Unorthodox and Unhinged

Tales of a Manic Christian

Remembering Mork: The Inner Sanctum of Outer Space

Five years ago, Robin Williams, gifted actor and comedian left this world by his own hand. The world was incredulous. How could a person so full of light struggle with such darkness? He was Mork, right? The hysterical alien who took up residence in Mindy’s attic.

We loved this lovable visitor from outer space. Weekly, he traversed the universe to inhabit our TV sets. But it was Mork, the out-of-this-world persona that we knew – not the personal inward workings of Robin Williams.

He died on August 11th of 2014. Three days later I posted this. U&U was just a few months old back then. A few of you may have read it but most not. And so, I am posting this update to honor and to remember this remarkable soul.

You are only given a little spark of madness. You mustn’t lose it.” Robin Williams said.


In 1966 the universe  — namely my universe —  tilted.  Thursday nights at nine o’clock on NBC, I boarded the U.S.S. Enterprise. “Space, the final frontier” called to me.. This was a mission, this little missionary, could barely conceive of – to “explore new worlds, seek new life and new civilizations, and boldly go where no man has gone before.”

Well I was “no man”. I was an awkward eleven year-old, a little Roman Catholic cosmonaut. Star Trek sounded like heaven to me. So in 1966, this little Trekkie was born.

I am a Trekkie still — a closet Trekkie.  I don’t go to conventions or dress up like a Romulan or speak Klingon, but I am still quite an officianado of Star Trek – especially the original Star Trek. I have all 80 episodes on DVD and a commemorative edition that came with a fluffy, purring, pink Tribble. I dorkily have plastic action figures of the crew, including the Captain and his coffee pot. Nothing could clear the room quite so quickly at my house as when I hunkered down to watch the reruns marathon style.

(An extended ritual I go through about once a year! I am especially fond of the episodes where the brazen and brash Captain James T. Kirk quite literally loses his shirt.)

This 1960’s series is still  a great solace to my dorky soul. While the cast and crew battle the unknown forces of the universe, I am comforted by the plethora of “M” class planets. “M” class planets are scattered all across the Milky Way and each one is capable of sustaining human life. I think “M” stands for miracle. Miraculously even the aliens speak English. The 430 crew members may be  “Lost in Space” but they are  never ever really far from home.

Star Trek was light years ahead of its time. Light years ahead of the space operas that came before it. But it is missing something that those quaint and quirky sci-fi series deeply understood. What is it like to truly be a stranger in a strange land?

My Favorite Martian blinked off the air the same year that Star Trek blinked on. Exigius, the exo-anthropologist from Mars crashed his one-man spaceship in Hollywood Hills. Stranded, he was taken in by a newspaper reporter who passes him off as Uncle Martin. (Sitting on the biggest story of his lifetime!)

Weekly Uncle Martin tries to keep his antenna down and and stay undercover. The going gets difficult though — especially when he breaks out in Martian mumps and measles. Things get crazy and confused. The laugh track prompts the television audience exactly when to laugh.  And the audience does as they are told. They laugh in all the right places not just because it is funny but because somewhere inside them it feels kind of true.

“Being a stranger in a strange land” was a sure fire formula for sit-com success. After My Favorite Martian came ALF – the furry Alien Life Form from  Melmac with an appetite for cats. 3rd Rock from the Sun debuted in 1996 with a house full of  extraterrestrials disguised as a college professor, a curvaceous military expert, and a teenager. And of course, there was the hilarious 1970’s series — Mork and Mindy.

Mork, from stardust he came, to stardust he returns.

Mork – the world of course knows – was played by the manically comic and the manically gifted Robin Williams. And on August 11th of 2014, the world was stunned to learn that Mork had died by his own hand. After battling a lifetime of depression and addiction, he succumbed to the darkness.  Mork hung himself quite literally from a metaphorical tree, the frame of his bedroom door. And the whole world wept for the loss of this amazing man who never failed to make us laugh.

So how could this possibly be? He was hilarious. He was happy. He was a comedian beyond compare. He was “Mrs. Doubtfire” and “Patch Adams”. He was our ever-shining star of stage and screen.

But even stars run out of fuel. Even stars implode. Even stars turn dark.

Mork’s mood disorder – likely bipolar disorder  — was the demon that plagued him most of his life. Depression and its companion mania are commonly misunderstood. Happiness and sadness are ordinary human emotions. They ebb and flow with the ups and downs of everyday life and they ebb and flow in  us all.

But different in kind are the moods that manifest themselves in the heights of mania and in the depths of. depression. It’s not about being happy or sad; it’s about the size of your universe. On the up side you are exploring the galaxy with Captain Kirk. On the downside you can barely climb out of your black hole.

Barely is the operative word. While those who live with depression struggle to get out of bed —  they, in fact, regularly do. The effort it takes  to change out of your pajamas can be painstaking. Brushing your teeth can feel like a burden.

And yet — even so — depressed folks get to work on time. Depressed folks work hard and get promoted. Depressed folks run companies. Depressed folks run marathons. And depressed folks also run like crazy to escape their depression. Depressed folks are very good at disguise. Depressed folks are marvelous actors. They have to be.

And this is how a star implodes. Every last little bit of fuel is exhausted. Every energy source is completely depleted – be it physical, spiritual, or emotional. And you are Lost in Space. The universe may be expanding but so does the void within you. You have absolutely nothing left. Today is an unthinkable burden and the thought of tomorrow is unbearable. And you go to bed not wanting to wake up anymore.

You believe yourself a “foreigner and a stranger on earth….looking for a country of your own” (Hebrews 11:13-14) A country not of this world.

People tell you to be patient; that the pain will subside; the crisis will pass. But you do not believe them. How could they possibly know if they haven’t suffered so? You just want it to be over, now and forever more. So in the depths of despair people take their own lives. In the U.S. more than 47,000 people in 2017 died at their own hand. 23,851, virtually half, by firearms.

Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. There is no greater taboo – than suicide — a taboo that sorely needs to be brought out into the open and talked about.

Difficult as it may be, we need  to speak this truth in love. When we believe a loved one, family member, coworker or friend is thinking of hurting themselves  — we need to ask them just that. With compassion and concern: “I am worried about you. I have noticed (whatever you have noticed) and I want to ask if you are you thinking about hurting yourself?

It’s a myth that discussing and naming a loved one’s suicidal thoughts — puts these thoughts into their heads. Not true. Directly asking a person whether they are thinking of suicide can save that person’s life. Mentioning it out loud can be an enormous relief. Mentioning it out loud allows your loved one to name and claim the demons that haunt them.

If your loved one answers yes – or if you believe the answer is yes — then call 911. Stay with them until help arrives. Don’t be afraid to appear foolish or wrong. You cannot diagnose your friend but you can perform first aid, call an ambulance and get them to  professional help. And if you need help finding the words — sign up for Mental Health First Aid.

In ages past, the Church classified  suicide a mortal sin, denied the dead burial in sacred ground, and condemned the sinner to the fires of hell. Christianity was not alone in its error.

Historically in Judaism, suicides were also segregated in cemeteries and the dead buried with lesser rites. Islam views suicide as the gravest of sins and anathema to eternal life. Muhammad says that anyone who throws themself down from the mountain will eternally be falling into the depths of hell. For Hindus, suicide violates the code of “ahisma”, the code of non-violence and one who takes their own life will forever wander the earth as a ghost.

Blessedly for Christians  — and believers of other kinds —  this theology is mostly no more. But old beliefs die a hard death. Its seems virtually beyond belief that anyone could still believe in such a cold-hearted god – a god so devoid of compassion. But people still do. So  —  biblically speaking  — let me speak to the matter of suicide and how God decides the disposition of our souls.

Frederick Buechner writes: Saul may have fallen on his own sword; Judas may have hung himself from a tree. Out of the depths of despair, both may have condemned themselves to hell. But God did not.

God  understands the depth of despair because  God himself has been there. Our God knows what it is like to lose his own life — to be emptied with nothing left to give. God knows what it is like to lay down his life and to lift it up again. That the whole world would taste and see that God is good.  Be they Christian, Jew, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Mormon, Scientologist, Wiccan, Agnostic, Atheist, Romulan, Vulcan, Klingon, Earthling, or none of the above.

We may be lost in this space and in this time, but lost to God — NEVER.

At least, that’s the God I believe in. And It’s the same God I believe that Episcopalian Robin Williams believed in, as well.

From stardust he came. To stardust he returned..  All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia! Alleluia! Nanu! Nanu!


A Response to the Bishop of Georgia’s E-Crozier Post on the Death of Robin Williams from an Openly Bipolar Cleric

bishop's purple mitre

Introduction: After reading the Bishop of Georgia’s E-Crozier post on the death of Robin Williams (printed in its entirety below) I was dumbstruck. As a mental health evangelist I could not help but respond with the following words:
Bishop Benhase,

My name is the Rev. Joani Peacock. I have been 20 years ordained and 10 years bipolar and balanced. I consider myself a “mental health evangelist” and I advocate for mental health education for all. I serve at Emmanuel Russell Rd in Alexandria, VA. I also am on staff at the library at Virginia Seminary. I have sponsored mental health forums on campus and am working with the administration to bring Mental Health First Aid Training on campus in the spring for the VTS community. 20% of all of us live with a mental health issue. 50% of us will in the course of our lives. Mental illness is an organic illness. Untreated mental illness is a deadly disease. We would never blame someone for dying of cancer because our culture considers cancer a “real” disease. Blaming someone who succumbs to the darkness of depression for taking their own life is beyond belief. Your post about Robin William’s death I find deeply disturbing for a Bishop of the Church.

You say that you have compassion for those who live with clinical depression yet it is apparent you actually know very little about the nature of mental illness. You applaud Robin William’s gifts as an entertainer but you fail to understand that his genius was fueled by the manic brilliance of his bipolar disorder. The cost of such brilliance was the depths of depression that led him to take his own life. That you label his act of desperation as “selfish” I find abhorrent. It is also exceedingly irresponsible to send this out to your diocese. Because of entrenched stigma around mental illness in our country, it is exceedingly difficult for people who have a mental health issue to seek help. 60% of those with mental illness never receive any treatment at all. In your post you offered no words of encouragement to your clergy or to parishioners about how to seek help. Instead you chose to label the dying person as selfish. I find this unconscionable. I strongly encourage you to take the time to educate yourself and your diocese. There are excellent resources at<; (The National Alliance on Mental Illness),<; (Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance) and<;.

To eradicate such stereotypes and ignorance in the church I have come out of this particular closet to tell “Tales of a Manic Christian” from the first person point of view. Bipolar disorder is the gift that keeps giving in my family. The tales are often humorous and disarming but they are also exceedingly honest and hopefully enlightening. Hopefully reaching others who have similar stories to tell. So as a “mental health evangelist” I share them with you as well.

I ask you too in the name of the compassionate Christ who set the Gerasene Demoniac free, to take down your post on E-Crozier. And I pray you may reach out in compassion in a future post to those who live with mental illness.


The Rev. Joani Peacock


The Bishop of Georgia’s E-Crozier Post of August 29,2014

Robin Williams, My Friend, & The Selfishness of Suicide (eCrozier #229)
On August 29, 2014,  by bishopbenhase
A lot’s been written already about Robin Williams’ suicide. Here, I’m less concerned with a hagiography of Mr. Williams or any analysis of the all too real problem of clinical depression in our society. Of the former, let me just say that he was a brilliant performer who brought much joy to millions of people, including me. Of the latter, all I can say is that far too many people suffer alone with such soul-deep depression and the disease’s very nature often dissuades people from seeking the help they desperately need.

But I’m more concerned here in the reactions I read from many people after Mr. Williams’ suicide. My hunch is that most people’s reactions were an effort to be kind or maybe helpful or, as Monty Python might sing, they were trying to “always look on the bright side of life.” Their reactions, however, probably masked their own unease with death, and particularly, with suicide. Many of the comments made, however, were at best not helpful, or at worst, theologically problematic. Let me explain.

I heard many comments that basically said something like: “Well, now the pain he endured for so long is lifted and he’s at peace.” I know such statements were an effort by some people to make suicide theologically intelligible, but to a person presently suffering soul-deep depression and hearing such statements, it’s actually an invitation to imitate Mr. Williams’ act. Their thinking could well go: “If so many people think that’s the way he found peace, then maybe that’s the way I can find peace, too.” Like I said, it’s theologically problematic, for suicide doesn’t bring peace to the living.

I had a dear friend who committed suicide four years ago. Like Mr. Williams, he was brilliant. His brilliance, however, was in a different vocation. He was a palliative care physician. The irony of his life was that he could relieve everyone’s pain but his own (like Mr. Williams who brought so many people joy without finding joy himself). My friend knew he had many people who loved him dearly. I don’t know what was going through his mind and soul when he chose suicide. Clearly, he was in emotional and spiritual pain. Maybe he thought his suicide was an act of love and kindness to us who loved him? It was not. His act was neither loving nor was it kind. It was selfish. I know that sounds harsh, but I believe it to be true.

What my friend needed and still needs from me isn’t the cheap grace and absolution of the well-intended “well, I guess he’s at peace now.” No, what he still needs from me is my forgiveness for what he did to himself and to those who loved him. This in no way diminishes the deep pain he suffered or the pain anyone else suffers when they experience soul-deep depression. It’s merely to say that the solution they choose deeply hurts the people who love them. And such hurt, we must know, breaks God’s heart. Yet, with all I know to be true, God’s broken heart is strong enough to envelope the life of Robin Williams and my beloved friend. It’s strong enough for the entire hurting human race. And God’s broken heart is strong enough to hold our grief and anger when those we love take their own lives. After all, God isn’t a stranger to death. We worship the crucified, yet Living God.


The Bishop very kindly responded but retracted nothing of what he said.  So dear friends, I leave it to my readers to decide.

Wednesday, September 3 is #Act4MentalHealth Day sponsored by NAMI. Its a day to donate, educate and advocate for the mentally ill. If you are so moved please write to the Rt. Rev. Scott Anson Benhase at

And here is a bit of good news. An excerpt of E-Crozier was posted on TLC. After receiving my request to take it down, The Living Church has responded with compassion and posted my August 14 piece: “Lost in Space — Maybe, Lost to God — Never.”

The church of all places should be a haven of healing and hope. Let’s pray that it be so.



Stigma, The Stuff That’s Stuck to the Bottom of Your Shoe

Bipolar, Black & Whites

Bipolar, Black & Whites

I remember mornings walking to Holy Family School. I remember them quite fondly and quite well. The sun shining like a bright copper penny. My homework all tucked away in my book bag. My lunch packed, bologna sandwich and all. God was in his heaven and all was right in my parochial school world. I usually walked to school with a sibling or two and kids from the neighborhood. And sometimes we actually skipped. Remember skipping? Rounding the corner on 23rd Parkway to climb that last hill, my little grade school heart almost skipped a beat. Soon I would be at my desk waiting for the bell to ring, my pencils sharpened and ready to crack open my spelling book. Until….

I stepped in something squishy and slippery and odiferous. Sh*t — yes literally sh*t. Dog stuff was stuck to the bottom of my saddle shoe. “Phew! That stinks!”, my so-called friends said. Solo I sat down on the curb, took off my smelly shoe and scraped off as much as I could in the grass. Then with a stick I  tried to get as much of the crap out of the crevices that I could. But little bits of that smelly, sh*tty, crappy stuff was still stuck to the bottom of my saddle shoe. So what to do? Walk around with one shoe? Run home and grab another pair? God forbid! Goody two-shoes me (yes, pun intended) wasn’t going to risk getting demerits for being tardy or “out of uniform.” This kind of sh*t happens all the time, I said to myself and off to school I went. (Pardon my language, but “sh*t” is a word I learned quite early from my parents!)

While reciting the Pledge of Allegiance and praying our morning prayers,  I was sniffed out by Sister Inez Patricia. “Joan Louise Peacock, what is that smell I smell? Good Lord, you stepped in dog stuff didn’t you? Out of my classroom, young lady. Clean out your desk and go sit in the corridor.”

Stigmatized by the stuff stuck to the bottom my shoe.

I do not like the word stigma. I really do not like it at all. But it is a word that is thoroughly and fixedly stuck to those of us who live with mental illness. It as thoroughly and fixedly stuck as the sh*t that was stuck to the bottom of my shoe. And just as surely as the mentally ill are stigmatized  — they are just as surely marginalized. Stigmatism is born of ignorance. It is born of unfounded fear. Stigmatism is born of downright stupidity. Culturally this is so. Ecclesiastically it is so.

The church is very big on pity and pastoral platitudes. The church preaches compassion but more often it practices condescension. While Jesus surrounded himself with folks both sick in body and mind; the church prefers to minister to the former and ignore the latter. Strong words I know but I know it is so. I know it is so because I know it firsthand, up close and personal. Let me count the ways.

Once upon a time at a church eons ago and in a galaxy far, far away, as I was crashing and burning and coming apart at the seams (but still doing every service and preaching every sermon and going to every meeting and even singing in my own choir) I was paid a visit. Two supposedly pastoral parishioners of power and might came to my office and diagnosed me. “Joani, you are not right. Something is wrong with you. 40% of the congregation doesn’t like you. You are not spiritual enough. You don’t make us feel holy. We don’t feel God up there when you are up there at the altar.” When they were finished I was silent. And when they had left I got up and closed my door. Then I laid my head down on my desk and cried and cried. I cried myself all the way to Dominion Hospital. But at that point I was just as ignorant as they were about what was happening to me — all of us stumbling around in our stupidity. But there was really just about nothing worse they could have come up with to call this priest when she was down. Not spiritual. Not holy. A pretty low blow. About as low as it could go.

My next parish on this planet was the polar opposite – pun intended. I went in with full disclosure of all things related to my bipolar brain. I was honest about all the things in ministry I could do and the few things I could not. Bipolar folks need to get to bed on time. Too many late nights and we break out in mania. Bipolar folks need regular hours and a steady pace. Crazy schedules make our clocks speed way too fast or way too slow. Neither is good.  Having heard all this these heavenly people understood.  The parish powers-that-be hired me on the spot. Welcomed aboard by these enlightened folks, I had a place to be a productive priest, pastor and teacher again. Sailing from Sunday to Sunday  was not always smooth sailing. But as part of this supportive crew, I was sailing full steam ahead.

Until a new captain came aboard. You see I was not quite the deckhand he had hoped for. So under the guise of “prayerful discernment” he used my diagnosis to slowly throw me overboard. Knowing I needed to work 9 to 5, he told me any priest worth their salt worked 50 or 60 hours a week. He watched my every coming and going and chronicled my every hour as if somehow being bipolar made me less responsible or less trustworthy or maybe even unsafe. He inappropriately and quite illegally wanted access to my medical records and a weekly conversation with my therapist. He doubled my responsibilities and cut my hours virtually in half — cutting my salary virtually in half as well. He feigned compassion for me and pigeonholed this priest into his bipolar box — of his own ignorant construction. It was a convenient way for him to show me the door. Needless to say, after this painful six-month job interview, I “prayerfully discerned” my happiness and health lay elsewhere. No more stigma, thank you,  stuck to the bottom of  my shoes.

Being in a supposedly compassionate profession you would hope that clergy would know better. Or at least take the time to learn a little something — so that they can know better. But sadly for the most part this often is not so even for those higher up the ecclesiastical ladder.

One Sunday morning while escorting an esteemed visiting cleric around the church, I was virtually patted on the head like a small child when he found out I was bipolar. Standing in front of him as a fully articulate and highly functioning parish priest, he talked to me as if I were a homeless person. “O my, my”, he said, his voice crackling with pity, “I am so sorry. Are you managing okay? How are your meds? I hope you have a good psychiatrist?” Stigmatized and stereotyped — in  stained glass style. Stained glass or not  — it’s still the same stuff stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

Here seminary education has a very important pastoral and educational role to play – but this is a role seminaries sometimes sadly play badly. In my own three-year tour of duty, two decades ago, I was required to do a summer of CPE – Clinical Pastoral Education. I did mine at a community hospital – at Sibley Hospital – and most of my classmates did much the same. Only the bravest of the brave did theirs at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital, the historic hospital for the insane. I had to take a few pastoral care classes  of course.  They were mostly on things like marriage prep, ministering with the elderly, death and dying.  Difficult stuff for sure but nothing at all about mental health – in a hospital, a parish or otherwise. Nothing at all. And currently at my seminary there is still no required mental health course for pastors in the making.

I believe this has to change. That is why I tell these stories – true stories. These Tales of a Manic Christian are not stock sermon illustrations with stick figures. Unorthodox and Unhinged is about real people  and hopefully  making a real difference. And even though I know that you likely can read between the lines of this little blog, the only way I know how to truly make a difference is to tell the truth. The God’s honest truth.

So my friends — especially my clergy friends — write these words down and embroider them on your hearts.

What goes wrong with our brains is just as “normal” as what goes wrong with our hearts. Mental illness is physical illness. If you have a brain in your head this is as much about you as it is about me. 20% of the US population at any one time is dealing with a mental health issue. 50% of that same population (that means all of us) will deal with a mental health issue in our lifetimes. That represents more of us  than those of us who will have cancer and heart disease combined.

Being bipolar does not make me any less responsible, or less trustworthy, or less safe or less intelligent than folks who count themselves as normal. I am no more likely to be violent than you are. Yes, mall shooters and serial killers are greatly disturbed. No doubt about it. But it is a scientific fact that I am no more likely to gun you down than anyone else. And tragically when the mentally ill do become violent and get a hold of a gun, they are more likely to take that violence out on themselves. Untreated mental illness
is a deadly disease.

Unorthodox and Unhinged is my weekly mental health manifesto. And I have coined a title for myself – which I hope will catch on – “mental health evangelist”. I am happy to say that things at the seminary I graduated from and now work at – are beginning to change. Hopefully with the administration’s support, Mental Health First Aid Training will be offered on campus. And at the diocesan level —  using the backdoor of a certain esteemed cleric’s Facebook page — I am now in conversation with my diocese’s Mental Health Committee.  Maybe my little cyber-pulpit will find a home on their homepage.  Maybe I’ll get to preach a few sermons or lead a few forums  at a parish or two. My mental health mission is plain: I intend to  subversively subvert the stigmatic status quo wherever I go. Talking to anybody and everybody who will listen.

My theology here is deeply incarnational. In the 1950’s when white people first got to know real black people, stereotypes began to crumble. In the 1980’s when you first found out your little brother or your best friend was gay, stereotypes began to fall away. And now I pray —  in 2014 — when you get to know bipolar people like me, ignorance might finally begin to give way to understanding. This of course is certainly easier said than done. Because of ignorance and stupidity, it is terribly scary for people like me to come out of this particular closet. But come out of the closet we eventually must. It’s more than time to scrape away all that sh*tty and crappy stuff off  these bipolar shoes — that sh*tty and crappy stuff called stigma.

So friends, can I get an Amen?

Pax vobiscum,



Chatty Cathy or “Speaking the Truth in Love”

"Chatty Cathy! Just pull the string!"

“Chatty Cathy! Just pull the string!”

I am good with words. I make my living with words. I use words to proclaim the gospel and words to teach the faith. As a pastor, I use words to soothe fevered spirits. As a prophet, I use words to speak the truth. I am not a theologian and don’t want to be. I am a storyteller. You will never hear me analyze a Greek word from the pulpit. All my words will be in English. And I promise you will not have to look any of them up in the dictionary.

I love the sound of words. I am fond of alliteration and internal rhyme. I am partial to the active voice. I try to be passive as little as possible. I believe in sentences that are not too long and phrases with an unusual turn of phrase. I love the rhythm of words, sometimes syncopated, sometimes legato. I love the natural pauses, the silence between words. I am unorthodox in my punctuation and quite fond of ellipses and dashes. I confuse commas and semicolons. But I do try to restrain myself when it comes to exclamation points.

I once had a coffee mug that said “Linger over language”. I am not exactly sure what that means but I love the sound of it. I should have been born in a coffee house so addicted am I to the stuff. And conversing over coffee is my major sport. I have no athletic skills to speak of. But I am gifted — gifted with the gift of gab.

A gift I got from my mother.

My mother could talk on the telephone from dawn ‘til dusk. My mother could and would talk to anybody about anything. And I do mean anybody and I do mean anything. Standing in line at the grocery store my mother would go on and on about how we were doing at school. Taking care of business at the bank, my mother would complain about her mother-in-law. Even sitting in the dentist chair my mother would manage to mumble some embarrassing anecdote. It was endearing, amusing and mortifying all at the same time. And I swore that when I grew up I would never mortify my children the way my mom had mortified me.

Unfortunately the bipolar brain is often blissfully unaware of itself. Combine a touch of manic brilliance, a couple of double shot lattes and the gift of gab and what do you get? You get one crazy and highly disconnected and sometimes disconcerting conversation. It’s called “pressured speech”. I thought I was immune. I was wrong.

Not too long ago at Bittersweet, a little café on King Street, I joined my daughter and her friends for coffee. It is really quite wonderful when your adult children still want to hang out with you. I was ecstatic to see my second child and her girlfriends whom I had known since they were in middle school. And blessing upon blessing, I had presided at their weddings. Wow! So much to talk about!

So I did. I talked and talked. I felt totally tuned in to what was going on around me. I felt powerful connections to these young women’s lives. I was delighted by all they had to say and was quick to share all my amazing insights. Flying from one topic to another, I thought I was dazzling. After stopping off at Ten Thousand Villages and spending too much money, I went home happy as a clam.

But my daughter was mortified. Later she told me how embarrassed she was. She told me I wasn’t listening. She told me that I wasn’t paying attention to what was going on. She said I rudely interrupted and talked over her friends. My daughter was mortified. And I was mortified, her mom who swore that this would never happen.

So I had to find words, healing words to make things better. So my daughter and I went out to dinner and we had a conversation. I told her I was sorry for any embarrassment I had caused. But more than that I wanted her to understand the fallout of being bipolar. When your leg breaks, you get a cast and crutches. When your ears can’t hear, you get a hearing aid. When your blood pressure is too high, you get red in the face and take some pills. And everybody understands and no one is embarrassed.

But when your brain is broken, sadly this is not so. When your brain is broken, you don’t limp or bleed or have bruises. When your brain is broken, it comes out in your behavior, it comes out in your thoughts, it comes out in your moods. Sometimes you’re a Chatty Cathy, talking a blue streak and spouting nonsense. Brilliant nonsense, but nonsense nonetheless.

So instead let us “speak the truth in love”. This little phrase, from Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, is one of my favorite snippets of scripture. And it applies in mental health matters both big and small. “Speaking the truth in love” can be as simple as asking my daughter to tap me on the shoulder next time she thinks my gift of gab is getting out of hand. But when it comes to the big things, speaking the truth can tie your tongue into knots.

Mental health is both incredibly crucial and incredibly complicated. The clueless need to be educated. The callous need to be enlightened. The God’s honest truth is that the stuff that goes wrong with our brains is just as normal as the stuff that goes wrong with our hearts.

But to “speak this truth in love” we will have to speak some uncomfortable words. Sometimes very uncomfortable words indeed. When concerned about a friend, colleague or loved one, we need to have the chutzpah to be both direct and honest. And I mean as direct and honest as possible. Pull no punches. Placating and playing along is neither pastoral nor helpful. Tell the truth in love,  so that your loved one can truly get the help they need. Need help finding the words?  Check out NAMI.ORG or DBSA.ORG or sign up for Mental Health First Aid Training. (Yes! that is a real thing.)

It is more than time for the truth about mental illness to be told. Never again should it be a dirty little secret to be swept under the rug. It is more than time for all those tired old stereotypes to die. It’s 2014 for God’s sake.

Chatty Cathy or not, it’s time to speak the truth in love.

So friends, can you help me find the words?

Pax vobiscum,