On the Sofa Beside Me

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Non-subject: "overlooked"
Suicide. Not a pleasant word. A scary place to visit.
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~*~
1994ish.

I sat on the blue, tan, and cream-colored tweed upholstered sleeper sofa. Behind me the drapes were drawn across the large bay-type window that looked into the backyard. It was a pleasant backyard with a clothesline, homemade sand box, small garden, cherry tree, dogwoods, redbuds, green grass, all surrounded by tall white pines that produced beautiful large pine cones.

The pine trees were like a fence border providing privacy from the neighbors. I liked to watch them sway when the wind blew. I enjoyed the natural pine needle ground cover underneath the large branches. Old Well South was the name of the development where we lived.

But today I hid the backyard with the drapes.

My young children were gone for the day.

~*~*~

~the pistol lay beside me on the sofa~

I felt like a piece of putrid mucous, my body tired and worn down from over a decade of struggling to breathe.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I'm a sorry excuse for a believer; I can't even believe to breathe. My sinuses full of polyps and my lungs drowning in their own fluids. Why don't medications and surgeries help me? Why don't the natural approaches help me? Why is my skin constantly breaking out in hives? I feel grotesque, a blight on humanity.  A wart on the Body of Christ. What good is my life to anyone? Why should I keep trying to receive wholeness?

~the pistol lay beside me on the sofa~

At certain Way functions I would sometimes end up in a room away from the main teaching but where I could hear the teachings through speakers or doors. I understood; my sinuses and breathing problems could be a distraction, especially if I had to use my nebulizer.

It was embarrassing.

My illnesses were a chronic condition. I must be doing something wrong in my life that opened the doors for the adversary and his devil spirit realm. Was I possessed? I was always told, "no," and then the Way believer would minister or pray for me.

~the pistol lay beside me on the sofa~

I would often cry in private. I felt such deep, deep shame and self-hatred. Sometimes I'd be doubled over in grief, feeling like someone had died. But no one had. Why was I grieving?

I had to put the Word on in my mind, build my believing to get well. Job never blamed God; I wouldn't either. My illnesses were due to my faulty believing and maybe something genetic. Sickness is death in part.

~the pistol lay beside me on the sofa~

Tears covered my face. Anguish twisted my gut.

If I give in and pull the trigger, I'll be succumbing to devil spirit possession. I don't care.

~the pistol lay beside me on the sofa~

If I gave in, my children would have to live with the legacy that their mother had committed suicide. That thought cut like a knife through my heart.

I can't do that to my kids. I can't. I can't. I can't.


~*~*~

I picked up the phone and called Dottie.

I had been seeing Dottie on a professional level; she had her masters in psychology. She also was a leader in The Way, well-respected and looked up to. She and her husband had overseen the Way College at the Indiana Campus for awhile. They had been Way Region leaders overseeing a few states. Now they oversaw The Way of North Carolina.

Dottie talked to me and kept me on the phone. After about 20 minutes or so, my doorbell rang. Through the receiver Dottie told me it was Jane at my door. While on the phone with me, Dottie had written her husband a note to call our Area and Fellowship leaders where I lived to see if he or his wife, Jane, could come to my house. Dottie lived about a two-hour drive from me.

I hung up the phone to let Jane into the house.

Jane sat with me. We talked a bit and then went on the back porch. It was nice to sit outside, in the light. Jane sat with me until I was doing better and we felt the danger had passed. She prayed for me. I was prayed for a lot.

Jane then took the pistol home with her, giving it back at some later date. I agreed with that arrangement; I didn't trust myself. I didn't reveal the episode to anyone except my husband.

~*~

A few months later my mother called me one morning with a cry for help. She was going to kill herself. I got my neighbor to watch my two children and then drove the twelve minutes to Mom's house. I found her passed out on the kitchen floor. She was still breathing. I called 911. Her life was spared.

The devil spirits had gone from me to my Mom, but she had given in. That's how spirits function; they look for a host.

Mom nor I ever discussed her suicide attempt, nor her hospitalization afterward.

~*~