The feeling of isolation is a recognized symptom of suffering.  I’ve seen it and I’ve known it, but I’m scared of letting other people know.

I went to a prayer meeting once where a woman got up and spoke about her daughter’s tragic circumstances, but before leaving the stage she also belittled and mocked other people’s prayer requests because they were so pathetic in comparison to hers.

While we knew she was speaking out of deep pain, nothing will kill a prayer meeting faster than making everyone else in the room feel unworthy of asking for prayer.

I can’t help thinking, however, that of all the people this woman hurt that day, she might have hurt herself most.  I’m sure there were plenty of people who might have been able to offer a shoulder to cry on, but instead withdrew in fear of being pushed away.

We have a strong tendency to isolate ourselves in our suffering.  We push people away one by one until we’re standing all alone in a tiny shelter we think is sufficient to shield us from more pain.

Honestly, I’m just as guilty of doing this as anyone.  In fact, I live in such a well built shelter most people don’t even know where I’ve come from.

There are plenty of people who think they know fairly well, but have no idea that I wake up every morning and take a medicine that regulates my brain, a high-level pain killer and a medicine that keeps the first two medicines from making me sick, then I do it all over again every night before I go to bed.  Even the people I’ve told only know bits and pieces of my story.

Because most people misjudge my age when they see me, if I say “When I was twenty, I got sick,” they tend get lost in the idea that I’m older than twenty.  I like that, because it lets me hide from the rest of the statement.  The truth really is much more than, “I got sick.”

When I was twenty I went to bed one night and woke up the next morning in the hospital.  The severe headaches I’d been suffering over the past few months had suddenly turned into multiple grand mal seizures for no apparent reason.

Over the next several years I went through the journey that is living with epilepsy as I waited for the doctors to find a treatment that didn’t make me sicker than I already was.  A lot of that time was spent holding my head in my hands, counting off the minutes until I could take another dose of Advil.

I was stripped of everything during those years.  I couldn’t go to college.  I couldn’t work.  I couldn’t keep up with anyone my age.  Watching other people live their lives was my primary occupation and in the process I lost every ounce of self-worth I had.  I knew I was valueless in a lot of eyes and I was absolutely valueless in my own.  All I was left with were the things I didn’t like about myself that I had been previously able to ignore by simply working harder.

The beautiful part about moments like these is they are the exact moments God steps in and states without a shadow of a doubt, “You are valuable.”  Bit by bit, I learned what people were talking about when they told me God loved me.  I came out with the understanding that I wasn’t valuable for what I could do, but for who I am.  God didn’t send Jesus to save me because that’s part of God’s obligation as the creator the universe.  He did it because He loved me as an individual, knowing all the faults I had and all the mistakes I would still make.

But I didn’t know how to tell people.

I made it to the end of my valley when the doctors finally found a way to treat my symptoms enough that I could start living again.  The process was almost like relearning how to live and for a long time I just couldn’t think about the past.  During the transition period I also began to realize that the word epilepsy had a stigma attached to it, one I didn’t want attached to me.  The misconceptions people have about epilepsy became apparent, so I felt the need to hide.  I told myself I was simply sparing people the discomfort they would feel if they knew someone in their vicinity had a classified “disability.”  The truth was I was afraid of what people might think of me or that they would look at me and see epilepsy rather than the person that I am.  I cloaked myself in normalcy and quietly lived in fear of the day I might have to confess.  I never thought I was selling myself and God short in the process until very recently.

It started with a program on miraculous healing.  I couldn’t help wondering if the stories of people healed of severe diseases were true.  And if they were, could someone like me ever experience it too.  While I have been able to live relatively free for years now, it would be nice to be rid of the worries and certainly of the cost of prescription medication.  So, I asked God about it.

I talked to Him for a while, but it wasn’t until I stopped to listen that a new concept hit me. Why would God take this away from me, when I’ve never used it to help anyone else?

Epilepsy is a gift to me.  Because of it I am stronger and happier than I ever was when I was “healthy.”  But the thing about the gifts God gives to us is He always wants us to turn around and give them to others.  Our God is a giving God and He expects us to be the same.

So, now, as awkward and scared as I still feel, I’m done with hiding my gift.  I want to share it with you.  And I hope in return you’ll share yours with me.
I know your sufferings are probably very different from mine.  I don’t come from a broken home.  I’ve never been abused.  I’ve never lost someone dear to me.  And there is certainly a world full of diseases I’ve never experienced.

But I think it’s time we stop separating ourselves based on what type of pain we feel and instead be happy we can comfort each other, knowing we both understand suffering and the beauty it can bring.

If you are still in the middle and you haven’t found your gift yet or it’s still too soon for you to talk about it, trust me, I understand completely.  All I ask is you don’t shut yourself away from us.  When you do find your gift, and I know you eventually will, please don’t be afraid to share it.