Six months after I gave birth to my second child, in 1983, I had a frightening episode. I had driven to our small town’s airport to pick up my husband, Jim, who was returning from a business trip. I love watching planes take off and land, so I parked outside the airport near the runway and waited for his plane to arrive. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by the belief that his plane would crash and explode in a ball of fire. I drove away from the airport in panic. When I finally summoned the courage to return to the airport, I found that his plane had landed safely.
Over the next few days, I became more agitated. I began to talk rapidly and nonstop. I thought I was being poisoned and that enemy bombers would destroy our town. As I became more upset, Jim and I finally went to our bishop, who referred us to an LDS therapist. The therapist assigned me exercises to understand my distorted thinking patterns and extreme emotional reactions, using vivid imagery to illustrate his points.
But I had been badly shaken spiritually. I have always believed the Holy Ghost gives inspiration to the heart and mind, but what if my brain was broken? During the episode, I believed I was seeing the future: Jim’s plane crashing and enemy bombers attacking our town. Only afterward did I recognize the thoughts as completely delusional. For years I struggled with the fear that my mind and spirit were severely defective, but my life moved on; I was a busy wife and mother and active in my ward and community. But the question remained: How could I receive inspiration with a broken brain?
Twelve years after that episode, I started waking up spontaneously at five o’clock in the morning. Jim and our six children were still asleep, so I would go quietly to my desk and read scriptures. I was excited at this new energy. Before long I was waking up at 4:30 a.m., then 4:00, then 3:30. Even if I had only been asleep for four hours, I woke feeling refreshed and energized. This seemed like a great blessing: I was able to be consistent in reading my scriptures and praying; I could “cease to sleep longer than is needful [and] arise early, that [my body] and [my mind] [might] be invigorated” (D&C 88:124). I was finally reaching these spiritual goals that I had had for years.
But after several days, Jim noticed that my behavior was becoming erratic again. I was talking rapidly and nonstop and couldn’t focus. I was paranoid and terrified, convinced that evil men were trying to kidnap my daughter. My behavior became so troubling that Jim didn’t trust me around the children. He called our bishop who asked some ward members to drive me to the emergency department of a nearby hospital. On the highway, I felt my friends weren’t comprehending the grave danger to my daughter, so I unbuckled my seatbelt and tried to jump out of the car to get their attention. My friend calmly buckled my seatbelt and assured me I didn’t need to leave the car. Fortunately, I acquiesced.
In the emergency department, I noticed a policeman leaning against the nurses’ station counter. I now realize he was there in case I became violent. At the time I was convinced that everyone in my exam room was going to be translated to heaven and actually see Heavenly Father face to face. There was a privacy curtain around my exam table. Occasionally someone would pull the curtain closed and I couldn’t see the policeman outside the room. “Oh, that’s too bad, that nice policeman won’t see God tonight,” I thought. Then someone would open the curtain. “Great. The policeman will get to go with us to heaven.”
I thought I had never been more lucid; I felt strongly that I was spiritually in tune in a way I had never been before. I completely expected to go to heaven that evening, but again, I was delusional.
Later, I was transferred to a locked psychiatric unit, put in leather restraints, and given an injection of a powerful anti-psychotic. Then I slept for about eighteen hours. I awoke emotionally and spiritually shattered. Once again, what I thought was inspiration had been delusion.
A psychiatrist diagnosed me with manic depression, also known as bipolar disorder. He prescribed lithium to stabilize my mood, and I began working with a therapist to learn how to recognize distorted thoughts and sort through my emotions. Later, I became depressed, as typically happens after a manic episode, and I was prescribed an antidepressant.
It would take me years to understand what this diagnosis really meant. My bipolar disorder strikes at my very core as a person. Integrity, reliability, compassion, and dignity disappear during an acute episode of either mania or depression.
When I’m depressed, I often don’t have the energy or hope to get out of bed and push forward into the new day. My thought processes are slowed down; I have great difficulty concentrating, remembering simple things, and making decisions. Normally enjoyable activities lose all appeal, and feelings of emptiness take over. The emotional pain is as debilitating as physical pain, and I blame myself, which increases my self-doubt and self-loathing and worsens the depression.
In mania, my overconfidence and grandiosity prevail. Along with the rapid, uncontrollable speech and much less need for sleep, I start multiple, overly ambitious projects. My relationship with my husband is strained by my impulsive actions. Only after the episode do I recognize that my thoughts were wildly distorted, and that I have taken great risks, committed to impossible projects, and damaged treasured relationships, engendering mistrust and doubt.
Immediately after my hospital stay in 1995, I was released as Primary president in our ward. This was very painful because Church service had been an important part of my identity, ever since I joined the Church at age nineteen. I knew it was a wise decision by my bishop, but I felt spiritually defective. Slowly, with continued counseling, medication, and hard work, I regained enough emotional and spiritual strength to press forward.
I never considered abandoning my faith. I might not be able to recognize true spiritual feelings, but I trusted that others could. I did all in my power to serve God, be worthy and faithful. I placed a high priority on living the gospel daily and on attending sacrament meeting every Sunday, even when travelling. I kept a fairly strict Sabbath, avoiding shopping and recreation and even novel-reading and videos. I fasted once a month even though my psychiatrist warned against the practice while taking lithium. I faithfully accepted every calling I was given. I diligently attended all sessions of general conference every six months.
Despite these efforts, I still worried about future relapses and their potential effect on both my spirituality and everyday life. I was dismayed, for example, when a friend from my bipolar support group called me. He was in a locked unit of a psychiatric hospital and wanted my help to escape. If he could lose his sanity, perhaps I might lose mine again. That was frightening.
It took a long time to recover my self-confidence. Even now, years after my episodes, I am perplexed by the delusions I experienced. It is painful to know that I was a danger to my children and confusing to realize that my disordered thoughts can masquerade as spiritual feelings. For many years, I fasted and prayed monthly, desperate for better spiritual discernment and a stronger witness to my soul of the truth of the gospel. Looking back, I now realize that what I wanted was an indisputable sign. I never received one. But subconsciously, I was afraid of anything so dramatic. After all, what I thought was a spiritual epiphany in the emergency department, when I was certain I was about to be translated to heaven, was actually a delusion.
Over many years, I have come to realize that as long as I take my prescribed medication and get enough sleep, I can be confident that I am of sound mind and can receive real inspiration. My inspirations are small and everyday. When I have a decision to make, I say a quick prayer and follow my feelings. If it’s a big decision, I ponder it over time and discuss it with family members and friends. It’s usually not dramatic.
One Tuesday evening, as I was about to get ready for bed, a fellow temple worker texted me that she needed a substitute to work in the baptistry next morning. My initial reaction was that I was too busy to help. I had just spent six hours in the temple that day substituting for another friend. But that initial reaction made me uneasy. I felt a pull that I should help this friend. So, I prayed about my situation while I brushed my teeth. I looked at my calendar and realized I could easily rearrange my schedule. My prayer, “Heavenly Father, should I take this shift?” was answered by a calm feeling. Nothing grand, nothing expansive, but simply calm. Taking this as an answer, I texted her back that I would go to the temple to help out. The next morning the temple was busier than usual, and I felt deep gratitude to have served my friend as well as the baptistry patrons. This is one illustration of how, with time, I have become content with quiet intimations and inspiration.
One Monday morning, I began my weekly laundry and the kitchen clean-up after a supper party the night before. As is my wont, I reached for my phone to listen to something while I puttered and cleaned. Stephen Fry’s excellent audiobook, Mythos, was on my mind. However, I’d been neglecting my daily practice of listening to general conference talks. I turned to Russell M. Nelson’s October 2015 talk, “A Plea to My Sisters,” and let the app run through talks from that session of conference until I came to Henry B. Eyring’s “The Holy Ghost as Your Companion.” I met President Eyring briefly at Clayton Christensen’s funeral viewing in January 2020. I’ve never interacted with a more Christlike person. He radiated love and made me feel like there was nothing in the world more important to him than talking with me. He grew up in New Jersey, as did I, so I feel a kinship with him on that count. That personal connection helps me feel the Spirit through his talks. In this talk, he maintains that we can have the constant influence of the Holy Ghost in our daily lives.
Simple as that insight is, I was struck by its truth that Monday morning. My spiritual understanding was reinvigorated. I realized anew that for over forty years I have been wracked with self-doubt about my ability to discern revelation, and I have been discounting little divine encounters. In my desire for dramatic spiritual experiences and the ability to know which were true and which were delusions, I overlooked the countless daily instances of the divine all around me. The choice I made that very morning, to choose general conference over Stephen Fry, was directed by the Spirit. I received a prompting, no less true for its simplicity, and was strengthened spiritually because of it. Merely recalling this instance fills me with a calm and peaceful feeling that is my frequent experience with the Holy Ghost. It’s not dramatic; it’s easily missed. But after forty-nine years, it is familiar and unmistakable when I’m paying attention.
Mary Hazen Johnston is a writer, reader, and mother of six millennial children. She is currently finishing a memoir on her experience with bipolar disorder.
Art by Laura Knight (1877–1970).
