For over two decades now, I have lived with this condition – bipolar disorder. It’s been two decades of taking pills and second-guessing my moods, two decades of working in high pressure situations while ever being cautious not to push myself over the edge, two decades of fighting for autonomy while allowing loved ones space to express legitimate concern when they felt I wasn’t being myself.
In the early days, I prayed that God would heal me, but He would not intervene – at least not in the way I expected. It was frustrating and disheartening, shaking my young faith to the core. Where was this God whom we were told had come to heal us? Where was this Lord by whose stripes we were supposed to have been healed?
But now I know that my wholeness is found not in independence from medicines and mood swings, but from learning to make an altar out of my place of brokenness. Out of realizing that in the midst of all His blessings, God left something in my life to become the place of my sacrifice, where I can smile through my tears, and so be able to declare more authentically, “I am a living sacrifice, struggling, but acceptable to the God of the broken-hearted." – Njonjo Mue, from my forthcoming Memoir, ‘Reflections of a Restless Activist.'