It’s said that God meets us in everyone we come across. That how we treat others is a measure of how we are treating our God. I like this thought. It challenges me when I spend time with others. But why I really like it is that it must also mean that whenever we are with someone, we are with God.
In a country where mental health service arrangements are utterly, and paradoxically, – mad – I’ve found persevering to get help, hard. It’s only been because others have encouraged me to do so, that I have gotten this far. Oftentimes, in the past, my mental health service appointments have been less than useful, contradictory, and discouraging. It’s especially hard meeting someone new, and covering your entire mental health history in an hour and a half. You reel off the information – I’ve got that well-practised now. The tension is in whether or not the person you’re giving it all to, will understand.
I met someone new earlier this week, for assessment. I could barely breathe for the tension. I waited a long time for this meeting, and if I couldn’t say what I needed to, the help wouldn’t happen. I spent an hour, information-reeling, in response to the questions I’ve been asked many times before. At that surface, factual, level, the history almost doesn’t feel like it’s my history; it’s just someone’s story. By the end of the hour the questions were done. The psychologist looked through her notes; reflected. What she reflected was true. What she reflected meant that she had understood how I feel, what the problems are – and that she could offer help. I fought tears in her office. Because she had understood. Because God had been listening, and had heard me. Because God understands me.