by Ann Maree Goudzwaard
I met her at Starbucks, across the street from the hospital. She was frantic. She was typically frantic when we got together, but this time it was worse.
She was off her meds.[1]
I studied her eyes. She told me about her nightmares and panic attacks. I found myself silently begging the Lord for wisdom, and to tell me what to do. Samantha, Sam to her friends, had found my contact info on a counseling website. She told me she was desperate for help and asked if we could meet.
The first time we got together I was blown away. She told me she was gang-raped by her “boyfriend” and several of his friends. She said, when she went to the hospital uncontrollably hysterical, the medical staff ushered her straight to the psych ward. A series of physicians pumped her with multiple mood-altering drugs and then kept her a couple weeks until she stabilized. They sent her home with several prescriptions.
She refused to take them.
This began the oft-repeated cycle of Sam’s manic episodes/hospitalization/psychotropic drugs/release/self-therapy and the subsequent discontinuation of her medicine. Sam was on a medically induced merry-go-round. Every time she was sent home
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