Voices in the Rain
205 Pages

Voices in the Rain



This is the story of a woman's struggle with mental illness through which she finds spiritual meaning and, ultimately, God.
As a person who has experience severe psychiatric illness and landed on her feet, Marcia A. Murphy offers a unique first-person perspective. She is qualified to tell what such illness is like, its symptoms, stigmatization, hospitalizations, and daily life. Ms. Murphy takes you into her world and provides insights into the spiritual meaning of her illness. Her story gives desperately needed hope to others who are ill, their families, psychiatric professionals, as well as to those who know someone who is ill. Experts in the field from Harvard, Yale, Boston University, the University of Iowa and elsewhere have endorsed this memoir.
General Readers will learn what it is like to experience mental illness and gain compassion for those with such illness.
Those with mental illness may be encouraged and given hope.
Those who treat persons with such illness will gain appreciation of what recovery means and how it may be achieved.



Published by
Published 04 June 2018
Reads 0
EAN13 9781725240186
Language English

Legal information: rental price per page €. This information is given for information only in accordance with current legislation.

VOICES IN THE RAIN Meaning in Psychosis A Memoir By Marcia A. Murphy
Wipf and Stock Publishers 199 W 8th Ave, Suite 3 Eugene, OR 97401 Voices in the Rain Meaning in Psychosis By Murphy, Marcia Copyright©2010 by Murphy, Marcia ISBN 13: 978-1-5326-5400-8 Publication date 3/21/2018 Previously published by Eagle Book Bindery Publishing Co., 2010
But for you who revere my name, the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its wings.
Malachi 4:2a
Acknowledgments I am grateful for the many people who helped make this book possible. Cheeni Rao, J.C. Hallman, and Sarah Townsend, Ph.D., provided expert analysis and editorial advice. Kathryn Rhett, James McKean, Ph.D., and Fritz McDonald provided instruction. Heidi Siemens-Rhodes, M.Div., and Margalea Warner provided insightful critiques. I thank David M. Kirkman for his valuable input. Glenys Williams, MD, Twila Finkelstein, and the St. Andrew Prayer Ministry gave encouragement and support. The Reverend Kyle R. Otterbein shared his perspective and knowledge. Jean McCarty, RN, provided information. I also wish to thank Marjorie Cantor, Ph.D., Richard and Penny Watson, and Virginia Spalding.  I thank my family for the permission granted to me to use material needed to clarify difficult circumstances related to the narrative.  Finally, I wish to express my gratitude to Russell Noyes, Jr., MD, without whose support this book would literally not have come about: thank you for your editorial suggestions and guidance to teachers in the literary arts; but, most of all, thank you for sticking by me through years of trials, for persevering and, for fighting the good fight.
Author’s NoteThis is a true story. However, in order to protect the privacy of individuals involved, some names, characteristics, and locations have been altered. The exceptions are names of prominent figures and those known to the public.
PROLOGUE  “WHAT AREYOUHERE?!” blasted a young, DOING red-haired man in white trousers and shirt.  The dentist had had a bad day. It was 4:30; I must have been his last patient. His manner was out-of-place but being caught off guard I was too stunned to retaliate. Stumbling over my words I tried to explain why I had come to the hospital dental clinic. I thought this a common practice.  “I don’t…don’t have a car and I live nearby, so I was able to walk. I…I needed a place that would accept Medicaid. Most dentists won’t.”  For a while I had taken the bus to a dental office downtown but it was eventually rebuilt on the south side and became too difficult to reach. I knew the hospital clinic would take my insurance.  In the dental chair, my head on the rest, I turned to see the irate man. The dental assistant, a slender brunette in her mid-twenties, stood with a tense expression on her face.  “I’m Dr. Grant. You’ve put on the personal information form that you take the drug Risperdal. What’s that for?” he asked.  “It’s a psychiatric medication,” I said softly.  “What’s itfor? Have you beenpsychotic?Depressed? He emphasized the last words by raising his voice and spewing out his questions.  “It’s for schizophrenia.”
 There. I had said it. Now they would see me as the embodiment of deviance. I wanted to slide off the chair and crawl out the door. The dentist frowned.  “Well, what do you want?! Why are you here?!”  “I’d like to get my teeth examined and cleaned,” I murmured.  “We can do that,” his voice softened. “I’m leaving Iowa; you’re my last patient before I pull up stakes and leave this clinic. I can’t stand the winters here. I’m from Florida,” he said.  I looked out the window at the buildings and trees and appreciated the sunny day. I thought how I liked Iowa. Dr. Grant and his assistant came to my side and performed an exam and cleaning. At one point he commented in a calm, almost cordial way, “You have nice teeth.” *  This is a story of submergence and emergence, of oppression and release, of search and discovery. It is a story of hope, that a life once nearly destroyed, lost, and forgotten, is brought up from the depths by an outstretched hand. I am that life, falling, drowning, crushed. I am that life, fighting, surviving, and seeking. Rising once again, finding air, set free, soaring through the heavens—a shooting star, one among many in the brilliant night sky.  I am the girl who left her troubled home to join a cult. I am the young woman who began to hear voices yet was unable to communicate her terror. I am the psychiatric patient, lover, wife, and friend, searching for hope, recovery, and a reason to live.  Schizophrenia began in my high school years, then a psychosis erupted while I was in the Unification Church—the cult of Reverend Sun Myung Moon. I would go through numerous hospitalizations, diverse occupations, and broken relationships, before finding a new life.  My mind in its broken state was unable to think coherently, unable to process information. Gradually, through time, it began to function once again, and I rebuilt my intellect, word by word, book by book. Poverty brought added hardship,  2
sometimes more difficult to bear than the illness that caused it. Emotional starvation and depression filled my days as I was rejected by friends and strangers—stigmatized by society.  Eventually, by seeking answers to questions many would have considered unanswerable, I began to see a way out of the labyrinth that had held me captive. All signs pointed to the psychosis which was at once the origin of my pain as well as the key to the mystery. With this train of thought I did extensive reading and wrote papers that combined spirituality and medicine, looking at mental illness from a holistic perspective. I also wrote about how it feels to be treated as less than human by society and about the discovery of places where I found joyful fellowship and a sense of well-being. As a result of my search and the changes it brought, my life became rich in manifold and unexpected ways.  To reach the point in my life where I was able to write and function in a normal fashion, I first had to go through years of turmoil that began as a teen. It was then, feeling lost and alone, I joined the cult. That costly error led me, by a series of events, to a sojourn through hell, a sojourn I survived only by the grace of God.
CHAPTER 1  “Would you like to come to a lecture on world peace tonight at Schaeffer Hall? It’s at seven. Can you come?”  The sky was overcast and with a biting February wind at my face, I passed along an icy sidewalk near the University campus. The street was lined with a hodgepodge of store buildings dating from the late 1800’s to the present painted modern hues of pink, brown, gray, and white with complements of red brick here and there.  A young man in his early thirties, speaking with a German accent, invited me to an introductory meeting of his religious organization. He said the presentation would cover religion, politics, and world unity. We spoke briefly and he handed me a brochure; then I walked away.  That evening, I ventured into the frigid air again. Short winter days brought nightfall as a shroud over the campus. I found Schaeffer Hall and with great effort pulled open the heavy entrance door, went up the stairway and to the first door on the left.  Among the rows of desks students from all walks of life sat or stood conversing. A man with short trim hair and polo shirt braced himself against the wall as he gave the petite blond a mischievous smile. A stringy haired Dylan fan, displaying Bob’s latest tour on his t-shirt, snuffed out his cigarette on a mounted pencil sharpener then tossed the butt onto the linoleum. A hefty woman with a mass of curled hair plopped a