A REASON TO LIVE

Part 12 of my story

At this point, I must really take you back to a long-ago time in my life—my mid-twenties. I had only been married for a short time and only out of hospital for three or four years. My emotional state was extremely unstable. I suffered much with my bipolar symptoms—including depression, mania, and psychosis. I was under stress much of the time. Psychiatry was still a relatively new medical field. Chlorpromazine was the only medication available to me at the time and was not very effective.

I had tried working at an office full-time but soon had to switch to morning hours alone. Although Wes and I only had a one-bedroom apartment, I found housework overwhelming. This was especially so since I had told myself that because I had to cook every day, I would look on it as an enjoyable time and make it my hobby. I tried out many different recipes. It all took a lot of time. My ironing sat for weeks before I had the energy and motivation to work on it.

Nevertheless, I ended up with enough free hours during which I worked on needlework projects. This provided me with the glorious quiet times alone that I needed.

In my book A Firm Place to Stand I recall those precious hours spent in solitude:

Those afternoons gave me important hours to think about what I wanted out of life and what I wanted to give to my life. I did a lot of inner talking, especially on the countless occasions when I felt sorry for myself, thinking of the great difficulties I faced. And when my ruminating mind threatened to bring on the paralysis of depression, I would remember Kipling’s poem. “If you can dream – and not make dreams your master; if you can think – and not make thoughts your aim.” I learned to be a doer.

As I worked, I thought endlessly of what was important in life and how I would like to use my time. I decided to give instead of take; I wanted to make instead of use. The conclusion I reached was that after I died, I wanted the world to be a better place because I had lived. I felt a need to leave something of myself behind. ‘Yes’, I thought, ‘I will create heirlooms, beautiful things to leave to my children, a record that I have lived and accomplished something. I intend to live a life of value. Life is too precious to waste. While I’m able, I must use my days as well as I can.’

And so, my thoughts went, day after day. I encouraged myself, became angry with myself, struggled to hang on, tried to come to terms with the stigma. And I filled my time working with colorful yarns and embroidery cotton. Whenever a low mood began to descend, I tried to ward it off with a new project.

I cross-stitched a large Dutch sampler with very fine stitches. In the center, I embroidered my initials and in the lower right corner, my name, and the year it was made. My son and daughter-in-law will receive this after I die. It would be one way of leaving something beautiful behind, a little piece of my history, one way to prove that I have lived.

I made a needlepoint version of Millet’s famous painting, The Gleaners. I made petit point portraits of native children. I taxed my eyes creating single-thread petit point roses to mount in small oval pendants. I undertook the huge task of crocheting a wool afghan in afghan stitch and then covering it with an intricate cross-stitched flower design. It became a wedding present for my son and his wife.

All this work was fulfilling; it was comforting. But throughout, I struggled with my emotional balance. I had to work very hard to stay in control and to live the kind of life Kipling had prescribed for his son, even when I sometimes watched “…the things I gave my life to broken” and had to “…stoop and build’em up with worn-out tools.”

 Throughout these years, the poet’s words buoyed me up, “If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds worth of distance run – yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, and – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!”  His advice was fatherly. He understood true difficulties. He understood me.

To lead a life with meaning, we need to know that what we do and what we are matters. We need to know that there’s a reason for living. My search for meaning led me to create material items. It was all that was within my reach, emotionally, in those early years of my adult life. Going beyond this to a more mature view of life’s purpose took years.

But at this time in my mid-twenties, I certainly learned how to treat my life as a treasure, one I did not want to waste. What Lord Chesterfield said became how I lived: “Know the true value of time; snatch, seize and enjoy every moment of it. No idleness, no laziness, no procrastination; never put off till tomorrow what you can do today.”

With so many wonderful projects to fill my time, each day became one I looked forward to. I gradually learned to believe more in myself and began the slow process of building self-esteem.

The Nazi death camp survivor, Viktor Frankl, saw how some of his fellow prisoners survived. One of the things he concluded was that “those who have a ‘why’ to live, can bear with almost any ‘how’.” Making things gave me a reason to fight the symptoms of my disorder. Being creative helped me survive and find happiness and fulfillment.

Twenty years later, when I began to follow Christ, my life took on much greater meaning. I began to see my purpose in less materialistic terms. Slowly but surely, I discovered different, more spiritual reasons to live. I ultimately learned that living for the good of other people made me happier than living for myself. I learned that loving God and others was more meaningful than anything else imaginable. My mental health became stronger. I gained the courage to do things I would never have believed possible for me.

marja