For three long months, I was confined to that one bedroom prison. Some days, it felt as if my body was slowly consuming itself, the weight of despair pressing down with an unbearable heaviness. The meals were sporadic, and I could still hear the haunting sound of that bell, signaling the fleeting moments of nourishment that felt more like a chore than a relief.
It was a relentless battle of the mind—every moment a test of my strength and endurance. I found myself locked in an internal struggle, fighting against the urge to give up, to surrender to the darkness that threatened to swallow me whole. “Keep fighting, Kate,” I whispered to myself, a mantra that became both my lifeline and my anchor amidst the chaos.
In those quiet, lonely hours, I would often drift into daydreams of my past—specifically, my cherished softball days. The scent of fresh-cut grass, the sound of a bat connecting with a ball, and the laughter of teammates filled my mind. I reminisced about my family and friends, wondering what they were doing in my absence. Did they think of me as much as I thought of them? Did they feel my absence as acutely as I felt the void they left behind?
Amidst this turmoil, I discovered a glimmer of hope in an my journal. Writing became my refuge, a sacred space where I could pour out my thoughts and feelings without judgment. It helped bring clarity to the confusion swirling in my mind. With every stroke of the pen, I found strength—strength to confront my emotions and articulate the whirlwind of guilt, anger, hatred, and sadness that enveloped me.
This three-month journey was something most people couldn't fathom. I grappled with the harsh reality of my situation, piecing together how I had ended up here, suspended in a limbo of isolation. Yet deep within, a flicker of determination ignited. I knew my life couldn’t end this way; I felt a profound certainty that God had something greater in store for me. There had to be more to my story than this chapter of darkness.
As I navigated through the storm of emotions, I confronted the guilt of feeling weak, the anger at circumstances beyond my control, the hatred of my confinement, and the sadness of longing for connection. Each feeling was a wave crashing over me, pulling me under, yet somehow, I learned to swim against the tide.
Through the act of writing, I began to reclaim my narrative. I transformed anguish into art, confusion into clarity, and isolation into introspection. My pen became a sword, cutting through the darkness, illuminating the path toward healing. With each word, I reaffirmed my existence and my right to fight for a future that felt just out of reach.
In those long, lonely months, I realized that strength resides not just in physical endurance but in the courage to confront one’s own demons. I was on a journey, a pilgrimage of sorts, leading me back to the light. And as I continued to write, to dream, and to fight, I felt the promise of hope rekindling within me—a reminder that even in the darkest of times, the dawn will always break.
Finally, the moment I had been yearning for arrived. One of the superiors approached me with a sense of urgency in her voice, telling me to pack my belongings because I was to be taken back to Manila. A wave of joy crashed over me at the mention of that name—Manila! The capital of the Philippines, a place that held countless memories and the very essence of my mission. It was where the main missionary house of the SITH stood, the sanctuary where Mother Agnes and Fr. Bing stayed
As I made my way to Manila, I felt a mix of nerves and excitement fluttering in my stomach. Upon arrival, I was greeted warmly by the sisters, their smiles lighting up the room like a beacon of hope. Yet, amidst the joy, I was informed by the superior of the house that I was to see a doctor for an evaluation—a female psychiatrist. The word “evaluation” struck a chord of anxiety within me, but I clung to the hope that perhaps this would be my chance to express my true feelings.
When I finally met the psychiatrist, I was taken aback by the intimacy of our meeting—just the two of us. There were no sisters hovering nearby, as had always been the case in my past encounters. It felt liberating yet daunting. As she began to ask me questions, I opened my heart, pouring out my struggles and desires. “I just want to go home,” I repeated, my voice tinged with longing. Life in a Third World country had been a relentless challenge, and the ache for my family, my friends, and the familiarity of home consumed me.
That session became a pivotal moment in my life, one that illuminated the shadows I had been navigating for nearly five years. During my time in the Philippines, I had adhered to strict discipline, often feeling isolated due to my inability to speak Tagalog. The pressure to conform to the expectations of the superiors was immense; we were often discouraged from speaking English, leaving me feeling like an outsider in a world that felt increasingly alien.
What they didn't know was that I had quietly learned Tagalog. I understood far more than I let on, deliberately choosing to remain silent. It was my secret lifeline, a means of preserving my sanity in an environment that often felt suffocating.
After my evaluation, I found myself in another meeting with the mother superior and a sister, where they engaged in a conversation with the psychiatrist in Tagalog. I listened intently, my heart racing as I caught snippets of their discussion. The doctor conveyed her professional assessment, stating that she found no mental illness within me. Instead, she articulated that my struggles were a natural response to longing for home, a testament to the stark differences between my life in the Philippines and my roots in the United States.
Hearing this was both a relief and a revelation. It was a validation of my feelings, but it also exposed the underlying tension between my reality and their perception of it. I realized that while they saw my emotional state as a crisis, I perceived it as a journey—a testament to my resilience and an affirmation of my humanity.
In that moment, I understood that my voice mattered. I was not defined by their fears or their attempts to categorize my experience. I was a survivor, navigating the complexities of my emotions with grace and strength. The journey home was not just about returning to a physical place; it was about reclaiming my narrative and embracing the richness of my experiences, both joyful and painful. As I stood at this crossroads, I felt a renewed sense of purpose, ready to face whatever lay ahead with courage and conviction.
When I returned to the house, my heart was still racing from the evaluation, a mix of relief and trepidation swirling within me. I was scheduled for a manifestation with the mother superior, a meeting that would soon take an unexpected and unsettling turn. As I sat across from her, I felt a weight settle heavily on my chest. It was during this encounter that I discovered the stark contrast between my reality and the narrative being spun around me.
The mother superior, with her piercing gaze and authoritative presence, began to relay information that left me reeling. The psychiatrist’s words, which I had interpreted as a beacon of hope, were twisted into a different narrative in Tagalog. They painted a picture of me as someone who had lost their way—someone teetering on the brink of madness. They suggested that I was going crazy, a sentiment that struck deep into my core. It was as if they were trying to convince me that my longing for home, my struggle to adapt, was a sign of weakness.
They spoke of crisis, of the dangers of straying from one’s vocation and calling. I listened in disbelief as they used fear as a weapon, weaving a web of spiritual peril around me. They warned that vulnerability left one open to the attacks of the devil, insinuating that my emotional turmoil was not merely a response to my circumstances but rather a manifestation of demonic influence. The more they spoke, the more I felt the ground shift beneath my feet.
In that moment, I felt trapped in a narrative that was not my own. They tried to imply that my behavior, my yearning for connection, and my desire for a familiar embrace were signs of a deep-seated crisis, that I was somehow unraveling at the seams. I could hardly process the deluge of accusations being hurled my way. It felt surreal, like I was watching a bizarre play unfold where I was both the reluctant actor and the bewildered audience.
As they continued to press their point, I felt an urge to defend myself, to assert my truth. But fear began to seep in, and I felt the walls closing in, suffocating my voice. Doubt crept into my mind, whispering that perhaps their words held some truth. Had I really lost my way? Was there something fundamentally wrong with me?
But deep down, a flicker of resilience ignited. I had been through so much already, and I refused to let this moment define me. I remembered the strength I had summoned to endure the challenges of living in a foreign land, the courage it took to share my struggles with the psychiatrist. I was not going crazy; I was navigating the complexities of my emotions in a world that felt increasingly foreign.
In that uncomfortable confrontation, I realized this was not just about my mental state—it was about reclaiming my narrative. I would not allow their fears to dictate my reality. I was a survivor, and my journey was far from over. The battle to find my voice and my truth had just begun, and I was determined to embrace it, no matter the obstacles that lay ahead. I was bound and determined to face a way out- to regain my freedom outside of here!
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