(by Dave, 45-50 min)
Before you read:
The story is fiction and deals with purpose and suicide. As a disclaimer, I have no experience with suicide or the healthcare community surrounding it. Therefore, I am likely misrepresenting reality. If you are disturbed by the topic of suicide or reading from someone who knows little about it, maybe you should pass on this one. I certainly don’t want to do any harm or offend anyone who has experienced this very difficult human experience. Otherwise, I hope you will enjoy a different approach to addressing a basic religious question relevant to us all.
A Story of Purpose Lost
Her eyes slowly opened and took in the room. Sighing with disappointment, she closed them and remembered the events that landed her here. The room was designed to calm and protect, the perfect antithesis of her desires. The hospital bed in which she rested was placed squarely in the center of the room with guard rails raised on both sides as if she were suddenly an infant incapable of sleeping without protection. A pitcher of water and a glass sat on one of those trays that rolls up to hospital beds, but this one was bolted to the bed and could only swivel. She rolled her eyes disgustedly as the realization dawned on her that both pitcher and glass were made of plastic.
“Oh yes,” she said to herself, “be careful of the crazy person who might wake up, smash the pitcher, slice her arteries and die in a pool of her own blood.”
She glanced at the fluorescent lights mounted in sconces on the wall and wondered why they chose that form of lighting for rooms that held people like her. Maybe it was to keep them from standing up in their beds and hurling themselves at the unprotected light. Just imagine—they could impale their own brains right through an eye with just one shard. Her head nodded slowly up and down, her mouth turning down at the corners thoughtfully in that characteristic expression of someone who knows she has figured something out.
“Maybe that’s the reason they put metal shields around the lights in the rooms of people like me. After all, I’ve never seen them anywhere else. They aren’t in my house are they? They aren’t in my school.” That last muse brought a smile to her face. “Oh no, no disturbed people there,” she reminded herself sarcastically.
“Why, Stephanie? Why do you keep doing this to me?”
Stephanie’s eyes slowly shifted to her mother sitting in one of the room’s two chairs.
“Don’t you care about me?” her mother said between bouts of crying and honking into a pink Kleenex.
Stephanie stared into her mother’s watery eyes with complete indifference. “I hate her,” she said to herself. “I really do hate her.” Abruptly, her mother could endure the stare no longer and looked away.
“Who talks you into these things? Is it Alex? Is she the one you listen to? Well, she’s not welcome in our home,” the woman blurted out while throwing the Kleenex at the flexible trash can. “I won’t let her destroy you, I won’t!” More sobbing ensued. Finding no solace in the edict, she turned back to Stephanie’s fixed stare and reached out to stroke her daughter’s head.
The door to the room opened and a large man with gray hair walked in. His flannel shirt looked out of place and Marjorie Holms stood to confront the stranger.
“Mrs. Holmes, I’m Dr. Johnson. I’ve come to see your daughter. Could you step outside, please? I’ll be about an hour or so.”
“Who the hell are you?”
Dr. Johnson’s eyebrows shot up.
“I didn’t call a doctor. Stephanie’s doctor is Samantha Harrison and that’s who I want to see her. She’s been seeing her for three years and knows her. I don’t know anything about you.”
“I’ve called Dr. Harrison and she’s fine with me speaking to Stephanie,” Dr. Johnson replied. “Now, Mrs. Holmes, if you would please step outside.” He swept his hand toward the door.
“No. I don’t know you from Adam and I’m not going anywhere. Have you called my husband?” she demanded with contempt. “Perhaps you should call him first before you dismiss people, Mr. Johnson.” The emphasis was on “Mr.” and she looked disapprovingly at Johnson’s attire.
Stephanie dispassionately watched the exchange, shifting her eyes between the two adults.
“Mrs. Holmes, you do realize I’m here to help your daughter, don’t you?” His voice was calm and even. “Dr. Harrison described a bit of their relationship and believes I might be able to help. Now, if I could just have some time with her.”
“You can have all the time you want,” the mother spat out. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
“Come over here for a second, would you please, Mrs. Holmes?” Stephanie could hear nothing of what was said, but her mother stormed out of the room threatening lawsuits and declaring Dr. Johnson’s incompetence.
Sitting down with a grunt, Dr. Johnson looked at Stephanie. “Hi,” he murmured, with just a whisper of a smile on his face. He put his elbow on the arm of the chair and rested the side of his face in his hand. His left cheek crowded up into his eye.
“Stephanie, you are in the psychiatric hospital of the Medical University of South Carolina. You were brought here after the doctors in the emergency room pumped the sleeping pills out of your stomach.” He smiled at her. “You’re still alive, darlin’, maybe much to your chagrin, huh?”
Stephanie stared as blankly into his eyes as she had into her mother’s. Dr. Johnson stared back until Stephanie looked away. “Want to tell me about it?” he inquired.
Stephanie saw her mother’s face staring through the window. She was jabbering away on her cell phone. “How did you get her to leave?” The girl’s eyes shifted back to Johnson.
“Why do you want to know?” asked the psychiatrist.
Stephanie’s eyes shifted back to her mother. “Just curious.”
“I’ll tell you if you promise to tell me a little something about today.” He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head slightly, inviting a reply.
Stephanie’s gaze came back to the doctor, and she nodded once.
“I told her that you were 19 and an adult. I told her I would have her hauled out of here by security unless she could get you to invite her to stay. She could either leave or ask for your permission.” He nodded toward the door. “I guess she figured you weren’t in an invitin’ mood.”
A hint of a smile struck the corner of Stephanie’s mouth.
“Okay—so what happened today?”
Stephanie sighed. “Why do you care?”
“Well, I’m paid to care, for one. This is my job, but that’s not why I do it. I do it because I really do care.”
“You don’t even know me.” Stephanie turned her head to the door. “How long do you think she’ll stay out there?”
“Until your father or a lawyer shows up”. He leaned over and put both elbows on his knees and looked at the floor. “Why do I need to know you to care about you?”
“Why do shrinks always ask questions?” Stephanie shot back.
Dr. Johnson leaned back into the chair. “To get to know you, of course. You just implied I have no reason to care because I don’t know you. So, if you tell me what happened today I’ll know something about you. If you’re right, I will then have a reason to care.”
“I hate you all,” Stephanie said, looking away. “You expect us to pour out our hearts while you say nothing. All we ever get from you are stupid questions like why did you do this, or why do you do that or how did that make you feel? That’s not how normal people—friends— talk to each other.” Her gaze shifted back to Johnson. “They trust each other, Doctor, and both talk.”
Dr. Johnson breathed in deeply and rubbed his chin with his hand. Stephanie remained focused on him, judging the impact of her words.
“So you would like to get to know me, is that right? You’re suggesting that if I tell you things about me, then you will trust me enough to tell me about today. It’s all about trust. Is that right?”
She nodded.
“It follows, then, that I need to trust you before I start telling you about me. Does that make sense?”
Stephanie’s face became cautious. “Yes”.
“I don’t trust you, Stephanie,” Johnson said bluntly. “You have already broken your word to me.”
Stephanie sat up straighter in bed. “I did not,” she denied, clearly angry at the implication.
“Yes, you did,” Johnson said calmly. “Do you see your mother by the door there?”
Stephanie looked back at the window in the door where her mother stood like a kid outside a candy store. The only difference was that she was crying into another pink Kleenex.
“You asked me how I got her to leave and promised to tell me about today if I told you. Well, I’ve heard nothing about today, but you know exactly why she’s out there instead of right here.” He tapped his finger on the chair in which he sat. “So I’m not telling you anything about me, because you are not trustworthy. I, on the other hand, have told you who I am, where you are, that I talked to your therapist and how I got your loving mother to stand on the other side of that door.” He raised his eyebrows again.
Stephanie blinked at Dr. Johnson. Well, this is different, she thought. “I took a bottle of Mom’s sleeping pills because I wanted to be dead,” she confessed.
“Thank you, Stephanie. When did you take the pills?”
“I don’t know, maybe two o’clock,” replied the girl.
“Why two o’clock?”
“Because that is when I decided to do it,” she replied angrily. “I don’t know, I was sad and wanted to end it.”
“Oh, people looking to end their lives aren’t usually so spontaneous. They think a great deal about it,” Johnson stated with some confidence. “Did you leave a note?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Time to build a little trust, Doctor,” Stephanie said in response. “Why did you want to be a psychiatrist?”
Without hesitation Johnson replied, “Because I have this ability to see the truth about things and I learned during college that I was pretty good at helping other people see that truth too.”
“Really,” replied the teenager in a sarcastic tone. “Tell me one truth about things that you know.”
Dr. Johnson considered the question a bit, tapping his upper lip with his left index finger. “All people need a purpose for their lives. Sometimes it’s easy for people to see their purpose; other times, it’s hard. When it is too hard, people start to think about whether or not it makes any difference if they are even here.” He paused. “Do you think there is a purpose for your life, Stephanie?”
Stephanie quickly looked back to the ceiling. Two tears trickled down her cheek. Dr. Johnson reached for a Kleenex from the bed tray and handed one to the girl. “Why don’t you tell me what happened today—really tell me.”
Stephanie began to cry in earnest and Dr. Johnson quickly stood and handed her the Kleenex box. With that, the door burst open and a man in a blue suit exploded into the room.
“What the hell is going on here?” he bellowed, Mrs. Holmes trailing closely behind.
Dr. Johnson sat back down, propping his chin on the fingertips of both hands, elbows on the arms of the chair. His face revealed the exasperation he felt at this intrusion. Stephanie turned her back toward the commotion and faced the window, still crying.
“Mr. Holmes, I presume?” said Johnson.
“Dr. Holmes,” replied the suit. “And I expect an explanation.”
“Please, Dr. Holmes, lower your voice and let’s all leave this room.” said Johnson calmly, but with authority.
“I will not leave this room. That is my daughter.” Holmes pointed to Stephanie as if she were a retractor he desired during surgery.
Dr. Johnson picked up the telephone and pushed four buttons. “Fred, this is Steve.”
“What the hell…” fumed Stephanie’s father.
“I’m fine, how about you?” said Dr. Johnson. A pause ensued while Fred apparently caught Johnson up on his personal affairs. “That’s great. Listen, Fred, send Dave up here to remove Dr. and Mrs. Holmes from room 215, would you?” Another pause. “No, that’s okay, but tell Dave to hustle.” He hung up the telephone.
Stephanie’s father stood with his mouth hanging open. He got the gist of things and started seething with anger. “Why—I will have you…”
“Dr. Holmes,” interrupted Johnson in the same flat, calm voice. “I will be happy to explain what the hell is going on here out in the hallway. I suggest you and Mrs. Holmes move there now before Dave gets here. Because if he does get here before you leave, he is going to write up a report, and as the medical director of this facility, I will receive that report and will have to act on it.”
Dr. Holmes’s face dropped and he whirled on his wife. “Why didn’t you tell me he was the medical director?” he snarled.
“I didn’t know. Look at him.”
Dr. Holmes turned back to face the flannel-shirted Johnson. “This is outrageous!”
“As the medical director,” Dr. Johnson went on smoothly, “I will have to forward Dave’s report to the proper authorities.”
Holmes grabbed his wife’s arm, opened the door, and charged into the hallway.
Dr. Johnson turned to Stephanie, who had curled into a ball on her side facing the window. “Sorry about that, Hon—I’ll be back in a second.” Dr. Johnson followed the irate parents into the hall.
A large man in a security outfit was walking quickly toward them from the stairwell. “It’s okay, Dave—I think things are going to settle down.” Johnson’s eyes looked questioningly at Stephanie’s parents. “Well?”
Dr. Holmes nodded.
“Thank you, Dave, for coming so quickly.”
“Okay,” said Dave, but he withdrew only as far as the nursing station where he could keep an eye on things.
“Dr. Holmes, I am Dr. Steven Johnson, the medical director of this facility. Your daughter tried to kill herself today and I was trying to find out why when you came in. I’ve talked to her therapist and think I might be able to help her. She is 19 and, to be honest with you, you have no say in her care.”
Dr. Holmes took a breath to respond, but Johnson held up his hand.
“Please let me finish. As a matter of course, all people attempting suicides are checked into the hospital and kept for at least three days or until we are certain they are no longer a threat to themselves.” He softened considerably and looked straight at Stephanie’s father. “I know you love her, Dr. Holmes, I do. I want to get to the bottom of this as well. Call Dr. Harrison. She knows me very well and may ease your mind about my competence. I will do everything I can to help your daughter.”
“Oh, we’ll be calling Dr. Harrison, and you may be hearing from my lawyer,” the physician shot back.
“As you wish.” replied Johnson. The parents walked down the hallway under the watchful eye of Dave.
“Oh, Mrs. Holmes,” Dr. Johnson called after them. The parents turned. “Do you work?”
“Oh my God.” Mrs. Holmes said rolling her eyes. “Another jackass who thinks women have no business working. Yes, I work, but that had nothing to do with what Stephanie did.”
“I’m not suggesting it did. I’m just curious—what time do you normally get home?”
“Stephanie is 19 years old Dr. Johnson; I do not need to baby sit her.” The mother’s face immediately reflected the realization that her daughter had tried to kill herself while she was not there. Johnson noticed the expression.
“Please, Mrs. Holmes, I’m not suggesting you did anything wrong. No parent would believe she needed to be home in the afternoon when her 19-year-old arrived from school. This wasn’t your fault. I just need to know what time you normally get home from work.”
Mrs. Holmes glared at the psychiatrist. “Three o’clock. That’s when I get home from work, at three. Most days Stephanie gets home from college at two. That means I left her alone for a single hour. If you want to call social services and declare me incompetent, go ahead.” Mrs. Holmes turned abruptly and stormed down the hallway with her husband.
Johnson sighed and pushed the door to Stephanie’s room open. She was breathing the regular easy rhythm of sleep. He eased back out, always amazed at how quickly strong emotion can push someone into the blessed escape of sleep.
****************
The sun shone through the parted blue curtains as Stephanie opened her eyes. She looked through the window and remembered with a rush the previous day with an adrenaline-soaked surge of nausea. The sickly aroma of steam escaping from a plastic-lidded plate of hospital food was filling the room. “People must lose weight in hospitals,” she said to the empty room. Yanking the lid from the plate and moving to a chair she held up a soggy piece of toast that was steamed into submission by hot eggs. “God,” she said in disgust, pitching the limp bread back on the plate and collapsing down into the chair.
The door opened and Dr. Johnson walked in.
“Good morning, darlin’”, he said as he sat on the bed. He pushed both shoes off and sat cross-legged in the middle of the mattress. “How’s breakfast?”
Stephanie looked at him. “You eat it.”
Johnson looked at the soggy steamed wet plate and nodded. “I’ll pick you something up from the vending machine when we’re done. So why two o’clock?” he asked, hoping he could pick up where they had been interrupted yesterday.
“I don’t know,” she replied flatly.
“Having talked with your parents yesterday, I could take a guess that you wanted your mother to find you.”
In addition to his old-time habits of calling his patients Hon, darlin’, and Bud, this was the kind of statement that often got Dr. Johnson in trouble with his colleagues. When he had a suspicion about something, he often told his patients straight up. Most analyst were trained to ask questions of their patients until the patient was able to discern for themselves why they had taken a certain action. Not Johnson.
His strategy didn’t always work, and over the years the psychiatrist had learned when it was appropriate for him to be blatantly honest and when it was appropriate to take a more traditional route. He believed Stephanie fell into the straight up category. Johnson knew it was risky going down this path. There were good reasons why psychiatrists stayed away from giving their opinions. Very easily those opinions could become the patient’s reality, but he sensed in Stephanie a strength of personality that led him to believe his opinion about something would hardly become her reality.
“I’m guessing you were really sad and took the whole bottle figuring your mother, who makes it home at three o’clock most days would have to decide whether or not to let you die or save you. She saved you. Does that surprise you?”
Stephanie continued to stare at Johnson, but her eyes filled.
“Is that why you chose two o’clock?”
Stephanie remined quiet.
“You weren’t sure, were you? You really didn’t know what she would do.” He picked up the plastic pitcher and poured her a glass of water. He held the plastic cup toward her. “Are you happy she decided to save you?”
“I don’t know,” she replied taking the glass and drinking.
“Why did it matter so much to you what she would do?”
“It didn’t really,” replied Stephanie quietly.
“Oh, I think it did,” replied the doctor. “It mattered so much you were willing to gamble your life on it.”
Stephanie smiled, regaining her composure, and chuckled briefly. “Change your perspective, Doctor. It’s that I don’t care enough about living to gamble on her.”
Dr. Johnson considered the wisdom of this statement.
“I stand corrected. You remember yesterday I asked you what you thought your purpose was?”
“Yes.”
“I think your dad interrupted your answer.” Johnson smiled at her.
“Yeah.” She smiled, wiping her nose on the napkin that came with her breakfast. “I’ve never seen him back down like that.”
“I’d like to hear your answer now.”
“I don’t know what my answer is, Dr. Johnson.”
“Well, Dr. Harrison tells me you’re in college. What’s your major?”
“Pharmacy,” she said.
“Maybe that’s your purpose, to be a pharmacist.”
“I hate pharmacy,” replied Stephanie.
“Then why are you majoring in it?”
“They picked it.” She gestured toward the door.
“Oh, I see,” said Johnson, nodding his head. He hopped off of the bed and pulled the other chair up to her.
“Okay, imagine your parents weren’t in the picture. What major would you choose?”
Stephanie started to cry again. “I don’t know. Don’t you get it? I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do or why I am even here,” she said through her sobs, her head drooping as she looked down at the floor.
Johnson leaned forward. “Finding your major is not the problem, is it?”
“The dawn of insight finally hits the medical director,” Stephanie announced.
Johnson laughed a bit at this slap of sarcasm. Stephanie paused a minute, gaining control of her emotions. “Dr. Johnson, did you take science classes in college?”
The question seemed so far out of left field that the physician paused a minute trying to think of what Stephanie was getting at. “Yes, I did,” he said, going with the flow.
“Did they teach you about the cosmos? You know, about how everything got started, the universe and all?”
“Yes, they did, but that was 30 years ago. What are they teaching these days?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter the details, but those courses disturbed me. I hate being in pharmacy school, but they won’t pay for me to do anything else. Even if they would, I have no idea what I would do.” Stephanie raised her green eyes and looked intently at the physician.
“We are nothing here, Dr. Johnson, nothing! It doesn’t matter what we do, so why does anyone care at all what they do with their lives? I don’t. After all, there’s nothing out there. There was the Big Bang, and then we eventually evolved. It doesn’t matter what I do. In the end, my parents who demand that I become a pharmacist are going to die. I am going to die, and you are going to die. So, what difference does it possibly make?”
Johnson sat back, thoroughly surprised. He hadn’t expected this. Seeing the parents, he simply assumed that Stephanie was like other students he had helped over the years with overbearing parents. He believed she just needed to see that life wasn’t about what her parents wanted for her or about getting their attention. Instead, a sense of purpose in life is found from within. Get children and parents to see this, and you could often help. He had misjudged Stephanie terribly, and her problem was much deeper than this. She felt no purpose at all. Her parents, while undoubtedly making life difficult for her, were ancillary to the root problem. Dr. Johnson’s surprise was plastered all over his face.
“Dr. Johnson?” No response. “What’s the matter, doc, never thought about purpose before?”
“No, you just surprised me.”
“Yes, well, I have that effect on people,” said Stephanie. “Do you feel empty, Dr. Johnson?” For all her previous sarcasm, Stephanie asked this question with genuine sincerity.
Johnson was still flummoxed, struggling to find the best way to answer this precocious teenager. This was something he heard from 40 and 50-year-olds who came to believe that all the work they had done for a company or raising a family doesn’t mean a hill of beans. Stephanie was going through a midlife crisis, for crying out loud!
“Yes, sometimes I feel empty.” He stalled, still struggling to get his mind around Stephanie’s problem.
“But not all the time, right?”
“No, darlin’, not all the time. Do you feel empty all the time?”
“When do you feel empty?” Stephanie persisted.
Dr. Johnson was starting to get a little nervous. The kid was taking over the discussion. Johnson had built his career being a bit of a maverick and engaging his patients in ways that were sometimes frowned upon by the psychiatric community, but letting the patient take over the entire session was something even he was not willing to let happen.
“Stephanie, this isn’t about me, it’s about you.” It was feeble, he knew, but he had to get control of the conversation.
“I know that,” she replied. “But I’m trying to see if you feel empty and sad for the same reasons I do.”
“It doesn’t matter why I feel sad. What matters is why you feel sad and empty. Look, I know that’s not a satisfying answer, but I’ve been at this business for a long time and people are unique. The reason I may feel empty from time to time is totally different and unique to me. You can’t use me to try to figure out why you considered ending your life. You understand?”
“Yeah, I understand,” Stephanie snapped. “You’re just like all the rest of the psychiatrists, and I thought you were going to be different. I thought just maybe I had found someone who would actually talk to me and help me instead of just tossing back my own answers at me in the form of a question. God, I hate you people.”
Steve Johnson found himself more bewildered than he had been in years. Thinking as quickly as he could, the psychiatrist decided to enter a territory he usually reserved for people in a midlife crisis. As best he could tell, that’s where she was. The territory where he now intended to go also got him in trouble with his colleagues.
“Stephanie, do you believe in God?”
“What difference does that make?” she retorted quickly.
“Well, maybe none, but indulge me. Do you believe in God?”
“I don’t know. Mom made me go to church when I was a kid, but since I’ve been at college I haven’t gone much.”
“Okay,” Johnson replied, nodding his head. “But regardless of whether or not you go to church, what I want to know is do you believe there is a God?”
Stephanie thought a bit about this, crumpling her napkin. “I believe there is something out there. I’m not sure it’s God, but something spiritual.”
“Do you believe that something had any role to play in starting the universe you learned about in your science courses?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Did anybody mention this God or spiritual thing in any of the descriptions you had in your science courses?”
“No, those courses weren’t about religion, they were about science. Would you expect someone to talk about God in a psychiatry course?”
Johnson paused again collecting his thoughts. “No, to be honest with you, I would be very surprised if someone talked like we are about God in a psychiatry course. But that doesn’t mean that God and psychiatry should not be discussed together. It just means that the two subjects usually are not taught together.”
“Well, why do you think that is, Doctor?” inquired Stephanie. “Normally things are kept apart in courses for good reason. You don’t want to talk about English in a mathematics course because the two really don’t speak to each other.”
“I see,” Johnson responded, stalling for a little time. “So you don’t think what you learned about the origin of the universe in your science courses and God are relevant to each other.”
“No, one is about science and the other is about religion. I learned in science courses how the universe started, how atoms were formed, theories of an infinite universe or recycling collapses and expansions. When you talk about God, you’re talking about worshiping and churches and people praying and stuff.” Stephanie paused. “What does this have to do with my feeling sad and empty anyhow? And you still haven’t answered my question. When do you feel sad and empty?”
“When I go through a loss. When someone close to me dies. That sort of thing.” Johnson revealed this much because he thought he had a better feel for what was troubling Stephanie.
“But that’s not so for you, is it?” the psychiatrist continued. “You feel this way all the time, don’t you, and you’re wondering why I have periods of not feeling empty and lost. Is that right?”
Stephanie nodded, blowing her nose again in the napkin.
“That’s why I asked you the question about whether or not God was presented in your science courses,” Johnson volunteered.
“Dr. Johnson, you are the strangest shrink I’ve ever talked to. What possible difference can it make whether or not my college professors talked about God during my science courses? What does that have to do with me feeling depressed?”
“I think it has everything to do with your feeling depressed. Bear with me just a little bit,” replied Johnson. “If I understand you correctly, you’re suggesting that what science has taught you about the origin of things has nothing to do with God. God has to do with praying, worship, and religious stuff in general.”
Stephanie nodded, a look halfway between annoyance and interest on her face.
“Okay, fair enough. What would you think if I were to say that there was a God and the world’s religions tell us about the origin of things as well?”
“You can’t be serious. You’re a physician, for God’s sake,” Stephanie shot back. “You can’t honestly be trying to tell me you believe all that Adam and Eve stuff. So what—you honestly believe that the universe was formed in seven days by some being who just willed it into existence?”
Dr. Johnson wondered whether or not he had made a mistake going in this direction and, not for the first time, if his religious training was a help or hindrance. He leaned back in the chair.
“What’s the matter doctor—cat got your tongue?”
“Hold on, girl, give an old man a chance to think.” Johnson knew the next words out of his mouth had to be good. Underneath this intelligent mind, there was a girl who, just yesterday, had tried to kill herself. “Where do you think the universe came from?”
“I already told you,” said Stephanie rather triumphantly.
“No, you didn’t. You told me that you learned about how the universe was formed, how atoms got here and such. What I want to know is how do you think the universe got here?”
“The big bang of course. The universe exploded and the pieces started to move apart.”
“I understand that,” said Johnson. “But where did the matter of the universe come from to begin with? What did your science classes teach you about that?”
It was Stephanie’s turn to be silent for a minute. Her brow furrowed in recollection. “I don’t remember that being discussed. We just sort of started at the Big Bang.”
Steve Johnson was again impressed by this young woman. She was not only bright, but honest. “Well, forget about what you learned in science. Where do you think the universe came from?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping me to understand why I took a bottle of sleeping pills yesterday?”
“Well, what if the universe was started by God?” Johnson plowed on. “What if that spiritual thing you believe is out there created the mass that came together to start the universe and then produced the Big Bang? Do you think that has any relevance to why you’re here?”
“Why would it?” Stephanie answered although her eyes were cast down in thought.
“Because if there is a God, something outside of us, as you described, who created the universe, the next question that pops into my mind is ‘why.’ Why would that God create a universe in which human beings could live?”
Stephanie looked back at Dr. Johnson. Her eyes shot back and forth in heavy thought as she considered the implications of this question. “I’m not sure; do you know?”
“I could take a guess, but that’s not a question I should answer. It’s one you need to answer for yourself. If there is a God or something out there as you believe, why did that being create anything? I have my own beliefs about why I think it was done, but why you think it was done is what is important.”
Stephanie looked back at the doctor, her eyes pleading. “Please don’t be a psychiatrist now.” Her eyes were filling up again. “I need a friend. Why do you think it’s important?”
Steve Johnson realized he’d tripped over something exceedingly important to this woman. He took Stephanie’s hand in his own leaned forward and looked into her eyes deeply. “I think it’s important because if God created the universe, then it was done for a reason. There’s a reason why I’m here with you today and there is a reason why you are still alive.”
Tears streamed down Stephanie’s face, but she would not break her gaze from that of Johnson.
“I think it’s important because I believe, Stephanie, that you are here for a purpose, and right now you are confused about what that purpose is. You tried to kill yourself knowing that your mother might interfere because her attention was at least a marginally acceptable substitute. But a substitute is all it was.”
“What do you think my purpose is?” Stephanie said, the tears still tracking down her face.
Dr. Johnson gently shook his head. “Even as your friend, I can’t answer that one for you. But I am certain the universe was not created and brought to the point where you exist in it for no reason. You’re here for a reason, Stephanie.”
Stephanie wiped her nose on the ball of a napkin she still held. “What would you do, Dr. Johnson, if you were not a psychiatrist?”
Steve Johnson smiled broadly, perceiving what Stephanie wanted to know. “I don’t know, Stephanie. But I do know this. I believe without question there is a reason why each and every one of us is alive today. Whether or not I was a psychiatrist, there would still be a reason for my existence. That certainty would carry me forward in search of a new job, a new way of doing what God brought me here to do.”
“It’s so hard.” Stephanie choked up a bit, holding the ball of a napkin to her mouth. “I want to know why I’m here.”
“I know, Hon, I know. We all do.”
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Sebastian Salicru recently posted The Power of Purpose and Meaning in Life: How to Thrive and Celebrate Life Beyond Covid-19 on psychologytoday.com “. In the post he discusses the importance of purpose or personal meaning to psychological well-being:
“It [personal meaning] has also been identified as a protective factor against adolescents’ poor psychological health and risk behaviors. Hence, it not only acts as a buffer against the effects of stress, but is also a strong preventive factor against suicidal tendencies.”
Salicru goes on:
“Purpose and meaning can be achieved by integrating five unique human capacities: intention, intentionality, will, freedom, and responsibility.”
His article describes therapeutic approaches (meaning-centered psychotherapies) that help people exploit these capacities to gain meaning and purpose in their life.
The story of Stephanie is a fictional illustration of Sebastian Salicru’s observation that an absence of purpose is associated with suicidal tendencies. Perhaps a real-life Dr. Johnson would now begin to implement some of the strategies described in Salicru’s post. It seems they should help given their ongoing professional recognition. Yet Stephanie’s comments strike at another aspect of this issue that suggests integrating human capacities alone is insufficient:
“I don’t know. Don’t you get it? I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do or why I am even here,” she said through her sobs, her head drooping as she looked down at the floor.
Acquiring purpose in your life begs another question that Stephanie indirectly asks. To what end? She is not alone. Over my career as a college professor, students sometimes shared similar concerns. These discussions would happen after a long semester of academic difficulty where it was becoming increasingly clear that no amount of tutoring or interventional pedagogy was going to prevent failure. All their careful decision-making and intentionality gave these students a purpose, but they did not have the capacity to realize their goal. A sense of failure and worthlessness would sometimes follow as the inevitable became clear.
“Now what? Of what worth am I now?”, my students would say in not so many words. My response would always include a fundamental truth: you are created by God for a reason. Maybe this wasn’t it. But you are here, valued by the creator, and intended for a purpose. If your worth is anchored in God’s love and value for you, then what you do does not define you. On that foundation meaning-centered psychotherapies can work. But without a sense of self-worth that exists outside of what you do, outside of human beings altogether, I suspect it’s harder for those therapies to gain heavy traction.
Maybe Stephanie’s story reminds you of someone in your life. Maybe my commentary here at the end of the post speaks to your own experiences. If so, then remember the words from our pretend Dr. Johnson:
“But I do know this. I believe without question there is a reason why each and every one of us is alive today. Whether or not I was a psychiatrist, there would still be a reason for my existence. That certainty would carry me forward in search of a new job, a new way of doing what God brought me here to do.”
And King David, Psalms 139:13-16:
For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.
Knowing that the creator of the universe made people for a particular purpose means all are valuable to God as are our efforts to find and acquire our purpose. I suspect the therapies described in psychology today would be even more effective when the person receiving them already believes they are of value to God and that their life decisions are, therefore, of equal value.
My hope is that the story here and my comments following may be read by someone who will be served by them. If I play a small role in helping someone to remember they are loved and valued by God, then today is a good day. May God bless you this and every day in your faith journey.
Dave
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