The Archdeacon looked uncomfortable. It was understandable. What I blurted out to him following that meeting wasn’t easy for him to hear and would certainly have been totally unexpected. He’d known me for the past nine years and worked quite closely with me at times. I have become the master at hiding the secrets of my past. Why should he have had any incline of what I was to divulge?
He listened as I explained, as much as I was able at that time, what was going on in my life and more significantly, the past traumas that had awakened within my brain. It was painful to do, and I’m sure painful to listen to. As clergy, we are often called to hear people’s inner most fears and in the confines of Confession, their inner most secrets. I’ve done this and listened to the most traumatic of memories being poured out, but it doesn’t ever become any easier. I was putting him in a position that I had been in so many times over the years and I absolutely knew how uncomfortable it would be for him, as it was for me.
“Are you really able to minister to others and deal with this at the same time, Lynn?” he asked when I’d finished.
“I’m not sure,” was my honest reply. After all I had just broken down in front of a room full of fellow clergy.
He eventually advised me to make an appointment to speak to my GP. He didn’t think there was anybody in the Diocese who was qualified to help me. This was specialised. I needed specialised help.
I drove home that afternoon with tears streaming down my face. I felt totally broken and totally alone. I made an urgent appointment with my GP for the following morning.