I’m having a pity-party. I don’t condone it, not do I recommend it. Sometimes, though, writing about it helps, so please bear with me.

There is something profoundly unjust about mental illness. Oh, I know, it’s “sexy” these days. So-called celebrities get a prime-time airing for revealing their mental health struggles. World-class athletes, rightly, are treated with dignity and respect when they disclose the internal wrestling that no-one sees. TV interviewers are honing their skills, expanding their vocabulary to find just the right form of words to affirm without patronising. But the truth is that there is still a dark side to mental illness that few, if any, want to talk about.

I’m on my third breakdown. I’ve got underlying bipolar disorder, anxiety, depression and, in all likelihood, a whole heap of other identifiable psychiatric and psychological disorders. I’ve even got my own registered Support Dog these days. Jack is very cute, and when I’m asked what he does (as I often am), I always respond honestly, although sometimes people get more honesty than they were expecting. Well, they did ask.

I’m a workaholic and a perfectionist. I don’t say that with any pride, though I used to. These characteristics are afflictions and the enemy of my mental health. It’s hard to see that there’s any up-side in them at all, but I guess working hard and being determined to do the very best that can be done aren’t necessarily bad traits. It’s when these things become obsessive and the 10 hour days slip towards 18 hour marathons that the red lights begin to flash. For example, as a church minister and musician responsible for presenting, editing and producing daily video broadcasts throughout the pandemic lockdowns (why daily?) it wouldn’t be unusual for me to spend 2 hours making sure a nature video I was using as a background to a worship song changed scene precisely on the first beat of the bar. And I mean, precisely. Did anyone else notice? Well, almost certainly not, but that wasn’t the point. I knew.

To have one breakdown is perhaps understandable. To have two is careless. To have three suggests that something else is going on. And, try as I might, I can’t work it out. And believe me, over the years I’ve tried.

Right now I’m on the Costa del Sol in Spain having an extended period of convalescence. Okay for some, I hear you say. God’s been very kind to me in my periods of mental incapacity. The last time this happened, I was grounded on the Sunshine Coast in Australia for six months. But none of that changes the fact that things are pretty dark right now. I’m trying to re-establish a healthier pattern of sleep, but that’s not going too well, so Jack and I are often on the beach walking in the moonlight very, very early in the morning.

Darkness is a strange thing. It can be ominous, engendering fear and a sense of foreboding. Curiously, though, it can also enfold you like a warm blanket and make you feel safe. Perhaps that’s what the psalmist was reaching for in Psalm 88 when he wrote “Darkness is my closest friend”.

If you know me, you will realise just how vital I find it to understand what’s going on. I’ve spend decades in ministry endeavouring to understand other people, and the scriptures that underpin my faith. The pursuit of a truthful and balanced assessment of the situation most definitely extends to a rugged determination to understand my own psyche. The trouble is, that the human mind is complex at the best of times without trying to understand what’s going on when the balance of that mind is disturbed. And, right now, mine is. Again.

I’ve talked about darkness and injustice. One of the things I’ve wrestled with over the years is just how unjustly those with mental illness are treated. It is a painful thing to confess, but there have been times when I’ve wished that I’d had a heart attack, or cancer, or something equally recognisable and support-engendering, rather than this covert affliction that far too many people simply don’t know what to do with. To date, it’s cost me two ministries, both of which I loved, and may yet cost me another.

I remember vividly being in a small discussion group while at a conference a few years ago, and hearing a couple in ministry share just how amazing their church had been in supporting them when the husband had suffered congestive heart failure and undergone repeated surgeries. His incapacity had extended well beyond a year, but the church had been “wonderful”. Unbeknown to them, months earlier, Val and I had been forced out of a church we loved because the dear folk there couldn’t cope with my mental illness, and I wasn’t getting better quickly enough for them or the system. Needless to say, I excused myself from the discussion group and managed to get to the loo before having a good sob. Did I begrudge the compassionate treatment my colleague and his wife had received by their church, of course not. Was I grieving for the pastorate I’d lost? Yes. Was I overwhelmed by the injustice of it all? Yes. Was I heartbroken for the devastating impact on the one person in the world I love more than any other. Absolutely yes.

You see, there are times when the darkness is just dark. There’s no upside. There are no silver shafts of light behind the brooding storm clouds. Don’t get me wrong, in my head, I know that there is a flip-side to my illness. I’ve had moments of brilliance throughout my pastorates. In my energised phases, I’ve had the confidence and vision to instigate much-needed change. I’ve seen churches experience significant growth and many people become Christians and be baptised. I’ve been greatly appreciated by the churches in which I’ve served, all of them. That is, until I became unwell.

Right now, I’m tired. I’m five months into this current period of incapacity and I’m not sure how long it will last or where it will end. On previous occasions it’s taken between 15 and 18 months to be fully fit again. What’s happened before is no guarantee for the future, though.

One of my few true friends directed me to Psalm 88, and I can identify with much of it. It was written for “The Director of Music” and, after all, I’ve been one of those. There are certainly some passages that are painfully close to home. In verses 8 and 9, there is a heartfelt cry: “You have taken from me my closest friends and have made me repulsive to them. I am confined and cannot escape; my eyes are dim with grief.” Earlier I mentioned that my condition has cost me two pastorates. More important still, it’s cost me many, many relationships. More than half our family haven’t been able to understand, or cope. That continues to overwhelm me with sorrow. There’s the raw pain of rejection, but there’s also the gnawing injustice of it too. I didn’t ask for this, and I did nothing to bring it about. With the psalmist I have to admit “I am confined and cannot escape”. Some family members are nearing the end of their natural life and I fear there will be no reconciliation before our parting. The damage to other relationships is so deep, it’s hard to see that repair will ever be possible. And all that hurts. It hurts a lot.

Someone once said to me: “at least you’ve got your faith”. I didn’t really know how to respond. The implication was that I should or perhaps, ought, to be able to cope more than most. It’s intriguing that despite the profound isolation and desperation that the psalmist is experiencing, he continues to hold on to his faith. His many afflictions have hounded him all his life, yet he continues to call out to God “day and night”. He seems to acknowledge that his trial has come from the hand of his Creator, and I can identify with that. The apostle Paul spoke of his “thorn in the flesh” (2 Corinthians 12:6–7), and I guess this is mine.

I think it was John Cleese’s character in the film “Clockwise” Brian Stimpson, the harassed headmaster who was desperately fighting all the odds to get to an important conference. Everything was conspiring against him and yet he still determined to battle on. In a moment of brilliant insight he exclaimed to the hapless lass driving him: “It’s not the despair, Laura, it’s the hope”. Sometimes I, too, wonder if life might be easier to cope with without the hope. But that would be to deny everything I believe in and, like the psalmist, I can’t do that. I don’t want to. I may still rant at God about the injustice of it all. I will continue to plead with God for the restoration of the ruptured relationships in my family, despite still believing, incongruously, that I’m responsible for all the problems.

And then there will always be those who insist with Annie that “the sun will come out tomorrow”. We all love a good sunrise. But the loose ends of life don’t always get tied off neatly. Sometimes, the darkness is just dark.