When I was younger, I had a vivid spiritual life. I would find myself occasionally immersed in an otherworldly experience — under a waterfall, on a quiet street, under turmoil. I believed in spirits, because I had encountered them. Hunches were often accentuated by feelings of dread or elation that seemed to come from outside of me. It was a time of big emotions.
This stopped when I went on the bipolar medication. No more presences, no more portents. This caused me to reevaluate my spiritual life of prior years. Did none of those things happen? They felt real to me. Were my spiritual moments just artifacts of my bipolar disorder? I have trouble believing that, but the boundary seems sharp.
Or does it? I realize that those spiritual moments did not end abruptly, but did a slow fade. Through my adult years, as a professor trained in logic, I questioned my experiences. They were artifacts of my extreme moods, of stressful moments. I distanced myself from those extraordinary occurrences.
Nowadays, I don’t know what to believe. I pray, but I don’t know if I pray to a supernatural presence. I believe that praying sharpens my ability to deal with the world, a very rational thought. I don’t feel those moments as I did when younger, but I think I’ve internalized those feelings and hunches and claim them as my intuition. Perhaps the spirits were pieces of me I hadn’t claimed yet. But I miss those days.
Words Like Me 