Week 4 – Suffering in Silence

Oh Chaotic Dust,

What you did was twofold: it was to fight and it was to do nothing. When that first intrusive thought entered your head – A meal outside with friends. Sunlight pouring down on the happy smiling faces of Summer gaiety. A snake slithering into an otherwise happy mind. – it was different from other thoughts. Even back then, I think you knew that. There was something off about it: a shade more unnerving, more dangerous, than anything that had floated through your mind before. You didn’t want it there. You didn’t want it at all. So you shook your head.

And shook your head.

And shook your head.

And shook your head.

Not in an obvious way, but quietly, slightly, so that no one would notice.

But the thought wasn’t a snake to be shaken loose. It was a seed. Roots subtly sunk into the fertile ground of your mind and no silent act could shake them loose. You couldn’t say anything to anyone. Normal people don’t have disturbing thoughts. Or, rather, only the kind of people you avoid, pity, abhor have those kinds of images in their heads. So you couldn’t tell anyone because that would be a bad idea; that would end in the asylum or the prison or social exile.

All that was fear: fear that those thoughts meant something about you as a person; fear of what people would do if they found out; fear because if you had allowed yourself to entertain such thoughts for even a moment it would mean you were that kind of person, and that would be a point of no return. You could never unring that bell. You’d heard before that behind every fear is a lie. Up till then you’d believe that to be true. It’s not often that mental illness can be treated by proverbs or inspirational quotes though.

So you turned to one of the religious practices you were brought up to lean on: prayer. At first, a short prayer here and there. Then, before long, it was a prayer every time an intrusive thought popped up. Always, you soon realised, the same:

Jesus is my rock and my redeemer.

Jesus is my rock and my redeemer.

Jesus is my rock and my redeemer.

An internal shake of the head. A reset of the mind.

You’ve often thought about how many times you’ve repeated that phrase, the same way others wonder how many times they’ve turned the light switch off and on, or relocked the front door, or washed their hands. It became food to you, and then water, and then the very air you needed to breathe. A rapid, repeated, anxious heartbeat of your soul. You’ll go on to wonder if you were really praying, or if the words were just a compulsion of your condition. You’ll wonder if they saved you or only made it worse. And, as the intrusive thoughts become ever darker and more frequent, you’ll wonder if God was ever even listening at all.