“We accept that the body can fall ill, yet when the mind suffers, we call it weakness instead of sickness. But the One who formed flesh also formed thought… and He knows the pain of both.”
Having a sick brain is a terrible thing. Being sick in any way is, but when the illness touches the mind, the pain cuts twice. The body’s wounds invite care, whereas the mind’s wounds invite questions. In much of the religious world, mental suffering is still misunderstood. If it’s not labeled as a lack of faith, it’s quietly ignored, hidden beneath patronizing smiles or/and gentle rebukes. Those who ache in silence are told to “pray harder,” as if devotion could replace healing, or shame could produce deliverance (I’m not saying anyone in my life did this to me- it’s just a general observance that I believe other people have experienced in faith communities).
Yet the brain, too, is flesh- part of the same dust that the Creator breathed life into. To deny its weakness is to deny the truth of our humanity. And with that in mind (pun intended), my hope with this post is to pull the veil back on what has long been treated as invisible: the silent epidemic of mental illness within communities of faith. It is not unbelief to be unwell mentally. It is not faithlessness to seek professional help. The Healer of hearts cares for the mind just as much as the body, and it is time we understand this on a deeper level.
“Just open the window and jump.”
That was the thought that burst into my mind as I sat at my desk on a Tuesday afternoon, nine stories above the city. It was sharp. Vivid. Surreal. In the summertime, we’re allowed to open the office windows to let the breeze in, a small gift of freedom in the workday and on most days, the air feels refreshing. But not this day. On this day, my mind twisted that simple act into something dangerous. Blood rushed into my chest and hands. My vision blurred. I felt myself slipping, as though reality itself were tilting. Fear clawed its way through my mind and sank deep into my gut.
Was I tempted? No. But in that moment, when the thought crashed through my mind like an uninvited guest, I knew I was in danger. I needed help. Desperately. The thought felt foreign, as if it didn’t belong to me, yet there it was, loud and insistent. I didn’t know if it would fade or if it was the beginning of something darker. The fear was rooted in a single focus: could this ideation grow stronger? Could it take root? Could it one day convince me that the only way to end the pain was to end my life?
How could this be? How could I, or how did I, go from a joyful, content, and satisfied with life person to the despondent, confused and suicidal woman that I became? Maybe we should all be asking: what has to happen (if anything) to a person whereupon they end up in this kind of state? Could it be that this is where a story truly begins- not necessarily in the happiness that gets lost, but in the emptiness that demands to be understood? I’m not sure, but I think Yahweh does not always meet us in our triumphs; I think (or, I know) that He often waits in the ruins, where every false comfort has crumbled and His mercy becomes the ground beneath our feet. And oh my, did I need His mercy.
It all began with a party.
Or did it?
As I sit here at my keyboard, gathering my thoughts and preparing to tell this story, I realize something most of us eventually come to understand and that is when life begins to unravel, it’s rarely because of a single thread. It’s usually a tangle of moments, decisions, wounds, and unseen pressures that build until something finally gives way.
A downward spiral doesn’t announce itself; it creeps in quietly, one piece at a time.
Yet even knowing that, I can’t escape the sense that Yahweh allowed me to walk through this valley for a purpose. He could have stopped it, sure. He could have spared me the anguish, absolutely. But instead, He let me see what it means to be utterly dependent upon Him. He let me see the dark truths about my life that were in many ways hurting me. Hindering me. Burdening me. And so, my prayer, as I tell this truth in all its pain and redemption, is that He would be glorified. And within that glorification, someone out there, lost in their own silent suffering, might find hope knowing they are not alone.
My husband threw me a surprise birthday party celebration. And it was truly a celebration! I turned 50, woo hoo! My brother and mother (both from out of state) were there, by bestest friend was there, my loved ones, my children. My precious grandbaby. It was wonderful! Cake, presents, food… and alcohol.
I had been trying to cut back on alcohol for a while, convinced that I was dealing with an ulcer. Every so often, this so-called “ulcer” would make itself known- a sharp, localized pain deep in the back of my stomach. If I drank anything too acidic, indulged in something heavy with tomatoes, or simply drank too much, that familiar pain would flare up again.
Twenty years ago, it was hardly a concern. An occasional discomfort that a little Pepto or a couple of Tums could easily calm before I carried on with life. Ten years ago, it became more than a minor nuisance and I had to (sadly) start watching what I ate, what I drank, and even what I allowed myself to stress over. Still, Pepto or Tums usually did the trick, and I’d move on.
But five years ago, it began to change. “Being careful” no longer felt like enough. The pain came more often, and I found myself having to seriously consider a stomach scope just to see what was going on. In the meantime, I discovered that raw cabbage juice helped when the symptoms flared. It soothed the pain and gave me the illusion that everything was fine again. And for a while, I believed it was.
No scope needed here!
The truth was, I was terrified of having an upper endoscopy. TERR-I-FIED. The very thought of it sent me into a panic. I was willing to do just about anything to avoid it… anything, that is, except give up the very habits that were probably making things worse. I know how ridiculous this all sounds now.
As I sit here reflecting, I can’t help but wonder how much I fooled myself during those years. My husband never thought I drank that much, and maybe to most people it wouldn’t have seemed excessive. But deep down, I knew better. There were weeks (maybe even months) when I drank every single day. Usually just a beer or two, sometimes a glass of wine. I never got blitzed, never lost control, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t too much. What looks moderate on the outside can still be dangerous on the inside. And now, looking back, I can see it so clearly- the proof was in the pudding, and I was the one tasting it.
But this story isn’t about alcohol.
Not really. Sure, it’s a factor, but it’s about something much deeper- spiritual warfare, Yahweh’s chastisement, stress, transition, grief, loss, and the quiet reckoning that comes with aging and facing mortality.
To be honest, turning fifty didn’t frighten me. At least, not consciously. I’d been “aging myself” for years, always telling people I was older than I actually was… usually by mistake, but maybe not entirely. I think, deep down, I had always felt older. There was a weariness in me that had nothing to do with birthdays. So, when fifty finally came, I didn’t flinch. It didn’t bother me at all.
Or so I thought.
After the party that day, my stomach, and my life, began to unravel. By the end of that first week, when no amount of cabbage juice or aloe vera could calm the pain, I knew something was seriously wrong. But what I didn’t realize then was that the worst part of the spiral hadn’t even begun.
The domino effect kicked off with the alcohol (and other things that we will get into later). However, the next domino to fall was when I made a decision that, at the time, felt wise and necessary, to completely change my diet. I thought I was taking control, doing the right thing for my health. I had no idea that this choice would set off a chain of events that would carry me into places I never imagined I’d go… physically, mentally, and spiritually.
Plant-based.
No dairy, no meat, very little fat (probably none at all, actually). I indulged in fruits, vegetables, beans, quinoa along with a very generous helping of stupidity on the side. I ate plant burgers, soy chicken nuggets, lots of rice, bananas, mangos and smoothies. In the beginning, I felt like it really helped despite the warnings I was hearing on social media and from my friends. They all kept saying,
“Be careful…”
“Be careful…”
“Be careful…”
It’s amazing how curiosity can take us down unexpected paths. I had been watching various YouTube videos and documentaries about plant-based eating, and one in particular really grabbed my attention. By the time I was halfway through it, I felt completely convinced, certain that this was the right direction for me. So, I dove in wholeheartedly. Looking back, this was not a wise move (but Yahweh had a plan). And over time, where at one point I felt like I was getting better, I hit a wall and started to not get better.
It stopped working.
And I was greatly discouraged. Why? Because in the back of my mind, I knew that I couldn’t avoid the upper endoscopy forever. And this unavoidable reality that I couldn’t escape wreaked tremendous stress on my now, at this point, poorly nourished body. So, what was the answer?
Meds!
Side note: I would later learn that the plant-based diet I had turned to for healing was not the gentle cure I imagined it to be (although it can work for some people, it did not work for me due to lack of education, mentorship and experience). On paper, it sounded ideal, clean, natural, compassionate. But in reality, it began to strip my body of what it desperately needed. Without realizing it, I was cutting out vital nutrients that my system depended on like vitamin B12, iron, zinc, calcium, and the essential fatty acids that keep the brain and hormones balanced. What started as an effort to calm my stomach slowly became a starvation of the very things that held me together. I thought I was feeding myself life, but I was actually feeding my depletion.
What made matters worse was the silent buildup of something I had never heard of before: oxalates. So many of the “healthiest” foods I was eating: spinach, almonds, beets, sweet potatoes, even dark chocolate, were packed with these tiny compounds that the body struggles to process in large amounts. Over time, oxalates can bind to calcium and other minerals, forming sharp crystals that lodge in tissues and organs. The result can be joint pain, kidney stones, muscle aches, fatigue, and a general sense that the body is inflamed and confused. I didn’t know it then, but my attempt to heal was slowly turning into another kind of sickness.
And that led me into the deeper spiral of turning to PPI’s to help heal my issues under the “guidance” of my doctor and gastroenterologist. But did I stop eating plant-based first? No, not yet. I was still going strong there. So if a plant-based diet was the gasoline, the Omeprazole was a lit match.
I had a prescription of Omeprazole from January of this year that I took for a week without any repercussions. At that time, I was again, just trying to avoid the scope, stop the pain in my stomach and move on with life. At that time, it did get me through. I had a referral to a Gastroenterologist, the prescription for the PPI and away I went. BUT, from January to August I had not stopped drinking.
By early September, nearly a month since the party (where I actually did stop drinking), I decided to go back on the medication and do an eight-day stint of Omeprazole. Picture this: a strict plant-based diet, eight days of acid-suppressing medication, and symptoms that only grew worse. The pain began creeping into my back after meals, deep and burning, settling between my shoulder blades. Anxiety followed close behind. There was a strange, tightening sensation around my waist, like a belt being drawn too snug. Pain flaring under my ribs. Sleep became restless. My motivation faded. And a quiet dread began to rise… the sinking realization that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t going to be able to fix myself enough to avoid that scope after all.
I finally made the call to the gastroenterologist and booked an appointment. Long story short, there wasn’t much they could do without the scope, and since I was still determined to avoid that at all costs, the solution was simple: double the dose of Omeprazole.
That was it. No tests. No deeper look into what might actually be going on. No questions about my diet, stress levels, or mental state. Just a higher dose and a polite nod toward the door. What struck me most, looking back, was the complete lack of concern for the whole picture: the person sitting in front of them. No mention of how PPI use has been linked to anxiety and depression, no acknowledgment that the mind and gut are intertwined. No asking what I was exactly putting into my stomach on a daily basis. It felt like a patch on a leak that was coming from somewhere far deeper.
By mid-September, I was feeling an odd discomfort on the left side of my jaw and down into my shoulder blade. It didn’t make sense, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was seriously wrong. Then, one Monday morning, I woke up nauseated, weak, and mentally drained, yet still pushing through the fog, trying to function despite the fear. Finally, I gave in and called my doctor. After describing my symptoms, this was the response:
Go to the emergency room. Now.
And I went.
Thankfully, it wasn’t my heart. They ran every test, hooked me up to monitors, drew blood, watched the screens, and after six long hours of waiting under fluorescent lights, they finally came back with the words I both hoped for and dreaded: Everything looks normal. I was relieved, of course, but also confused. How could everything look normal when everything inside me felt so wrong? They told me to follow up with my doctor (standard protocol) and then sent me home.
I did follow up. But by then, the nausea had taken over my days. It was relentless, hovering in the background from the moment I opened my eyes (I was prescribed another pill for this) and into most of the day. My appetite vanished entirely, as if a switch had been flipped in my brain. Every smell… food, perfume, even the faintest hint of coffee, sent waves of sickness rolling through me. The sound of someone cooking, the sight of a meal, even scrolling past food photos made my stomach twist. It was as though my body had turned against one of its most basic instincts, to eat, to live.
But strangely, it wasn’t the nausea that broke me. It was the emptiness that came with the loss of appetite (still eating plant-based by the way!). When that disappeared, something else crept in to take its place. The depression wasn’t abstract or emotional- it was physical. Heavy. Visceral. Palpable. I could feel it in my bones, pressing against my chest like a weight I couldn’t lift. It wasn’t just sadness (even though that was a big part); it was the sense that my body, mind, and spirit had all stopped speaking the same language. Within one week, I was back in the emergency room.
…for suicidal ideation.
I called the doctor crying. I needed help.
This thought was pregnant in my mind: if only I could sleep. If only I could become unconscious to ease this suffering. If only I could just take some sleeping pills and have a break from this pain, this anxiety, this fear of the unknown that was happening in my body.
What I failed to mention earlier was that I had actually scheduled the appointment for the scope. Yes, the desperation I was feeling overrode any and all fear. But guess what- it was going to take two months for it to happen. So, by the time I sat in front of my doctor again, tears streaming down my face, I had no idea how I was going to make it that long. The waiting felt unbearable. Where I had once been terrified of the procedure (I’d never even been under anesthesia before) I now would have done it anywhere, by anyone, if it meant relief. I would’ve let them scope me in a back alley if it would’ve stopped the pain. That’s how unhinged I was becoming.
As I sat in that sterile office, I tried to explain everything as best I could through the tears. My stomach was still in shambles, burning, aching, clawing from the inside out. It felt hollow and raw, like something vital had been scraped away. The pain radiated through my midsection and into my back, sometimes sharp, sometimes dull, but always there (this was soooo much worse than the week after the party). I was nauseated constantly. If I didn’t eat, the discomfort gnawed at me. If I did eat, it punished me. There was no escape, no middle ground.
And when I finished pouring out everything- every symptom, every fear, every ounce of desperation, his answer?
Add another dose of Omeprazole in the middle of the day.
A. third. dose. (I would later learn that 60mg a day is a tumor-level dose)
He wanted to throw more medication at it; I just wanted sleep. That was all I could think about: sleep. The kind of rest that shuts your mind off for a while, even if only for a few hours. So, I told him about the thought I’d had about sleeping pills (a thought (and a place) I never imagined I could visit, let alone linger in)… and the words felt foreign coming out of my mouth, like they belonged to someone else. But they were mine… they were true… And hearing them aloud made them all the more real.
I couldn’t believe I was saying it. That I had reached a point where oblivion sounded like mercy. It wasn’t that I wanted to die; I just didn’t want to feel anymore. I was exhausted in every possible way, body, mind, and soul. What terrified me most wasn’t the thought itself, but how reasonable it had started to sound.
Back to the ER I went.
This time with my son-in-law, since my husband had just had surgery and couldn’t go with me. As I checked in, it still didn’t feel real. I couldn’t believe I was there for suicidal ideation. The words sounded clinical, detached, almost foreign, and yet they described me. It was a hard pill to swallow- pun intended, though the truth behind it was anything but funny.
But strangely, this is where the blessings began to show up. Disguised, subtle, and mixed with a fair amount of anger. It’s an odd combination, to feel grateful and furious at the same time. Grateful that I was being taken seriously. Furious that I had reached this point. It was as if light and shadow had decided to share the same room, and I was sitting in the middle trying to make sense of it all.
The ER doctor had the kindest eyes above his mask. Steady, calm, and sincere. There was something grounding about the way he spoke, the way he didn’t rush me or make me feel like a burden. He listened. Really listened. Then he said the words I hadn’t heard from any doctor in months: “We’re going to run some tests.”
Can you believe that? Tests! After being brushed aside, told to take more pills, to wait it out, to double the dose, someone was finally willing to look deeper. It shouldn’t have felt revolutionary, but it did. In that moment, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: hope. Fragile, trembling hope, but hope, nonetheless.
CT Scan and abdominal ultrasound incoming!
A second blessing came in the form of realization: it was time to end the plant-based diet. I had only been on it for going on two months, but I’ll admit, I was religious about it. Strict to the point of obsession. Uneducated, yes- but strict. That’s the curse of an all-or-nothing personality: once I commit, I go all in, even when the path I’m on is unknowingly destroying me.
Looking back, it’s no wonder my body began to collapse under the weight of it all. Weeks of Omeprazole, most of it at double the dosage, stacked on top of a diet that was stripping me of essential nutrients. The result was devastating. I was starving, not just for food, but for balance, for clarity, for something real to hold on to. My gut was in shambles, and my mind felt like it had drifted somewhere far away, detached and unfamiliar. I was there, but not really there. Not myself.
And the test results? Once again, that strange mix of hope and dread filled the room. Everything looked fine- again. But this time, the news brought something closer to relief than frustration. Nothing abnormal. No tumors. My liver looked good. My gallbladder was fine. For a moment, I could breathe.
Still, deep down, I knew the real issue was hiding somewhere inside my stomach. The tests were reassuring, but they were only a stepping stone… proof that the problem wasn’t fatal, but far from gone. It was a fragile kind of peace, the kind that doesn’t last long once reality sets back in. Because even with that small victory, the clock was still ticking, and I still had two long months to wait before the scope that might finally reveal what was happening inside me.
Or did I?
“We have a cancellation. Can you come to endoscopy office on Friday?” The voice over the phone asked me on that Wednesday evening.
Yes. Yes.
YES.
As scared as I was, I knew what I had to do- I booked the appointment. The very next day after my ER visit, I called the gastroenterologist’s office, voice trembling, and explained that I had been to the hospital because I was suicidal and desperately needed help. I told them I couldn’t wait two months. I needed the scope moved up anyhow, any way. By the grace of Yahweh, they made it happen.
That Thursday night though, my dreams were nightmares. Unrelenting. I cried and screamed through the entirety of it. In the dream, I was late for the procedure, panicked, lost, helpless. And somehow at the end of it, my family had abandoned me. The loneliness of it was suffocating. When I woke, I was near crying, breath catching in my throat. The fear and grief of that dream clung to me like a heavy fog. It had felt so real. But it was only a dream… or at least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
But what happened that night in my dream turned out to be the exact opposite of what actually unfolded. I made it on time. No one abandoned me. My son-in-law, once again, came to the rescue and drove me there- my husband still recovering from surgery. The staff was kind and gentle, the doctor patient and reassuring. Everything that had tormented me in my sleep was met in reality with compassion and calm.
And before I left the house that morning, I did something that would quietly mark a turning point in my journey… I took the very last PPI I would ever take. I didn’t know it then, but that small act, that final pill, would close one chapter of my life.
But back to the scope. They told me it would be the best sleep of my life. They told me that I would want to do it again. I didn’t believe them… until I did. They were right. It wasn’t too bad. I did get great sleep. The only downside was the pain from the biopsies, but a little liquid Tylenol made that tolerable.
It was over. I was free. I had survived. I would get these answers:
Stomach polyps
Gastritis
“Mild” reflux
See the word “ulcer” anywhere in that list? No? That’s because it isn’t there. After twenty years of being convinced that I had one- of adjusting my diet, habits, and even my peace of mind around it… turns out there was no ulcer at all. Can you believe that? I still can’t.
It’s almost comical, though not in a funny-ha-ha kind of way, that I’ve had this same localized pain in the back of my stomach for two decades, and it was never what I thought. Two decades of believing a lie my body told me (or maybe one I told myself). There’s not much I can do about that now. So, I suppose the chapter is closed… at least that one.
When I called my mom to tell her the results of the scope, her first question came quickly, full of concern: “Well? How are they going to treat this? What medication did they offer, or give you?”
Sadly, there wasn’t any treatment plan. No medication. No follow-up. Just the report and a quiet dismissal back into my own uncertainty. The only real answer that came was from the biopsy results, and thankfully, they were good. So good. I can’t overstate the relief that washed over me when I heard that word: benign. In that moment, gratitude overwhelmed everything else. HalleluYAH! A true, unfiltered praise.
When I learned more about gastritis (through my own research), I realized just how complex it can be. It isn’t something that one pill or one diet can fix. I learned that gastroenterologists typically treat it by identifying what’s causing the inflammation- whether it’s infection, medication, stress, or something deeper- and then trying to remove that cause. They often prescribe proton pump inhibitors (PPIs) or H2 blockers to reduce stomach acid (which would not work for me), sometimes antibiotics if there’s an H. pylori infection (they never said I had that), and occasionally medications like Carafate to coat and protect the stomach lining. But beyond the prescriptions, it’s about the daily choices: avoiding the foods and habits that irritate the stomach, managing stress, and supporting the body’s ability to heal. I was beginning to understand that my situation wasn’t just about symptoms, it was about learning how all these moving parts worked together, and just how easily they could fall apart.
I tried to be gentle with myself. I started small with ground turkey, then moved up to chicken and finally beef. I knew I had to retrain my stomach to be a stomach again, all while managing the rebound reflux that came after stopping the Omeprazole. The nausea was still relentless however. My appetite was still gone. My stomach issues were still persistent. I wasn’t expecting a miracle of course, knowing healing wouldn’t happen overnight and I understood that recovery would take time and patience.
But five days after taking my last PPI, everything reached a breaking point, and I found myself at the mental hospital, wondering how long I was deemed to suffer like this. It was the day that the intrusive thought reared its ugly head about the window in my office.
“Just open the window and jump.”
That day after work, I drove to the mental health crisis center in my county to seek help. I can’t overstate how grateful I am that such a place exists, open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for anyone who needs it. That kind of access is a privilege I don’t take lightly.
Was I nervous? Absolutely. I worried they might see my visit as an admission, that I could lose my rights or end up on a 72-hour hold. But those fears were quickly put to rest when I met the woman assigned to assess me. She was kind, patient, and compassionate. I could feel Yahweh’s hand guiding me, lighting the path one step at a time.
The counseling department had already closed for the day, but she encouraged me to come back in the morning so they could help me get properly set up. I agreed. Before I left, she made sure I wasn’t a danger to myself or anyone else (I wasn’t). I was just exhausted and deeply anxious about the thoughts that had been haunting me. Then she let me go home for the evening, and I felt a glimmer of peace knowing that help was coming.
That night, I drove home in silence, the kind that hums louder than sound. I didn’t know what the next day would bring, only that something had shifted. The fear was still there, but so was a fragile hope, flickering in the distance like a small light I hadn’t noticed before. I didn’t yet understand how deep this valley would go or what Yahweh was preparing to heal within me. All I knew was that tomorrow, I would walk back through those doors. And that was enough… for now.
Thank you for reading! Click HERE for Part 2.
Afflicted 4 Messiah 
[…] you haven’t read Part 1, it ended with me walking out of the mental health facility, exhausted but strangely comforted, […]
[…] catching up before we get into all that we will get into. If you haven’t read Part 1, click HERE. If you haven’t read Part 2, click HERE. In those two posts we walked down the path of how […]