Church

Most of our Recovery International Group Meetings take place in churches. The church where I belong and where I am an Assistant Leader considers Recovery as part of their outreach program and expects no payment. We always give them a gift at year-end anyway.  A large quilt which hangs in the church parlor has a square with "Recovery" on it; there has been a meeting in that church for many years.

As I was driving to church this morning, I chose the "scenic" route. If I go the other way, it is an asphalt jungle.  Along most of the way that is my favorite, beautiful trees and gardens of all sort are seen in all their glory. Every shade of green imaginable, and every size and shape, those trees never fail to remind me of the poem "Trees," by Sergeant Joyce Kilmer: "I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree . . . "Oh poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree." That was my husband's favorite, and I can't look upon a tree without thinking of him. He died 5 years ago, but his spirit will always guide me.

Living with bipolar depression isn't easy for the person who has it; it is harder still for those who choose to live with them. When I was first diagnosed, those long years ago (1961), it took quite a toll on our marriage. In my eyes, it was all about me, me. me.  We never knew who he'd wake up with in the morning-someone so into lowered feelings that they barely functioned (and didn't want to get up at all) or a different person who had hardly slept the entire night while cleaning out drawers, cupboards and bouncing around with a mind that just could not settle down.

I was scared the first time I landed in a psychiatric hospital, but his fear and disappointment at having this illness enter our lives was heartbreaking.  At first, he was in complete denial and he couldn't bring forth any sympathy or understanding at all. He didn't even want to take my hand when offered. When he didn't show up for home visits, he would always tell me that "I wasn't well enough" and when he didn't come to see me during visiting hours, my heart sank to my shoes.

I've described in earlier posts how I finally found Recovery (then Recovery, Inc. and now International). Going to those meetings made all the difference in the world, and having him attend also gave him a better understanding of what was going on with me. He grew to accept, not reject.

The church we had attended for years, the one where our Recovery meeting is held, is where we had his Memorial Service. There are a lot of memories in that place, some happy, some not so much. When my eyes would close and he'd think I had fallen asleep, he would nudge me with his arm and say "Wake up!"  I'm so grateful that he became my anchor and I'm grateful, too, for a wonderful Recovery home-no matter in which church it may be located.