself on the back for not calling NB a nasty bitch to her face. I just prayed for her, handed her over to the likes of Saint Toribio, and hoped for the best. Sometimes that's what it's all about: A New Hope.

May the Force be with you.

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.