The Gautier Redemption

Society in DeFuniak was obvious in the most extreme visual way. The very essence of the town was the naturally round spring-fed lake in the center, a dark sparkling jewel in a field of green. The highest of the high lived on Circle Drive, just across the street from the lake yard. Everyone else fell like ripples in a pond, the closer to the lake, the closer to acceptance and prestige. The sole purpose for some people was to be drawn in to the nucleus of the town.

There were only three buildings on the lake yard: the public library, one of the oldest in the state of Florida, which housed Mr. Bruce’s collection of medieval armor, an evil looking mace, sinister spears, shields which were said to date to the Crusades, collected during his tour as diplomat to Scotland; the Chautagua building, erected early in the history of the town, an auditorium for the fashionable ladies who road the train south to enjoy the temperate winters and better their minds; and the Presbyterian church, with its murals and old wood floors, and a basement of sorts that hosted Anchor Club initiations and ladies’ meetings of all sorts. These were the three most important buildings in DeFuniak, culturally.

On the other side of Circle Drive, the Methodist church, where the best piano teacher in town held her yearly concerts, from simple melodies to Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, Greig’s Piano Concerto in A, Joplin’s Maple Leaf Rag from a beautiful cherry finished grand piano.

About a block away, the Baptist Church, monumental, deliciously cool with air conditioning, rows upon rows of Sunday School classes decorated with construction paper cutouts, and a spacious church hall.

The other Baptist churches were scattered of the town as if tossed like dice from above. Columns and steeples, padded pews, filled with righteous people who were going to heaven because Our Savior Lord Jesus Christ had saved them.

That would cover nearly all the spiritual needs of the town right there. This was a town where the third grade teacher read Bible stories while her students copied math problems from the board, where a retired minister would bring his felt board with all its characters Bible stories to the stage in the cafeteria, handing out applications for mail box Bible lessons and urging everyone to come to Camp Victory in the summer. Every school function began with a lengthy invocation, and not one that included Buddha or Allah.

The lake lay tangent on the railroad tracks, which, in a way, separated the residential part of the town from the commercial. Cross over the tracks, take a right at the light, the one between the Chevrolet dealership and the gas station. Then, right across from the court house, right beside the Firestone dealer. St. Margaret’s Catholic Church. A tiny brick building with white wooden doors and colored blocks of glass at the windows. It was so small it didn’t even have bathrooms. If you had to go, you had to run to one down the street. It didn’t even have a priest. It just borrowed one for mass and confessions, a succession of accents, Irish, Italian, Polish. Many, many Polish. Poland must have more priests than any other place on the earth. In the winter the heater melted the varnish on the pew in front of it, a hard, dark thing, and the people about three rows up and higher huddled in their winter coats. In the summer the ladies fluttered paper fans with funeral home advertisements on the back, except for the tiny, birdlike Philippine lady who used a blue silk fan delicately painted that I coveted very much.

I made my first confession in the back room where the altar boys donned their crisp linen robes among dark, musty books, old chalices, the little glass vials used in the consecration, old candles sticky in the heat and the ugly ceramic pitcher and bowl that my younger brother would latter drop and break right in the middle of mass one Sunday. It was the first and only time I ever stepped in that back room, closed off from the sanctuary by a heavy gold drape. Head bent low, whispers and then words I didn’t understand, but I loved the way they sounded. I had seen enough to know that this little church held mysterious things, especially in that back room, and I wanted to join the fraternity of those in the know.

No surprise. My grandmother said the entire rosary every night, and everyone present was expected to attend, regardless of age or infirmity. I knew the Hail Mary before my ABC’s. The Sign of the Cross before the Pledge of Allegiance. I was saturated from birth with Catholicism. In fact, up until the day I started first grade, I assumed everyone was Catholic. I couldn’t conceive any other religion.

Later I would ask the Bishop if I could be an altar server. Unsuccessful.

Then I started school. I was the single Catholic in my classroom. When you’re six or seven, eight or nine, religion is very simple and crosses denominations. We all had the same Christmas, the same Easter, and what more was there to know. But the social strands were forming. Every child attended Sunday School with at least one other person, but not me. To most friends was an oddity, asking me to do the sign of the cross, giggling, trying to copy. I guess I was ten when the lady at the county fair, standing right to the Cooking Good booth with its glass box full of biddies, handed me the tract with very detailed drawings of poor tortured souls in hell, and the proclamations that all Jews, Muslims, Catholics, Buddhists, and Pagans were going to hell. It was in Writing, so it had to be Right, didn’t it? I lay in bed in anguish over it several nights, until it occurred to me that Catholics were here before the Church of God, so surely God would give us seniority.

Being bipolar started having a major impact on my faith when I was about twelve. First there were the disturbing dreams that I couldn’t quite understand, the kissing and caressing dreams, starring one particular person who was at least ten years older than me. I thought about them all the time, pulling books off the library shelves about the paranormal, trying to decipher these dreams. Lo and behold I discovered that I had psychic abilities I didn’t even know about, knowing who was on the phone before I answered it, knowing what was going to happen before it happened. In retrospect, I see it was intuition coupled with a consistent lifestyle. But when you’re twelve and bipolar, everything takes on a mystical quality.

It’s no surprise that this hypersensitivity coupled with a strong religious background in a faith that is founded on mysteries accepted and not questioned would lead to some states of perceived ecstasy. I was called. I knew it. Like Joan of Arc. I just knew that I was chosen by God, specially chosen, to defend the Catholics in this land of Baptists and Pentecostals and, if I said my prayer to St. Michael the archangel, absolutely nothing could hurt me. I constantly defended our faith, explain how we didn’t worship Mary, although sometimes it looked like it and sounded like it. Explained that we didn’t eat babies at communion. What saints were. Why I went to confession. Whether or not a Catholic is considered saved. Sometimes I would get guys that wanted to go out with me to come to church. Not many though. A number of my peers just assumed that I was going to become a nun, being Catholic and all.

Then years ahead, twenty-three with a two-year-old son and no husband. I met a man and decided from the very first moment that I was going to be in love with him. My being a little manic didn’t help. His being Southern Baptist just made it interesting. Oh, he really liked the hypersexuality, but quickly informed me that my illness was all in my head. Accepting Jesus, being saved, would all end that. I told him that I was already saved and he told me I must not be if I’m still sick.

No medication. Increasing Irritability. Difficulty doing things at work. Running out of money making impulse purchases. Either showering my son with love or shoving him away. Then one morning, after I dropped him off for daycare, the thought occurred to me that I didn’t have to go to work. I could just leave. Start over. So I turned the car west, toward Mississippi and started driving.

Meanwhile, the girls at work began to worry. They called the daycare and found out I left much earlier, dressed for work. They called my parents. They called the police. The police called my boyfriend. No one had a clue.

By that time I had arrived at Gautier, Mississippi and decided that I had to change my appearance in case people were following me. So I stopped at a mall, gave a false name to the lady at the salon, and had my brown hair cut much shorter and dyed red. Then I thought about money. Robbing someone was a possibility, I thought. No problem.

Luckily, I saw a mother with a child, and, as quickly as I had to decided to leave, I decided it was time to go get my son.

That night, my boyfriend, desperate for help, took me to his church. It was a revival night. The speaker was intoxicating. The lights, the sounds, were delicious. I felt like I could fly. When they called for people to come forward, I went up with no hesitation. Full immersion Baptism. I was saved. I was cured. I knew it. I felt it. And I was one with the community of people I had always been left out of.

Shortly after, my supervisor at work gave me the choice of termination or entering the hospital. I discovered that I couldn’t agree on several points with the Southern Baptists. My boyfriend decided he "couldn’t handle it." He told me never to call me again. I got fired. I crashed. I decided I wasn’t sure what faith I was. In short, I was redeemed.

For three free online issues of McMan's Depression and Bipolar Weekly, email me and put "Sample" in the heading and your email address in the body.

Melissa's Story All articles

Post your opinion here.

Melissa

Newsletter

Your online source for issues that matter to you.

For free samples, email me and put "Sample" in the heading and your email address in the body.

Find out more.

Bookstore

Shop for depression and bipolar books online here.

Share Your Story

Two simple facts: 1) Everyone has a story, and 2) Our illness unites us all. Please feel free to share your story with us. Don't sell yourself short - your message will resonate with many. Send your thoughts or a finished narrative by emailing me.