SAINT JUDE PATRON OF HOPELESS CAUSE

IN MEMORY OF DIANE AND BABY WHO WERE MURDERED
The Bruised Reed He Does Not Break
By: Erik M.

As a kid, my goal was someday to become the pope. My reality was pretty far away from my dreams. I had a very strong sense that God was working in my life, but I just didn't know how. I was going to a local Catholic grammar school and attempting to lead a God-fearing life in my mind and heart. Growing up in a single-parent home, I always longed for a father-figure in my life. Sometimes this resulted in "talking to God." I could access this "God" sometimes by attempting to pray. The voice would interrupt me in the middle of a prayer, and soon the voice and I were engaged in a conversation. I seriously thought that the voice was God, and I most certainly believed its reassurance that one day I would overcome my difficulty with prayer and become a future pope. The voice even reassured me that it was my birthright as God's little chosen one. As a child, this all sounded like a wonderful plan, and I was glad I had been brought on board.
Storms and Tears
While this intimate conversation took place on the inside, my lips said something different. Like most other schoolchildren, I had very deep doubts about my faith and its truth. Unlike most other schoolchildren, I said things most people prefer to keep private
e I condemned everything Catholic. In place of John Paul II, I called myself the pope. I could not understand the Catechism and rejected nearly everything in it. I swore obscenities at the Blessed Virgin Mary rather than venerate her while praying the rosary at school. I swore obscenities at Father. At one point in the confessional, I became so angry that I pounded on the wall.
Sometimes I interrupted the priest in the middle of his homily to proclaim myself the priest and future pope. With my ego going wild, I knew that something eventually had to give. I just wondered when and what shape it would take.
The priests who ministered to me in my formative years were very understanding. Rather than rebuke me for interrupting, they allowed me to vent. Rather than ignore me entirely, they merely nodded their head from the pulpit. I did not understand why these spontaneous outbursts occurred, and many times I wondered why the outbursts said the opposite of what the Church taught and what I wanted to say and think and feel. If I did not interrupt a homily, I oftentimes was so moved by the priest's words that I would cry and wail. During consecrations, I was prompted to quaking and tears by God's true Presence.
Since I was an altar server, I got to know my pastors at St. Mary's better than if I had sat in the pew. Both of the monsignors encouraged me to seek spiritual direction. They explained that they were familiar with directing people with my problems.
They tried to help me see that I had the unthinkable: a mental illness.
This seemed impossible to me, and I chose to follow my other dream--graduating from a research university and pursuing a career as a biologist.
My mother wanted me to be confirmed so that I would grow up with good morals and not reject my faith. Nonetheless, I did a great deal of soul-searching prior to my confirmation because I believed very little of the Catechism. I finally resolved that despite my doubts, being confirmed would be foundational. I hoped with all my heart that God would do some work on me later.
A Lost and Wounded Sheep
In college, my mom encouraged me to go to the Newman Center. I started going, but felt that I was losing time I could use studying.] By the end of my first quarter at college, I was skipping Mass entirely. Over the next few years my life gradually fell apart at the seams. My relationship with my roommate became worse, and I fell into a very bitter depression.
Finally I made a confession to a priest at St. James, a local parish. I began going to Sunday Mass more often and prayed that God might help me.
After college graduation, I eventually returned home due to unsuccessful employment. During this time, my obsessions surfaced, and I began taking medication.
I took the medication for a brief period of time and then abruptly stopped because I had not requested refills from the doctor.
My mind spun into schizophrenia and bipolar disorder (also called schizoaffective disorder). I sensed things that were not there (hallucinations). I had delusions that
I was an exalted person--namely, the pope. I entered an acute treatment facility; years went by while my doctors used trial and error to come up with the best medication or combination.

My journey toward reality involved three things.
The first was understanding that the medication masked the symptoms of the illness.
The next was therapy, turning non-reality into reality. The third was supernatural grace which helped me cope with the chaos of the illness.