The Rev. Rebecca Hewitt-Newson, Pastor of Emmaus Way in Durham
Rev. Rebecca Hewitt-Newson is a Baptist minister who has worked as a hospital chaplain, children’s minister, and is now Co-Pastor of the Emmaus Way community in Durham.
“She would continue to have emotional breakdowns on a yearly basis.”
I was watching a documentary about an influential, accomplished, though not well-known, civil rights activist. As I heard about their chronic emotional crises, my heartbeat increased, my chest tightened. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, attempting to remain present while my brain went haywire. I allowed the fearful thought – “that could happen to me” – and its accompanying anxiety to stay with me. I didn’t try to chase it away by reassuring myself, I didn’t pause the documentary to do internet research on how common it is to have more breakdowns if you’ve already had one or more. Instead, I said to myself “maybe this will be me and maybe it won’t” and I kept watching through the sound of alarm bells ringing on in my head.
Almost three years ago, this would have been nearly impossible for me, but now I’ve gotten a lot of practice at this type of exposure to my greatest fears. I have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder*, a very common and misunderstood condition that leads to severe discomfort with particular uncertainties, intense levels of suffering related to intrusive thoughts, and time-consuming compulsions enacted in the futile attempt to alleviate the suffering.
As a result of OCD (as well as its accompanying insomnia and depression), I have experienced, as of this writing, two breakdowns in my short life. Both occurred in the year or two after the birth of my children respectively and the second was more prolonged than the first. It was during the second one, three years ago, that I was diagnosed with OCD and worked like hell to claw my way out of its paralyzing grasp and back to a place of health and wholeness. A big piece of that work was practicing acceptance of the fact that I have a chronic mental illness: that I am someone who might “break down” again and whose brain needs regular “tune ups” to stay well. Even though I don’t currently meet the requirements for a diagnosis of OCD (because my symptoms are so well-managed), I do still have a brain which, in its efforts to protect me, can over-function and misfire. Sometimes I can laugh at or be curious about what my brain sends me, but at times it still feels like a Pauline thorn in my side.
Church communities have come a long way in talking about mental health, even just during the decade I have served in ministry. More and more, ministers are encouraging therapy, destigmatizing anti-depressants and mood stabilizers, and emphasizing mental health from the pulpit and in pastoral interactions. I’m also encouraged by the changes I see in how people share about their own mental illness in faith spaces now – less secrecy, more honesty, and thus more support and love received in return. It brought me courage when a congregant placed themselves on the prayer list for chronic depression and ECT treatments. It brings me hope when people regularly admit in public to debilitating seasons of depression or experiencing panic attacks.
Because even though I have experienced the beauty and relief of life changing significantly with the right diagnosis and appropriate treatment, and though life today is much sweeter than anything I experienced pre-breakdowns, this relief only arrived hand in hand with the acceptance of my own ongoing fragility and vulnerability. The transformation of my life was predicated on the very knowledge that my mind and body cannot become impervious to depression and anxiety, even with all the tools I now have at my disposal. I can live an amazing life with OCD, but it will never disappear.
Our faith traditions don’t always hold a lot of space for problems that can be ameliorated but can’t be “solved” - the kind that must be lived through and lived with, which refuse to be left behind. In the Christian tradition(s), we look toward a God who celebrates resurrection and transformed life: we preach a gospel of new creation, leaving behind what is old and pushing forward to what is new. But these days, I’m also trying to pay more attention to symbols and stories where people are transformed, but still walk with a limp – like Jacob after his strenuous divine wrestling session. I’m finding hope in Paul’s “confession” that he lives with a constant thorn in his side which is always causing suffering. I’m comforted that even Jesus’ resurrection body had scars that he could share and allow others to touch.
My disorder makes me feel incredibly vulnerable – as a person, mother, minister, and professional - and yet I’m learning that these thorns in our sides, these limps that come from our most stressful and terrifying encounters, do not have to remain sources of shame or fear. A resurrection with scars, a man with a new name but a limp that never heals, a passionate preacher with a painful chronic condition – these are images of transformation which hold space for those, like me, who have felt born again to a new life, but one that is innately tied to a vulnerable body and brain.
*Want to know more about what Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder actually is? Check out the International OCD Foundation’s website: www.iocdf.org. This condition is so misunderstood that it, on average, takes sufferers 11-17 years from the onset of symptoms to get diagnosed and find the right treatment. And yet, there is highly effective treatment available for this condition.
