MY BIPOLAR FATHER:
The night of August 29th, 1982 was a typical Sunday evening for Pastor Jim. Returning home from a day of services at FBC of Vero Beach where he had served as the lead pastor since 1977. On this particular summer night Pastor Jim was settling in for the evening when he got a knock on his front door. ‘Who would be knocking at such a late hour’ was the first thought that ran through his mind as he made his way to the door. Looking outside he saw that it was a familiar face so he opened the door and asked with his distinct southern accent, “Tommy, what are you doing here at this hour?”
It didn’t take long to see that Tommy was in one of his frantic state of minds, something Jim had grown accustomed to seeing in his time at the church. You see, Tommy was the son of Clarence and Lovina Taber, two faithful members of the local Assemblies of God church down the road and they were some of the most vocal soul winners that Pastor Jim ever knew. Their son, Tommy (my father) had married Garnett Sullivan (my mother), the adopted daughter of Guy and Minnie Sullivan, a highly respected couple in the city. Guy was a local fire chief and Minnie was a business-savvy investing wife with a keen eye toward beauty and excellence.
Tommy had an absolutely brilliant mind, but from time to time his manic mental moments saw him breaking from reality as he would get swept away in the whimsical world of conspiracies and controversies. Never one to back down from a fight, between 1979 and 1982 Tommy had found himself institutionalized on a few occasions taking things overboard. That August summer night on the Newsome front porch seemed to be another conspiracy concoction in the eyes of Pastor Jim. Through the tangential and troubling tirade Tommy was able to communicate, “They are going to kill me, Jim. The cops are going to kill me.”
With as much mental acumen that could be mustered by a fatigued pastor on a Sunday evening Jim attempted to follow Tommy’s reasoning, but in the end he was exasperated by the emotions and energy pouring out of the 34-year old father of four boys who undoubtedly was experiencing what any sane person today would classify as a manic episode. Jim was certain that the threat to Tommy was just a figment of his imagination and in a moment of pastoral reasoning he sent Tommy on his way. “Go home to Garnett and the boys, Tommy! No one is trying to kill you.” He was unaware of the fact that the Taber household was barely holding together and that Tommy and Garnett were separated at the time.
Calmed enough to continue on his journey Tommy took to his bicycle and began pedaling his son’s bike down US 1. That night, less than a mile from the newly opened Indian River Hospital, Thomas Harry Taber, Sr would be struck down and killed in a hit-and-run accident. The next day when the news of my father’s death made its way to Pastor Jim he was terrified at the possibility of Tommy’s death not being accidental and kept the unnerving meeting with my father a secret for the next 8 years. My dad’s death was exactly one week before my first birthday back in 1982, and until April of 2020 I had never heard annything of this story. I had always been told that my father was hit by a drunk driver.
Had I learned of this late-night visit during a season of stability it likely would not have had the impact on me that it did, but as it was, life was moving a million miles a minute and my mind could not comprehend what I was hearing. I still remember the vacant gymnasium I was sitting in when I called Pastor Jim up to verify my brother’s story. I remember the sinking feeling within my stomach when he told me that he hadn’t told anyone about my father’s final stop until he shared it with my brother who was being taken to prison where he would have to submit to the authority of law enforcement for the next decade plus. I remember thinking, “How could you have eased your conscience on a troubled kid who was about to be surrounded by cops?” I remember thinking,”God, how could you allow something like this to happen to my dad?” I was also learning about the fact that my father’s funeral was packed with well wishers from around the city who all loved my dad and thought highly of him. I had always thought my dad was just a crazy man and no one paid him any attention. Truth be told, he was a charismatic, caring, dynamic in nature and loved by all, from the CEO to the homeless man on the street. All the emotions of my childhood issues seemed to be reawakened and I was having to wrestle with thoughts and images that I didn’t even know had existed. Was my father more than the man that I thought he was?
MY ALIENATING, ADOPTED & ANXIOUS MOM:
Prior to 2020 I was convinced that my Mom was the victim of one issue: Bad taste in men. In fact, early in my Christian testimony I would have actually told you that my Mom’s greatest struggle was her low sense of self-worth stemming from her abnormal height, she was 6’4”, and her feelings of abandonment since being given up for adoption as a baby. These qualities led Mom to only date 3 men in her life, and to marry each of them, and I had naturally grouped my father into the same category as her last 2 husbands who never worked a day in their married life.
However, with my newly forming relationship with my brother I started to ask more questions about Thom and Scott’s childhood and sought to discern the truth about my Mom’s cloudy past. Thom and Scott were together in the foster care system when my father and mother were institutionalized. They were together when my father and mother violently erupted into fights and they were firsthand witnesses to the number of times that my Mom physically assaulted my Dad. The images that sprang into my mind were vastly different than the ones I had painted in my own thoughts about my Mom. As I listened to my brother tell me stories of what our Mom asked him to do as the oldest “man in the house” to help provide for our family financially it became more and more clear that the Mom I knew, and the mother he grew up with were not the same.
Since I had confirming images of the supermarket schemes hidden away in the depths of my repressed memories I couldn’t write them off. I also had memories of my mother’s explosive anger from time to time come back to me in 2020, and faint images of my brothers walking away with broken noses and hell-bent hatred toward her. While I tried my best not to draw away from my Mom and hold her accountable for something she had done 35+ years prior the childhood memories that were making their way back into my mind were why I chose to seek counseling from Bellevue Baptist Church. The church that had been pivotal in my Mom’s late-in-life genuine conversion to Christ.
I was attempting to empathize with Thom and still hold on to the Momma G I knew. My kid’s sweet G.G. The Mom I grew up with had broken free from the marriage to her second husband by the time I was 15. The Mom I grew up with wasn’t afraid of where our next meal would come from because her father had left her an inheritance that allowed her no longer to work 2 and 3 jobs. The Mom I grew up with was not like the mother that my two oldest brothers knew firsthand. She was gentle-spirited and kind-hearted, not critical and heavy-handed. She was empathetic and compassionate, not calloused and self-absorbed.
In 2020 my talk with Pastor Jim unveiled some truths about my Mom’s childhood that I never knew. She grew up in a very conservative home. Her mom’s inability to have children made it very difficult for them to feel like their family was complete, and in an attempt to honor God and give my Mom a stable home they chose to adopt her in 1951. They were well into their 50s when my mom was assigned to their home and it was clear that Garnett was to be the pride and jewel of my grandmother’s latter years. She was trained in all things lady-like from the piano, to ballet, to voice, to equestrian showmanship. Little did they know that this dainty, dance-shoe wearing, equestrian-riding, pianist would grow to be a 6’4” giant who carried a great deal of shame and insecurity over her height, and over being given up for adoption. Even though she would tell you that her parents were the greatest, the truth is, the insecure spirit that pervaded my Mom when she was in her 50s was present in her back in the 1950s when she was just a little child. She never could live up to the expectations and standards set by herself or her mother, and the nagging sense that she would never measure up kept her on edge.
Her larger-than-life presence and only-child, some might say spoiled upbringing did not mix well with my father’s passionate and erratic motion. When August 29, 1982 collided with her already crumbling marriage it threw her into a tailspin and led her to make some very bad decisions over the next 5 years. I have no doubt that the sight of my oldest brother Thom had to have been painful for her as he physically looked so much like our father. Many of her decisions weighed particularly heavy upon Thom’s shoulders as he was forced to fix many of her mistakes as a young teenager. The worst of Mom’s bad decisions came when she chose to marry Dan, a man who never should have been allowed inside a household with children.
MY PRAYING & PREYING STEPFATHER:
Dan and Mom met at First Baptist Church of Vero Beach. She was initially attracted to his gentle personality and obvious love for her children, especially for me, her youngest. As a four-year-old without a father figure in my life it was only natural for me to take to a man who gave me his time and attention. It was through us children that Dan would work his way into my Mom’s heart and by the time anyone could speak against it the two of them were married. Within months we were picking up our belongings and leaving the state of Florida to get away from the oversight (and stabilizing presence) of my Mom’s family. I remember hating the idea of leaving Pop and Mars, Grandma and Grandpa, and everything family, to go to a world of unknown. Our stay in North Carolina wasn’t long, and before we knew it we were being hauled further from Florida to the state of Ohio.
It was in this state that most of my devastating childhood memories exist. Living just past the 18th mile-marker in WillowWood, Ohio, I hated every time the bus turned the corner and I was forced to re-enter the hell of my house. I loved competing with my brothers outside and playing in the yard, but inevitably there would be a blowup in our house at the drop of a hat and all hell would break loose. Dan was legally blind and always hid behind his disability. He also was very manipulative towards my Mom and I, and I have no doubt that one of the reasons my Mom and I had such a strong bond throughout her life was because of the way he effectively turned us both against my oldest brother Thom and toward him.
What my Mom didn’t know was that in the quiet moments when Dan and I were alone he was weaseling his way into my life psychologically, physically and emotionally. I never felt safe in my own home from the age of 5 until she divorced him when I was 14. The damage that was done to my psyche in those 9 years has had a lasting impact on me and has been the topic of many therapy sessions. As a kid it quieted my naturally positive outlook on life and created with me many insecurities and an introspective nature.
It was during this season in my life that I resolved to be a good father one day. One who would support my children emotionally, physically and spiritually. One who would create a safe space for them to grow and learn about life. One who would protect them from men like Dan, a monster who prayed in the church house, only to prey on little children in his own house.
As I began to grow aware of Dan’s deceptive and dangerous activities I questioned the goodness of God for allowing such a man into my house. I couldn’t understand why a good God would allow such evil into the world. However, in this season I also remember going to church with my Mom and seeing a side of her I never saw at home. In those old Baptist pews I watched as my Mom poured out her tears before the God she was singing to and she clung to the truths of songs like, “Victory in Jesus” and “At Calvary.” While I never trusted Christ in this season, I appreciated Him for what He did in my Mom’s heart. I remember laying my head on her lap and listening to her cry out to Jesus in prayer times and listening to the messages being preached.
AN EMPTY HOTEL ROOM:
A final event that touches on the family tree side of my mental health came in November of 2020 when my Mom was involuntarily admitted into a mental hospital on November 24th. Within 16 hours she was being released from the hospital and she would make her way over to a hotel room in Covington, TN. That night she rented a room and laid down to go to bed, never to wake up again. She died alone in a hotel room that November evening, hours after being released from a mental hospital.
Something had snapped in her over the course of her final six-weeks on earth. She had become exceedingly paranoid concerning the election and the police. She believed that the government was tapping her phone and listening in to all of her calls. She also believed that there were government officials camped outside her apartment watching her every move. For a woman that had showed no signs of paranoia or psychosis for the last 40 years of life, the early symptoms that were seen when she and my father were institutionalized reared their ugly heads in the last weeks of her life.
The reason I mention this here is because, if my father had bipolar then they say there is a 10% chance his kids would have it. If my father and mother both suffered from bipolar then the odds go up to 40%. The hereditary nature of this disorder is clearly seen in families like my own. I am not a person that believes I am the victim of bipolar. I believe that I have a strong mind and a high calling to steward the gift and the thorn that bipolar presents in my life. I am writing my story in this format because I believe that the one thing that I had that my father did not have was a strong and supportive wife with a stable outlook on life, and a backstory of pain and tragedy upon which to lay my mental anguishes upon. I do not want a racing mind to be my legacy, anymore than my father wanted that to be his. I am choosing to learn from his mistakes. I have the ability to kept swept away in the grandiose and great, but I chose to stay grounded in the Gospel. I chose to tell my story and listen to other people tell me theirs.
BIPOLAR PROCESSING: Trauma is something that must be overcome to rightly handle thoughts that are intrusive and emotions that are unwanted. While there are chemical imbalances that must be handled in order to lessen the devastation of bipolar, there are choices and there are truths that must be made and believed in order to lessen the power of trauma over a person’s life. While I am uncertain of how much of my “bipolar bend” is rooted in my family tree including a Mom and Dad who both had mental health struggles, and how much of it is fruit from trauma, I am certain that my dedication to the truths of Scripture have done wonders to keeping me grounding in the Gospel. I find such delight in the truths that I am loved, I am accepted and I am chosen in Christ. I find great peace in knowing that though the enemy of my soul has attempted to destroy me, I belong to a Christ who came that I might have life and have it more abundantly. I am constantly bombarding my heart and life with the truth of the Word of God. The wounds of my past, when healed by the Word of God, become scars that serve as stars that point people to the one who alone can free them from the bars of their bondage and slavery. The power of positive thinking is scientifically backed. The power of biblical thinking is supernaturally backed. While genetics might speak to the likelihood of me having bipolar, genetics has nothing to say about whether or not bipolar will have me. A beautiful mind or a broken mind? Which of these is true of a person living with bipolar? The answer is found in the Biblical Processing.
BIBLICAL PROCESSING: “My soul faints for Your salvation, but I hope in Your Word.” (Psalm 119:81). The weary road of a Christ follower is one that finds him faint at different seasons of life. For the bipolar traveler these seasons may be more prevalent and painful to travel. However, just as the psalmist declares, our hope doesn’t have to be tied to our health. My soul faints, but I hope. Something beyond my inner being and self, something of greater and grander picture comes into play. I hope in Your Word. There is great comfort to be found in the Psalms and their inner cries for deliverance and help. These weren’t just warrior cries on a battlefield, these were worrier cries in their bedrooms. Oh God, may you hear our cries and come to our rescue. Praise the Lord who knew that my stepfather would attempt to steal my childhood, but in the end, he would only be a small part of the story God is writing with my life. My stepfather’s actions against me were meant for evil, but God desires to turn them for good. When I was 19 years old I shared my testimony in a juvenile delinquent home and for the first time I watched God used my tragedy to project His truth. A young man was there because he attempted to shoot his step-father with a shotgun. After hearing of the heinous acts of my stepfather and the life-freeing redemption I found at the age of 17 in Jesus, that young man trusted Christ. I remember weeping off to the side and thinking to myself, “God, if it cost me losing my childhood for him to gain eternity, it was worth it.” He is truly in the business of taking broken pieces and making them into masterpieces. My father’s innate ability to connect with the CEO and the street corner homeless man surely speaks to his mind’s ability to move to the manic phases and stages of truth that captivated the well respected person of business, while his ability to suffer alongside the hurting in an empathetic way speaks to the depressive side of a bipolar mind. The average person’s range of influence and impact is generally determined by the range of emotions and connections they can make with the average person. For a bipolarly gifted individual the range of their reach is increased as long as they remain grounded in the Gospel truth. When we are called to weep with those who weep and rejoice with those who rejoice, we aren’t called to be swept away in the emotions of others, but rather, to be present with them in their emotions and help ground them toward Christ. In my personal journey with bipolar my greatest freedom from my personal pain has come when I bear another’s burden.