Why I Don’t Want You To Read This Post

After reading this through before pasting into my blog, I almost wasn’t going to post this entry. But then I realized that this is an excellent opportunity to display my own flaws and weaknesses because some of my posts may seem “preachy” (and I’m barely even qualified to give my own self advice, let alone any of you), but I’ll leave this up to you to read or not. It’s a very raw look into my life which I often keep hidden behind a mask. I apologize in advance there is no real scripture in today’s post. Some days The Holy Spirit just knows what we need even if we don’t actively seek it that day.

It’s been a hard fought day. It isn’t some strange phenomena for tears to fall from my eyelids, but it is out of the ordinary when they’re a result of loneliness. Given how I feel about living alone and being in a quiet atmosphere, you should be asking, “Chuck, how can you cry about being lonely when you enjoy being alone so much?” The short answer to that is, there are stark differences between the act of being alone and the object of loneliness.

On the same side of the coin, one could hypothesize I brought this all on myself. And while you’d be correct, it was not a feat won all by it’s lonesome. I speak often about how it feels to be autistic, and while that’s such a huge part of my life (especially as I get older and older), it isn’t the single most thing which causes me so much affliction. I don’t talk about bipolar disorder too much because for the majority of my adult life, I have denied it. Sure, there have always been the problems presenting themselves in the fashion which wreak havoc (sometimes more than autism) in my personal life. But I hate to admit it due to the stigmatic effects it has in society today. I’d be closer to the truth if only I just offered this window of transparency to my readers. And after today, I feel it’s the perfect opportunity to come clean with how it makes me feel. And while surely it is not all of the baggage I carry in my mind–for there are other things which make me a large part of the broken world which you are cut from similar effects–today I’ll focus purely on the mental health aspect. That’s a big enough pill to swallow. Which that in and of itself is an oxymoron for the world of Chuck Franklin, because I haven’t taken a single mood stabilizer or antidepressant since just before Christmas of 2017.

Before I begin, let me address what bipolar disorder and mental illness is not.

• It is not God given.
• It is not learned behavior.
• It is not ‘just an excuse’ for acting irrationally.
• It is not fun.

You might think that list of four things should be self explanatory… an inherent production of common sense. Then there’s the first one. No, I don’t believe in a God who harms His children.

While we were created in His image, I choose to believe that mental illness is brought on by the fall of man which dates back to Adam & Eve. I believe that we have certain differences which are a result of the flawed world that we trample.

It’s caused by genetics and the consequence of environmental impacts and since it’s just like any other DNA trait as is human brilliance or red hair, God uses it as a tool. Nowadays, I choose to think Mental Health is nothing more than a circumstance which God decides to use under His supervision to bring us closer to Him and to measure when our issues can be put to some greater positive use of helping or relating with others.

Bipolar disorder or any other mental illness (note, you will never see or hear me label autism as a disease) is not learned behavior. While we certainly are exposed to it on a daily basis whether we realize it or not, I keep the hope in the fact that my brothers and sisters in Christ don’t use it as an excuse for our occasional bad behavior. I’d also think that neither of us would (in our right minds) choose to act out in anger or agitation. Unfortunately though, since we are so not perfect, it happens. Some are better at identifying their feelings or emotions and can assess better than others and cool down before heating up. But sometimes, we’re all just bound to ‘snap’ and it just ‘is what it is’ every once in a while.

I also hate to break this to anyone who thinks this (and you’d be surprised how many people I’ve heard say this) that bipolar is fun. I’m sorry, but I don’t find joy in spending night after night after night awake researching new subjects or exploring my creativity through paper crafting, or writing, or spending long nights watching movies and taking two hot showers sometimes in an eight hour period just because my brain won’t shut off and let me sleep like the rest of the world. I find joy in those interests most during the light of day. And, I don’t find pleasure in starting new projects or interests on the flip of a dime. But it happens so much with me, I cannot count on one hand how many times I’ve switched interests. On Monday, I can decide that I’m going to take up baking, so the next day or (instantly, as in the pleasures of online shopping) I venture on a spending spree to get new pans and utensils which are necessary to baking. By Friday, I’d have lost complete interest in baking when I meet the demise of my horrible talent at fixing something that another person would dare identify as edible. And in those days in between, I can shockingly survive with two or three short naps the entire week.

The sporadic and messianic zeal of conquering a brand new concept or hobby one minute, then losing interest in whatever half brained idea I’d dreamed up the next, clashes directly with my autistic disdain for change and crave for routine based living.

During these periods of pure mania, I’m generally at the peak of my elated self. I’m so confident and happier than a dog basking in the sun, then usually after an entire day of headaches and throwing my fists in thin air (which typically occur after a week or two from when the mania starts), I plunge straight into the depths of my already sinking mattress. It’s days like this which my mind becomes haunted by the consequences of my behavior. Shame and guilt elude my every thought and I feel the sting of loneliness. It’s in those transitions of rage and anger which I’ve pushed away family members and friends. Now don’t get me wrong, I have arrived at the acceptance that God has cleaned out my inner circle of friends for great reason. However, I am to blame for some of the relational woes and it’s days like this when I shake my head at how unfair mental illness is.

You probably find yourself thinking that I could just try medication again. I should attend rigorous therapy. I should interact with others in person more. And for a typical person, all those could be great suggestions. But like I mentioned above, my mental illness battles the faulty brain wiring and I have a real-life cartoon of the devil on one side of my head and an angelic entity on the other. Medication hasn’t worked in the past, and trust me when I say this, eight years ago when I found out I was both autistic and bipolar, I’d began the entire circuit of medications. They just don’t work for some people. And since moving back to Colorado, I’ve yet to find a suitable therapy provider who truly understands the full scope of my mental health needs without judgment and preconceived bias. Grand Junction leaves much to be desired in a clinical perspective. Much like our doctors here, Western Colorado is full of therapists/psychiatrists and barely any of them measure up to the brilliance which I’d once had in Indiana. They just don’t get it.

So as I lay here, bereft of real gumption to get up and do anything productive, I revert back to my first paragraph. Some days just have me crying tears of regret and loneliness. It’s in these moments which I can’t escape the confines of hell which satan has placed me in, because even if I did have a spouse in my life to bring the physical comfort God wants for me, I’m sure I’d find some way of pushing them away too.

How a Single Night of Failure Provided a Bridge to God’s Timely Blessings

I don’t know about you, but I can never seem to put on my socks whilst standing. Call it lack of equilibrium, or I’m bigger boned than most, or whatever you will. An excuse isn’t going to miraculously give me that ability, because I am not capable of creating miracles all by myself. If I lift one leg and hunch over, I’m just bound to fall over. Only when I am seated, can I truly focus on putting the socks to cover my tootsies– safely and comfortably. You might be thinking I’m about to write about self-reliance. While this aligns nicely, I am also speaking up about patience. Taking things one at a time to focus on whatever I need to without the, well, fear of failing. We hate failing in today’s world, don’t we? But we certainly don’t have to fear that. In the words of Duckie, one of my favorite childhood cartoon characters in “The Land Before Time”… Nope, nope, nope.

Earlier this week, I shared a personal story about a huge struggle I encountered after The Big Cheese took my momma back home to be in His kingdom. That particular feat began with lots of physical pain which doctors couldn’t define what was causing me to feel all that I was suffering. With a lack of answers why, they tossed around words like “psychosomatic” and “idiopathic.” I grew even more frustrated because it was affecting my ability to stand, and work in anyplace which required me to stand for long periods of time–or use my legs at all for that matter. This persisted for a good year, and you know what ultimately caused it? Worry. Nothing was getting better. My life was not improving, even after overcoming my for-all-intents-and-purposes… addiction to painkillers and muscle relaxers.

“Be patient, therefore, until the coming of the Lord. See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient about it, until it receives the early and the late rains. You also, be patient. Establish your hearts, for the coming of the Lord is at hand.” (James 5:7-8 ESV)

Nine years ago, I might have cracked open to scripture only in the frailest and darkest of times. And only then, that was maybe a couple times a year. Looking back now, I can identify that period of time as a result of little patience. I thought I was able to do everything myself, despite my legs turning into grape jelly. That’s when I met Bea, whom I consider my life adviser. We’d crossed digital paths in a Facebook group for writers. This was when I realized, God put her in my life for a reason. She was very much a motherly figure, the kind of emotional support a human provides another. I’d joined a temp agency to try even earn fifty bucks that week, if that’s all it would turn up.

The next day, I got a call asking if I was willing to work with a catering company who needed help at a wedding event. Having never served anyone anything in my life before but sass mouth, I was uncertain if I was a good fit. Since I was anything but a coward, I put forth the attitude to try. But this temp job required a white oxford shirt and black pants, of which I had neither. I spoke with Bea on the phone about the opportunity and she offered the encouragement that I should try it. The fact I lacked to meet their clothing requirements was in fact, no obstacle at all. Bea went to her local Chase Bank and deposited the money needed into my account so I could go to Walmart and jump through that hoop.

Evening arrived and I drove myself to the catering business’s central kitchen and helped load the van of all the food and utensils needed at the venue. I rode with them and a handful of other workers to the wedding site. This is where things went downhill, in the most literal and figurative sense combined. The venue was behind a clubhouse which literally rested at the top of a hill. After the reception began, I was shuffling my ‘big bones’ up and down a hill for three hours. Because of my mobility concerns, my head rarely looked up from the ground. I was pouty because I was uncomfortable physically and mentally (see; I have never liked large groups of people). If I had to count how many times I genuinely smiled instead of plastering a fake one, I’d say it was only during a brief conversation with a lady whom was my Home Economics Teacher in middle school.

Fast forward an hour later. Silver platter in hand with my head locked-in on the ground, a gentleman I didn’t see in my peripheral vision was headed up the incline as I was stepping down. We bumped into each other, causing the tray of disgusting looking tapas to smash firmly into his shirt which probably cost more than I was surely making that evening. Little did I know at the time, it was the father of the bride. Major yikes. What I was sure of, was upon impact, I lost balance and tumbled down the hill. Not one soul walked over to help me up or see if I was even okay. I picked myself up, walked over to pick up the tray and hobbled myself back to the catering tent where I sulked for about twenty minutes wondering why I was putting myself through such torture.

After having my pity-party, I was asked to help serve dessert to everyone seated at the tables where I was required to hold a platter of cake slices above one hand and a carafe of hot coffee in the other. Of course, my little blunder caught most people’s attention, I was being criminalized because I ran into the bride’s dad. Like how dare I be clumsy, right? Bouncing from this table to another, I was sure to catch the stink eye and disgusting sighs from people in the wedding party. I didn’t like how rude they were, and by that point I was just “not having it” so I sat the carafe of hot coffee down on the last table I’d served, dropped the tray which thankfully was bare by that point. Put my hands in the air, proclaiming, “You guys are horrible people. Mean and rude people.”

I hobbled toward to the caterers tent and told the owner that I just couldn’t do it anymore and my legs were giving out. I needed to just go home and clean up the scrape on my arm which had came in contact with the sharp edge of a rock on the tumble down. He let out a cavernous sigh, but appeared to not show a look of surprise before replying, “I get it, I’m sorry this didn’t work out.” He reached into his pocket and handed me cash from his own wallet. It was $100. That was certainly way more than I would have earned if the night went without a hitch (no pun intended). He said if I could sit down and wait a few minutes, he would take me back to my parked car at their business. He apologized for my fall and showed me so much grace and understanding. I called Bea while sitting down to wait for him. I was distraught and having a breakdown. For I failed miserably, yet somehow The Lord came through this man with a generous and understanding heart. I could see some disappointment in the owner’s eyes. But if I could place my finger on his true feelings, he showed more understanding and compassion than giving the enemy a bridge into my mind which had already been in a fragile state. He bore the fruit of the Spirit which was certainly everything mentioned in the below scripture.

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness.” (Galatians 5:22 ESV)

The next morning, I returned to Walmart to get some food with that very gesture of Faith from the catering proprietor. As I was leaving, I ran into an old colleague from a previous job. She told me that her ex-husband was needing a couple new employees at Pier One Imports. Some of you know me personally, and know where I’m headed with this. That job, combined with the help and support of Bea and her husband, is what lead me into the new life I’d established in Indiana. Pier One Imports let me transfer to a store in the Hoosier state so I wasn’t moving with no employment.

What is something you can look back and say, “Huh, you know it was through patience and taking one moment at a time which led me to XYZ?” For certainly had I not taken one moment at a time and not experienced that evening, I wouldn’t have been blessed with the “early rain” [the Pier One Imports job] which led to the “late rain” [the end result which was employment post-move].

God is never early, He is never late. But He’s always on time.

You’ve all heard that phrase, surely. The Hebrew translation to this is referred to as mow’ed, which means ‘appointed time and place.’ We just need to be patient and believe that God is going to arrive on time.

Prayer:

“Yahweh, please help me and all your children sit still just a bit longer. Let us put our Faith in your plan and learn to take it one moment, one step at a time. For nothing we try ourselves is ever going to hurry your mighty power even a second quicker. I appreciate the blessings you bring into our lives each and every day, which were in your will to happen timely and seamlessly. Hallelujah to you and your perfect son Jesus for letting our hearts beat according to your clock and not our own here on this green earth. Amen!”

[Extra Post] 9.17.19 – My First Story of Major Struggle

Today, there are two parts and this is the second entry. I recommend reading the other post from today first so you can have context for this one, which is my personal story as promised in the previous portion today. 

I’m happy to share this part of my life with everyone, because I am 1) so far from perfect and by sharing part of my vulnerable past, I hope that it helps relate with others that this is unfortunately a common occurrence and a direct action by the enemy’s plot to steal, kill, and destroy the good in God’s children. 2) I have overcame that problem with many thanks to God’s intervening and guidance whether I was strong in my faith or not. I can luckily and gratefully attest that only through God’s loving grace, that I can even share this–and also because it did not end so dramatically like the film “Ben is Back” which I discuss in the earlier blog post today. 

A few weeks after watching my own mother take her last breaths (actually I was directly responsible for helping her wishes to stop treatment be heard because doctors kept assuring her that it was “just her depression talking”), I started experiencing so much physical pain which the doctor at the clinic I was seeing could not find any root cause. He prescribed me Vicodin ES (extra strength) assuring me that my pain would soon clear up and I wouldn’t have to “be on them forever.” This was in early 2009, so the opioid epidemic hadn’t yet started to become a widely affected issue for many parts of America. 

A couple months pass by and that physician retires from the clinic making it difficult for me to get in with another provider quickly, and the one which was immediately available was an internist whom did not prescribe any medication unless absolutely necessary. It was too late, though. The damage of physical dependence had already set in. My depression combined with pain, forced me to recover my mother’s rampant stash of painkillers and benzodiazepines because I was almost out of my own prescribed tablets, which meant a graduation for my addiction onto a stronger painkiller- oxycodone. What started out with one or two pills a day turned into three or four–sometimes five or six. Not only had it started wrecking my poor tummy like a tilt-a-whirl at the carnival, it just fed into the need for more. When they were soon to run out, I had to turn to other means of obtaining pain pills. This meant begging friends to check their medicine cabinets if they had some perchance leftover from a dental procedure or operation that they didn’t take the complete lot prescribed. 

By July of that year, I’d only had just a few of my stash from mom’s sock drawer. I was numb every day. And it didn’t even mean I was taking them for pain anymore. I would take them and the muscle relaxers sometimes in combination at high doses just to make me stay “numb” because I couldn’t handle the world at large. This not only was a result of my autism and having social deficits present themselves after the major loss, it also was because I picked up on how it made me less tolerant to the slightest of anxiety. The day came when I’d had literally the worst day in my life, second to that of losing my mom, and I left work with a suicide kit. I figured if I drank a whole bottle in the biggest size of NyQuil available, three months supply of my anti-depressant, the remaining six oxycodones and dozen muscle relaxers– with a fifth of Jose Cuervo to chase everything down. 

“No wonder, for even satan disguises himself as an angel of light.” (2 Corinthians 11:14 NIV)

This was during a convenient time for the enemy to whisper lies in my ear, because I had the house to myself most nights due to my father spending a lot of time out of town when he wasn’t working. That night I clutched to my mom’s bible and laid in my bed pleading to God to let me die. Because I couldn’t take the world anymore. By the grace of God (literally) I survived that and with zero medical intervention. What ended up happening was a few hours later, I rolled to the side of my bed and expelled my guts so violently a lung probably would’ve came up next. I went back to sleep and awoke around 1:00 pm the next day. I couldn’t stop shaking. Now I know why, after my pharmacy knowledge many years later–my body was in what’s called serotonin syndrome. This means the central nervous system is in shock and misfires signals throughout the whole body because it doesn’t know what message is to go where. Picture a switchboard operator in the fifties working all by her lonesome in a place like say the World Trade Center. 

Biblically speaking, addiction in and of itself was not addressed as such in those days. However, it falls in line much the same with handling temptations from the devil. God wants us to love our bodies, because He created us in His image. Ask any artist ever, and they’ll tell you they don’t like their masterpiece being adulterated. But there are so many scriptures which speak of overcoming such temptation, this one popping out at me in the current moment.

“Walk by the Spirit and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh.” (Galatians 5:16-17 NIV)

This is to say that as long as you realize you have a problem, you can find truth that The Lord has you under his wing and only wants what is best for you. And usually there always comes a point in any person’s battle of addiction and they can understand that they have a problem needing addressed. This is the devil’s handiwork, and his resume for destruction is so long, it would wrap around the world three thousand times. Probably more. 

Thanks for sticking with me today as I had two very long posts. I just felt this was important to share (the movie and my personal account to addiction and struggle). Make today great, because today is the day The Lord has made… Amen!