Confessions of a Changed Missionary

This letter is intended for all those who supported us financially, spiritually, and emotionally as missionaries.

I am sorry.

You entrusted us to go to the Philippines and share the gospel, make disciples, and plant churches. I can tell you we absolutely did that. However, God had different plans and our time as missionaries was cut short. We had plans and God had his.

I apologize that I am sitting here in my warm, comfortable home instead of sweating my tail off in my moldy home; which I loved. I am very sorry I am not there. You can not imagine how the tears still flow and the heart still breaks for this broken dream.  

We were advised when we had to come off the field that I had no obligation to tell anyone why or what my medical condition was. I still believe that is true, that is why we have HIPPA after all. But I feel that I need, for my own healing, to tell you what was going on inside my body.

My illness was first mental, then physical. I have, it seems, always struggled with depression and anxiety. Prior to leaving for the field, I did my due diligence and made sure the medications I needed would be available. I was in my third year of counseling and feeling better than ever. I had about three months supply of medication packed up tightly in a suitcase with all the only other belongings I owned. Upon arriving, I began my search for a doctor. After many, many hurdles to jump through, I finally found a psychiatrist who would see me. She prescribed my normal medication and I went to three different pharmacies to get three different medications. Missionaries in the Philippines I know you feel me on that adventure.

About two weeks into my Filipino medications I began to feel really awful. I had no energy, my body ached with flu like symptoms, I began loosing weight. After more time my body would tremor randomly and my hands seemed to always be shaking. The stress of a cross country move and navigating a new culture was stressful enough, but now I feel awful. As time wore on and I only got worse, my depression started to really amp up.

The depression made my symptoms worse and the cycle continued until I was scratching my thighs until blood pooled at my feet and trying to convince myself not to jump out of the second story window.

Now I have been suicidal before, but never like this. I see now, fourteen months ahead, that this was spiritual warfare over my body. I wanted to overdose on pills, I dreamed of jumping from the fifth story breezeway at the international school where my precious daughters had a basketball game. It became a normal nightly ritual for me to lay my head on my husbands shoulder and cry and cry until you thought you would die from crying and you fall asleep in exhaustion. I wanted it all to stop, I prayed, I begged for it to stop. I didn’t understand it. What was happening to my body?

I finally made a resolution. This came after about 3 weeks of being 90% bedridden. If this is what it takes for the Gospel to advance then bring it on. I told God, I will endure all the pain, and stay here until you say go in order for others to be saved. It felt like it was my duty to be afflicted and if that was God’s will then so be it. But the problem was, others were starting to notice. I couldn’t hide my horrible mood swings anymore. We were spoken to with love and deep caring by our host missionaries and our sending agency. It was decided that after 6 months on the field that we needed to return to the states so that I would not succeed in any future attempt on my life, which seemed imminent.

We got home and I felt worse. Now not only am I in deep deep depression but my dream and goal we had worked so hard for was gone. That crushed me. My initial evaluation by my American doctor was that the medication I thought was the same was in fact not the same. All my earlier symptoms, shaking, mood swings, aches, were all from coming off of my medications cold turkey because the medicines were in fact not the same. I was prescribed medication the doctor had never heard of and that I was also anemic, not to mention I weighted 108 lbs at 5’9.

I wish I could say that was the end of it, but it wasn’t. I only got worse and new symptoms seemed to pop up everyday. Finally after nine months of pure hell, we found a mental health and physical health facility that was able to help me and get me on the correct medication. I felt like a light switch had been turned on. I am not cured and still struggle daily, but I am leaps and bounds from where I was.

I know I didn’t have to give an explanation of why we had to return home, but I feel like I owe it to you.

You entrusted me to take the sacred Word of God to a new nation and the couple you met who were so excited to be your missionaries, are now back in America living a life similar to the one they had before. With all that being said, once again I offer my apology. I wish things had been different, I wish I had been able to have the medication I have now in Manila. But things turned out differently and why only God knows. I do however know that lives were saved because we went. One single event my husband was a part of, saw over one thousand students saved. I wasn’t at the event, but because I was there with the children and because I was in the Philippines, he was able to go and share the Good News. Praise God.

If only one life were snatched from the fire, it was all worth it. I know all of you supporters out there can say amen to that. Thank you again for letting us be your mouthpiece in a foreign land and I apologize that we weren’t able to do more.

Most Sincerely,

Jessica Anderson

I recently had the privilege to join with a group of women who were struggling in life. Most had suicidal thoughts, crippling anxiety and depression. Just by happen stance I was able to hear most of their stories and I was astounded that every woman who shared her story with me had been raped or sexually assaulted in some way. The hard truth is most had been raped.

So what do we do with that. What happens to a woman’s brain after such a traumatic event. Well this I know. Unresolved and suppressed hurt leads to suicide, depression, anxiety, PTSD ect. I know because I too was raped and have suppressed the trauma for eighteen years. Almost every woman there had also been assaulted by someone they knew.

I am a giant dateline mystery watching type of girl. It seems its not just me but thousands of women are enjoying these types of shows. Why? Well I had to dig a little deep to find the answer but I think there is some comfort in the fact that we see this trauma played out on television and we connect with it on a deeper level. Its the trauma that keeps us going back. We don’t want to deal with our own trauma, so we watch others. This trauma is too much. It hurts. We feel if we can push it deep enough then it will never resurface to do what we are afraid it would do, and that is destroy us.

So suppression lands us back to the mental health facility with all these women who have been assaulted. Of course I am no scientist and I have done no formal experiment to test the correlation, but to my common sense it seems that there is a link between sexual assault and mental health issues.

This one time, this one event, around twenty minutes, changed my life forever.

I didn’t kick, I didn’t scream. I knew this person. They wouldn’t hurt me. What is happening to me must be my imagination. This can’t really be happening to me, and then it was over and I was discarded. I said no, I pleaded to just talk, but because I didn’t fight, I blamed myself for it all. I took it all on and shamed myself. No one could ever have shamed me as much as I have shamed myself.

Sorry, but I also have to say, what an ASS you must be to take what you want in such a quick and devastating manner and disregard that this will create lifelong trauma for someone else. The perpetrated moves on and the victim is put in an invisible jail.

Is it possible for me and other women to heal from this trauma?

Yes. I can say that I am healing. I made great strides to heal my brain when I finally admitted and acknowledged what had happened to me.

Will we ever me the same?

Absolutely not.

I type that with tears in my eyes. The trust that was broken and the savage taking of a part of my soul will never be repaired. I can however learn to live with the pain and know that this one event doesn’t define me or hold me back unless I let it.

So yes I have some responsibility in this. With every decision in life we have a choice. I didn’t know I was choosing to live in fear and anxiety from the rape. Once I finally let my brain admit what happened, then I was able to start the healing process. My brain was protecting me all these years. Your brain is designed to protect you at whatever cost. My brain said “this is too much to deal with, so lets forget it ever happened.”

That “protection” led me to depend on anxiety and depression medication. It led me to suicidal plans. I wanted to take my life and a lot of the reason was because I really felt like I had no worth and that I would never be redeemed. I always wondered why I felt so unworthy all the time. I painted my life as a failure, all because some jerk raped me and then left me on the side of the road like trash. This person left me on the side of the road life a piece of garbage and from that point on I felt worthless. As I began to heal I realized how much this event has affected me. How strange to finally be able to pin point a cause for some of the pain. The average person reading this who has not been sexually assaulted says “of course that changed you” but to those of us who have been assaulted, we do not want to admit it and that leads to mental health issues.

So what does sexual assault do to a woman? I makes her lie to herself. I don’t want to be a rape victim so I make excuses for the person. I blame myself because even that is better than admitting what really happened. You see if we admit it, then the pain is just too much. So we sweep it under the rug and the wound never heals. Sexual assault changes you. Most people will say you are stronger because of what you endured, but the reality is you had no choice. There was no other alternative. You have to be strong to survive. Be strong or die. Acknowledge the pain or continue to live in fear.

Once I began therapy to begin to heal from the rape, I felt like a huge weight had been lifted off of my chest. The thing my brain was trying to do, protect me, was in essence the very thing that was making me sick. I had to deal with the gaping wound or it would never heal. Like they say, the first cut is the deepest, and it was. I acknowledged it and became the rape victim that I never wanted to be, then I began to heal.

So here is the point to this long message. Women love yourself and others. Teach your daughters this dateline stranger danger scenario could happen, but it is most likely going to be someone you know, someone you trust, someone you think loves you and would never hurt you.

For your teenage virgin it could be constant pressure from their boyfriend, manipulation, and fear tactics that get the girl to go along with it. Yeah to you that doesn’t sound like rape but maybe you need to open up your mind to see how a person you love can groom you to get you to do what they want. That’s rape.

We know the classic rape scenario, but tell your friends and daughters that rape doesn’t always look like that. It is assault anytime you are made to do something sexual you don’t want to do. Whether through force or manipulation, it is sexual assault.

If the mental heath care system in America were the standard for the Health care system in our country we would be in a state of emergency.

It was inevitable. I was going to kill myself. I didn’t want to. I was fighting hard, but my brain was broken and I didn’t think I could hold on much longer. The entire family had to come together to take a shift on suicide watch. All I can say to describe the way it felt to be in it is nauseating. It was awful. I can’t imagine how it felt to be on the outside. I pray to God that I never have to get that low again. It hurt. My flesh doesn’t ever want to feel that pain again.

The reason my family had to go on lock down, there were no other options. I could either be left to my own demise or put in an inpatient facility. I’ve been in an inpatient facility once before. Let’s just say I was naive and thought this is what I needed so I voluntarily signed up for this horrific sham.

Inpatient facility makes One flew over the Cookoos Nest look like a beachside oasis. I cried, begged, and pleaded and so they searched for other options. They weren’t there. I was already in counseling (3+ years 😎) I already saw the primary care who said lock her up, then the counselor, lock her up, then the Psychiatrist, lock her up. I was trembling with fear. Lock her up equals more trauma so they stood down.

By Gods grace we found the only Mental Illness Facility in America that is doing it right. Mind (the organ) body (chemical makeup) spirit (the Holy Spirit inside you, are you grieving it or are you feeding it?) This place treats you like a person not an inmate. The link is here for anyone needing help : honeylake.clinic

I have been snatched from the fire and for this moment in time my cause is helping find solutions to our mental health. I’m not just complaining, I want to help solve the problem. We need other voices, more awareness. Talk to the veterans and ask them if mental illness matters. Demand change for basic dignity. Let our acute care look like the ICU floor not death row. Find your local healthcare professionals and start a discussion. Light a fire in places where chance can be made. Vote for those who dare to tackle this issue. Pray for Gods mercy and grace. The sweet grace that brought me to the other side.

It was hard work. A month away from family, losing all independence, tackling hard subjects, like how every woman there had been sexually assaulted, another time. I stayed the course and God restored healing to my mind, body and soul. I’m still healing but I’m no longer in ICU.

So I raise my soapbox banner, though small and of no incredible significance to the crisis in our country for mental health care. I hope it’s a spark that ignites a nuclear bomb.

Seven months. Seven months I have been back in the greatest country in the world. Yeah America has her problems, and we continue to fight to make our country better, but in my experience there is way more to be grateful for. If you have never stepped out of the US, its imperative that you do.

So that being said, I should be in the troughs of ecstasy now that I am back in my home country and no longer face the highly populated 3rd world place I had given my life to serve in. However, last night as I watched a podcast of my home church millions of miles away, I began to sob until my eyes were almost swollen shut.

Grief. It is such a multifaceted emotion.

It is loss. Loss of anything that you held dear. 

I held my mission field and my calling from God dearest. In a moment it all came crashings down and my shell of a self was on an 27 hour trek back to the mother land.

Things looked up, I got better medical care, we expected to go back asap.

The tides change quickly and  before I knew it there was no chance of going back.

No hope for healing here in the “promised land” any more than there was in the foreign land. I physically got worse and worse. A heart issue arose, two auto immune diseases, debilitating depression, random anxiety, serotonin syndrome and anemia.

Some of the illnesses started on the field. My journals take me back to the despair, but also to the unshakeable resoluteness to serve until God said enough. I wanted to stay in the hell I was in, because no matter the pain, my love for God was always greater.

Gods love and strength inside of me is why I was not brought back to my family in a body bag.

The hand of his protection is vivid now as I read my darkest thoughts on paper.

“I see a glimmer of hope because I have You living in me. But it hurts so bad. God you feel my pain, you know I am in agony with every breath. I love you God. My pain overwhelms me in moments and I forget where I belong. How long do I suffer? Why did you have me give everything away with a joyful heart and now crush my soul?” Nov 24 2018

I am still processing how you can feel that way,

think of suicide everyday, carve gashes with your fingernails on your legs and arms so deep that you still have scars, but weep with longing when you see your church home and hear the familiar songs and accents of your mission field on a live stream.

Feel a lump in your throat at meet the teacher when you see the Filipino flag flying in your daughters new history class.

Deep regret rising up each day thinking of all the ways you had planned to help the innocent and lost children there.

Anger at seeing your friends who are there, still carrying the torch and feeling the ugly head of jealousy creep in.

As a lot of my sickness has begun to somewhat dissipate the grief is screaming to be dealt with and everything seems to be coming up foreign.

I cant escape it. The beautiful smile of a friend on facebook. The address of my amazon account. The accent on my phone. The news articles suggested for me to read. The struggle that I don’t know where I belong. The way we always want to tell our stories of life “over there” when we know we have told them way to much, but we can’t seem to stop.

Its all coming up foreign and I would go back in a heart beat if God would send me. Tears stream down my face as I type that.

I’m not looking back with rose colored glasses. I know being on the mission field was the hardest thing we have ever done. I’d do it all again. I’d go now.

I have now answers to the why. I only hope to heal and be strong enough to dust myself off and say what next God? Whatever it is, I’ll do it, wherever it is I’ll go.

I am not sure why this is the way I have begun this new “autobiography”.

Maybe it was seeing the physical pain laid out in medical bills that I finally decided to tally up tonight. 

Over 14 grand in unpaind medical bills doesn’t even begin to describe the hurt that my heart has endured, but it did put it in black and white. Maybe that’s all I needed to begin to process some of the grief tonight.

The physical pain is real, the loss is real, the scratching tooth and nail to regain some sense of normal is real. The scary reality of adding up the monetary cut somehow wasn’t what I expected. I expected terror and panic, but I found validation in the strangest of ways.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton