For thou wilt light my candle: the Lord my God will enlighten my darkness.—Psalm 18:28 (KJV)

This is a true account of my struggle with mental illness. It is a story that may help those who are also suffering and those who suffer along with them.

As a woman in my early thirties, I had high expectations for my future. I wanted a decent job, a husband and a home. I wasn’t worried about the little things that were going wrong—the sleepless nights, the restlessness and lack of appetite. It wasn’t until I began hearing (what psychiatrists call) “command voices” that I got scared. These voices were both familiar and strange.

When I was a little girl, my father used to read me stories about goblins, wizards and elves. Some were evil, some good. The struggle between good and evil was always there. Now, however, parts of these stories, that I had so much enjoyed as a child, were coming back to haunt me in unusual and unexpected ways.

I woke up one day and thought God and Satan were talking in my head. You may wonder how I knew which was which. I cannot say. I just knew. That fact alone may suggest that there is yet some hope for my recovery. At the time, however, I believed both of these voices. They were so loud and so very real. The voices told me that the world was about to end. That I was being chased by demons. That the demons were coming to eat me alive.

On the morning of June 12, 2004 (my mother tells me), I left a message on her answering machine telling her that I loved her and goodbye. Several hours later I was found lying incoherent and barefoot in a mud puddle. Although I do not remember the particulars of that episode, my mother was told that, when asked to identify myself, I responded, “I am the Bride of Satan.” I was taken to a local hospital, after which I was transferred to the psychiatric unit of a larger facility better equipped to deal with my problem. After one week, I was released with a prescription. But it was too late in the day to get this filled at my clinic. Over the next 12 hours, I began to hallucinate again.

This time—June 18, 2004,—the command voices told me to get into a vehicle and drive. I was confused and did not know which voice was which. I am ashamed to say that I obeyed. I drove straight into an elderly lady’s car, drove her into a ditch, then drove into a propane tank. When the police and paramedics finally arrived at the scene, they found me convinced that I would have a demon companion by my side in the ambulance.

I was lucky not to have been hurt. The elderly woman was unlucky. She died an hour later.

I was kept in a locked psychiatric ward. On the night of July 4, I was given extra medications because I was terrified of the fireworks over the river near the hospital. Six weeks later, partly on the basis of the hospital’s report and partly on the basis of the police investigation at the scene, I was arrested, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, chained, handcuffed and charged with murder in the first degree.

I was taken to the county jail where my condition deteriorated. However, during the next few weeks two doctors diagnosed my disease as a schizoaffective disorder (a chronic and disabling mental illness). So I was able to plead successfully NGRI (not guilty for reason of insanity).

Approximately two months later, I was transferred from the jail to a secured mental-health facility. There my doctor reaffirmed my condition to be schizoaffective. I stayed in this place from September 2004 to January 2006. The time went quickly as I slept through most of it. Eventually, I was transferred to a nonsecured hospital, where I stayed another year.

Finally, I was released to a supervised living facility. I was given a furnished apartment all to myself where medications were administered at the front desk. My grandma and grandpa helped me set up the kitchen with new supplies, the living room with a TV and phone, and the bedroom with family photos on the dresser and comforters and throw pillows on the bed. They placed by my bedside two statuettes of angels given to me by a friend.

I was being trained for a part-time job, and I also hoped to do volunteer work at a local animal shelter. I hoped someday to get cable TV so that I could watch the History Channel and nature programs.

This should have been a new beginning. Unfortunately, for a number of reasons I still don’t fully understand, in less than two months the command voices came back with a vengeance. I told the staff about this, and they tried to help. They even sent me—for a couple of days—back to the hospital that had originally treated my disease. I was released, but not fully recovered.

On the night of July 4, 2007, Satan’s voice was threatening me with a very long, slow, painful death if I didn’t do his bidding immediately. And his bidding was to set myself on fire. (I am now learning strategies to resist such directives, but at the time I could not.) I suffered third degree burns over 24 percent of my body. I was life-flown to yet another hospital where I stayed in the burn unit for weeks. My aunt, I am told, stayed by my side, holding my hand, singing hymns such as, “Be Still My Soul, the Lord is on Thy Side.” After several weeks and several skin grafts, I was moved to the rehabilitation center, where I learned how to breathe, talk and walk. In effect, I was busy being born again.

Eventually, I was transferred back to the same nonsecured hospital I’d lived in before. I reside there today. Many people would say that I’ve lost everything. My old life is gone. Because I am mentally ill, everything has changed, both for me and my family. Because my disease has caused the death of an innocent person, I join others, including numerous children and grandchildren, treading a painful path.

An important prerequisite of walking into the light is the condition of being enlightened. I now know that, even though I’ve lost, I’ve gained. I’ve gained a lot of insight into my illness. Gained maturity I didn’t have before. Gained more love and support from my wonderful family than I thought possible. Most importantly, I’ve gained a close relationship with our Father God. He is my light in the midst of darkness. I have learned to love him more than ever. He is my strength.

I believe he has spared my life for a reason—maybe so that I can share my story with others. I know firsthand the need to understand and empathize with the mentally ill.

Many Christians do not understand mental illness, as they might, for example, diabet
es. They tend to shy away from those who suffer from major depressive episodes or psychotic disorders. Family members tend to be ashamed, thinking that a loved one’s mental illness represents some kind of sin or character flaw—in a way that cancer, for example, doesn’t. They are naturally uncomfortable in a secured setting, where visitors are required to submit to electronic surveillance before entering the visiting room.

These are but a few of the many reasons that people in psychiatric hospitals need your prayers. They are lost and alone in the dark. Pray that the light of God’s love will touch them in a way they can understand. Pray that the families of these poor unfortunates may grow in God’s grace. And pray that modern medicine can find a cure for these crippling diseases of the mind.

This article was submitted in January 2008 while Emma Adams resided at the H. Douglas Singer Mental Health Center in Rockford, Ill.