Dear Mitchell,
At the Mayo Clinic on the St. Mary's campus in the Generose building is a psychiatric ward where I spent fourteen days last spring. My motives for self-harm had never been so crystal clear, and I carried a burden heavy enough to necessitate an admission into the ward. Had my mother not walked in on me, the steak knife would have done more damage than the quickly-healing surface wound that now sneers back at me in the mirror. The cut only grew longer when, on my first full day in Generose, I turned the rough end of a tube of toothpaste into a weapon against myself, and rubbed until the friction cut away further at my flesh. The nurses put me in a special room — a better room — that kept me safe under video surveillance. I was here when I began putting notes together, notes that eventually became this letter.
The portrait I'm painting doesn't sound like the John Hooyer that you grew to know. Self-harm rarely tempted me until about a year or two ago, and on April 1, I became dangerously wounded — spiritually — enough that I became vulnerable to my own thoughts. I had a desire to mutilate my face during my weekend with family, and finally made an attempt on April 3, which also happened to be my father's 53rd birthday. It would be nice to explain to you why these thoughts became so critical, but for the time being, that isn't really appropriate for me to reveal my pain. It's a highly private affair, but I have faith that you will understand that my suffering was severe. Sometimes we're afflicted by misfortune, but every once and a while, true and perverse evil strikes our lives. This was one of those times. Only something truly evil could have brought me to this.
This.
Of all things I thought I'd be inspired to do after an energizing weekend with family, staying at a psychiatric ward only made the list as a joke. By God, I actually did it. I actually, properly put myself in a psychiatric ward. And quite literally, by God.
Let me explain.
My kneejerk reaction, when faced with the dilemma I created for myself, was to question the kind of Christian I was. I especially wondered what other Christians would think of me. Would my faith be somehow less compelling because I sank to such a point that I destroyed myself? Could a self-destructive individual be a mature Christian?
Ever since then, I've known that I need to open up about this. I need to claim this experience.I can't continually wonder, "Who is safe enough to share this information with?" It has to be something that I can talk about with anyone, without shame. If I keep it pent up inside, then I haven't made peace with it. I continue to carry it as a burden, and that burden is contagious. If I do share it with someone, they must keep my secret. If this suffering controls me, then I will inevitably also use it to leverage control over others. I don't want that, so I'm coming clean, and writing an open letter for the world to know. There are other spiritual wounds that I must endure that I do still keep private, but this one should be known.
It isn't easy. It's a no-win scenario. Some people will think less of me now that they know that I abandoned the comforting guidance of the Great Comforter. Others won't think less of me, but they'll have sympathy. Sympathy easily turns to pity, and pity eats away at people like an invisible, inaudible lotus swarm. I don't want anyone's pity. Pity shrouds people in their shame. So, I've come to conclude that there is no victory for me in sharing this account. However, there is a victory in it for Christ, who is in this story.
The first few days were bleak. At every passing moment, I wished that I had some means of leaving scars on my face. They had to be there, in particular, in order to be as public as possible. They had to display for the world to see the twistedness of my suffering, and that when I suffered, I suffered as only a giant can suffer. This mutilation was a part of my identity, my calling, my destiny. It was what the very name "John Hooyer" stands for, and, I feel, a part of the identity of all Hooyers. To be a Hooyer, and particularly John Hooyer, is to be at the forefront of the war with Satan. I wanted people to see that I had looked at evil directly in the eye, and this was part of who I am. I had been wounded. I was tired of hiding all of that pain, all of that terror that I had endured. I wanted to be incapable of pretending to anyone, ever again, that it never happened.
I am married to that war, that suffering. That war is my wife, the only woman that I feel comfortable introducing to my family. And my family is the only thing that I trust with the burden of this war.
Then, the obsession with making myself hideous subsided into something less overwhelming, something that I could manage. There were people out in the lounge, fellow patients. When I first came, I didn't want to associate with them at all. It was easier to spin around in the whirlpool of my own torments, laying in bed from morning until night, coming out only to eat and use the bathroom. I reached a point when I was able to be my normal extroverted self again, and started getting to know them.
There was someone named Joseph, a young Hispanic college student who I instantly took a liking to. We had some things in common. There was also someone else named Thommas (I'm not misspelling that), who was an INFJ personality and a fellow Dutchman. Somme of these individuals had, like me, been voluntarily admitted, but others had been turned in by their concerned families. Almost everyone wanted to get out of the psychiatric ward.
Going out with the other people made me feel better, although it didn't negate my depression. The evil that had befallen me had never left my mind. It left permanent scars. It leaves an impact on my life story that can never be undone. There was a whiteboard in the lounge, on which I wrote the lyrics to "Hurt" that I had long since memorized. That song has a lot of meaning for me, and it had a particular meaning for a patient in the psych ward. Some of my peers appreciated the lyrics.
The highlight of every day was when family came to visit. We talked about good things and bad things. Sometimes we just kept ourselves entertained. At other times we cried and didn't stop crying. We would also discuss serious matters of mental health. They helped me get through, and with their guidance, I was able to leave the ward.
Part of me is still in that ward, though. It never left, nor should it ever leave. I will always need that psychiatric ward.
One thing that I noticed is that most people talked about when they expected to get out. There was one exception: man named Eric, who was a homeless man with a long beard that made him look like he belonged on Duck Dynasty. My uncle actually graduated with him, and one of the people in the ward recognized him as someone he had once worked with. In a way, I rather admired that he was able to admit his complete dependence on the ward. If he absolutely couldn't handle the world outside, then there really wasn't any option but to resign to the care of doctors and nurses.
St. Mary's is a Catholic hospital. I was able to talk about my faith with the staff. With one in particular, I talked about demons. I talked about how my family and I had warred with Satan, and how this war must never leave the confines of my family.
Inspired by Ravi Zacharias, who had found a Gideon Bible beside him when he was on a bed of suicide, and came to Christ, I brought my own Gideon Bible along with me. That nurse that I talked with showed me verses from it to comfort me. There was another Bible out in the lounge. I read from it when I wasn't in the mood for King James English.
There was also a Qur'an. Out of curiosity, I picked it up and read from it. There wasn't much to impress me, since all it did was sit back and condemn sinners from its ivory tower and say that the Kingdom of God was only for the godly. That wasn't particularly helpful for someone stuck indefinitely in the psych ward because of his ungodly desire to harm himself.
Every once and a while, someone else would pick up one of these two books. Joseph, who was raised with a Christian background, got curious and started reading the Bible. It was interesting that he should suddenly take interest in it once he was in St. Mary's. Before he read the Bible, though, he flipped through the Qur'an briefly. I suppose he was open minded and looking for spiritual guidance.
Thommas had a lot of familiarity with Christianity, but was also fascinated by Islam. During his thirty minutes of allotted computer time each day, he would study Arabic songs, and he would read through the Qur'an diligently. There were several Muslims in the ward, and he talked with them every day, and insisted on eating from the special Middle Eastern menu. He would eat with them and converse about the wisdom of the Prophet Muhammad. He thought that due to his eating habits, and his prayers, that he was a fairly stable and righteous person, who didn't quite belong in a psych ward.
I had opened the Qur'an to educate myself on another faith, but I can't speak for the others. Perhaps they were curious to learn about other people, but I was under the impression that they were looking to find wisdom anywhere, anything that could give them guidance. Why did they want guidance? Easy: they knew that they were in a dark place, and they wanted out of it. They fell far from glory, and ended up in the shed where all insufficient things are stored. Somewhere, in the backs of their minds, they thought:
"I'm better than this. I'm going to get religion. I'm going to improve myself. I'm going to get to the point where I'm worthy of leaving this psychiatric ward, where I'm no longer a patient. I can't believe I was admitted here in the first place."
When I thought about this, I wrote a note to myself, on a sheet of yellow paper that I have with me to this day:
To what extent does religious faith become a mere "positive thought" philosophy with a compilation of inspirational quotes that make us feel better? And how do we share the Gospel — the good news — without turning it into a mere positive thinking exercise? The Gospel is also brutally honest — but at the same time, the perfect news for the Sinner in the Psych Ward. Jesus was a doctor for the sick, a God who redeemed the shameful, the lowly, and the meek. He doesn't always leave them out of their shameful, lowqwly, and meek states, though, but assured them that they're redeemed because of it.
We're redeemed because of it because only a truly lowly sinner could admit himself to the psych ward. I looked around me, and I began seeing Jesus in the doctors. I realized that it wasn't a shame to be here, but a good thing. Whereas some patients looked around them and saw sterility, I saw abundant life. One other person, a well-off man coincidentally named Ward, actually realized just how privileged he was to be there. He had voluntarily admitted himself, like me, and as a matter of fact came from across the country just to be there, because he wanted the best of the best, and to be in the care of the Mayo Clinic.
On another day, I wrote up on the whiteboard "Know thyself; know thy suffering and they joy and they life; take His yoke upon thee and learn of Him."
The job of the self-destructive person is incredibly simple. It is to realize that there is no shame in living in the psych ward. Our goal is not to get out, but rather to embrace the doctors there for helping to prevent us from destroying ourselves. They are a blessing, not a curse.
Grace is a psychiatric ward. We are all sinners who have hit rock bottom. We have the option to never admit ourselves to the ward, and if we don't, we will inevitably destroy ourselves. The natural outcome of our sin is suffering, despair, and ultimately death. To some extent, we must all be like that homeless man named Eric, who knows that his only way of getting through life is by living in the ward. And that's why part of me has never left, because I know that I need it.
The wonderful thing about the comfort that the Holy Spirit provides is that, unlike worldly psychiatric wards, you don't accept His Grace and get a six-thousand-dollar hospital bill. Because of the blood of Jesus, God's psychiatric ward is completely free. We could actually afford to live there forever.
Superficially, I got better, and I left the ward. But that shouldn't fool anyone. I'm still a sinner. I'm still messed up. I will die one day because of my sins. The temptation will always be to think, "Wait a minute, I'm better than this! I need to find religion again! I need to start thinking positive thoughts! I need to get on the right track!" That won't lead me anywhere, though. It will prevent me from ever receiving the healthcare of Christ that I so dearly need.
It truly is a bit humiliating to receive Grace. People who receive it are undesirable misfits who hit rock-bottom and need to be babied by the psychiatric staff. We don't look at the people in the psych ward and think, "I want to be like them." They are pitied. They are seen as victims. They are the wretched refuse of society that we don't feel comfortable talking about. And yet, they should be our role models. Those who embrace the psychiatric ward are the most sane of us all.
Love,
John
