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Bipolar Disorder in Truth - Sample Pages
“Glen and President Condie came out and asked us to all gather around. “Go home,” he said. “There is nothing more we can do for him. The doctors are going to get him medicated, and his parents are going to drive up tonight to pick him up. Everyone go home and remember the Hogan family in your prayers.”
All of a sudden the doors of the room where we had left Andy flew open. The two orderlies were on either side of him, escorting him out of the room. He looked from one orderly to the other, speaking in Chinese. I could hear one orderly talking back to him in a soft soothing voice saying things like, “All right then. You don’t say. Wow, that’s great. Yes sir, everything’s gonna be just fine.”
As they walked down the hallway we could see that they had replaced Andy’s clothes with one of those nice little hospital gowns that don’t exactly close in the back. All we could see was them disappearing down the hallway with his bare rear-end hangin’ out of the hospital gown. He stopped talking for a second or two, then looked up at one orderly and asked in the most serious voice, “Do you feel a draft?” Everyone laughed, but with heavy hearts. President Condie’s wife shook her head and said, “That poor, poor boy.”
As I turned to leave and realized I was alone, suddenly the reality of the day’s events and Andy’s situation hit me like a ton of bricks. My companion and friend was going home because of a serious mental illness! It just didn’t seem right. This wasn’t supposed to happen to him. He was too good of a missionary, too good of an example, and too good of a friend. For the first time I felt that there was nothing I could do to help him. I wasn’t feeling much like God any more.”
After what felt like hours and hours of sleep, and with a feeling of exposed embarrassment, as if I had been hanging out in private places, I opened my eyes. “Where is Johnny?” I wondered. Looking around, my thoughts continued, “Where the heck am I?” Further examination showed I was locked in a small, square room with pale, yellow walls about the length of the mat on the floor that I had been sleeping on. A small, metal toilet sat on the other side in the corner, and a security camera hung from the ceiling. My clothes were folded neatly in a pile at the base of the mat, and a door with no handle, that looked as massive as a dungeon drawbridge, loomed over my head at the front of the mat. A sore rear end told me that they had used a sedative injection to gain control and put me to sleep.
Thinking back, I vaguely remembered my horrendous ordeal. “Oh, no!” I thought. “Not again!” Splotchy scenes of panic, profanity, unrepressed emotions, physical force, and impulses of rudeness flashed through my mind as if I were remembering a nightmare. “It couldn’t have been a dream if I’m locked up in a loony bin,” I mumbled.
I stood up and looked through the tiny window toward the top of the door. Down the hallway, at a nurse’s station, stood my mom and dad! The nurse saw me peering through the window and said something to my parents. They spun around and came running over. Bursting through the door, they started hugging me as if I had just come back from the dead. Even though I was awake and appeared normal, the hospital people wouldn’t let me out of the cell.
That night I again slept on the mat, and Dad slept on the tile floor next to me. I remember being woken up in the middle of the night to see a nurse standing there with a needle in her hand. I must have given some resistance, because the nurse said, “Please take it, I’m the only one here.” Still I refused.
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