Maria: A Story of Mental Illness and Healing through Faith and Spirituality

By Maria Loretto

This personal story depicts the journey of a psychotherapist who struggled with her own mental health diagnoses of bipolar and body dysmorphic disorder. Her spiritual growth and struggles are interwoven within her internal challenge to find sanity, peace, and meaning while walking a tightrope between fantasy and reality. Ultimately the puzzle of her mind integrates through faith, love, support, and conventional medicine. In turn, she learns that we all fight similar battles in the human condition and hopes that by sharing hers, others will find inspiration, hope, and/or validation. Her greatest wish is that her story will bring anyone who needs it closer to seeking healing through their faith, spirituality, and God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638443940

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Maria

A Story of Mental Illness and Healing through Faith and Spirituality

Maria Loretto

ISBN 978-1-63844-393-3 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63844-394-0 (digital)

Copyright © 2021 by Maria Loretto

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

The Beginning

Welcome to America

Can You Go Home Again?

The Desert

Brazil

The Windy City

The Big Apple

The Man Who Would Change My Life

Years of Madness

Coming Home

To my children

My sun, my moon, my star

To my family

To Carlos

Chapter 1

The Beginning

I was born on March 21, 1972, in Schenectady, New York. My mother tells the story of the day when she went to an old castle-like historic hospital in Niskayuna county, knee-deep in snow. My father was working on his doctorate degree in economics at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. My mother worked full-time at home, taking care of my two older sisters, ages three and one-and-a-half: my dearest Isabella and Gabriella. My mother would take us to a small playground in the courtyard of their apartment building. People wondered how my parents managed being student parents of three under three. My mom also tells the story of when the doctor asked what her husband did for a living, and when she responded, He’s a student, the doctor replied, Perhaps you should think about birth control. My mom was brought up old-school by my devout Catholic grandmother whom we called Mimi. Being the oldest of nine in a strict Catholic household, I suppose this was the first time my mother was presented with the idea of birth control. But she agreed, and the story went on. Luckily my paternal grandmother, Tita, had come to visit my parents from their home country of Nicaragua to help.

As the story went, my father was at RPI on a full scholarship, but when I was six months old, he was summoned back to Nicaragua to comply with work-related commitments. He could not finish his doctorate degree, but he went back home to a great job and a comfortable life. They built a house in front of my Tita and Tito’s home (my paternal grandfather whom I look a lot like). He was a musician and songwriter in Nicaragua. He wrote some of the most beloved Nicaraguan folk classics. He sang of the beauty of Nicaragua and of its people. I shared a strong bond with him, even though he died shortly after I was born. He was artistic and compassionate, a spiritual dreamer, and we were connected. At least that was my fantasy.

I lived in Nicaragua for the first seven years of my life. Memories are vague: playing with paper boats in the rain with my sisters and cousins and making mud pies along the side of the house with my sister, Gabby. Some memories are not so vague as when my mother abruptly yanked my pacifier out of my mouth and threw it into the woods behind the house. I remember when my favorite little glass broke—my gordito, which I used to drink milk out of every day. I was a sensitive child, needless to say.

On my seventh birthday, my mother threw a beautiful party for me. She was a master host. She dressed my sisters and I in beautiful white dresses. My dear aunt, Coco, walked into the party with what I thought was the most magical pink dress, and it was for me to wear. I felt beautiful and special. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror though, and I noticed a little blemish beside my lip. I stared at it intently and just as quickly fixated on it. I could not stop thinking about how yucky and gross it looked. Suddenly I became melancholy, self-conscious, sad, and withdrawn. But at picture time, I faked a smile and thought about the blemish. Years later, I found that picture in my mom’s house. It was framed along with my sisters’ in their white dresses. I looked at the blemish and at the sadness in my eyes.

Another one of my vivid memories was a day at the beach with friends and family. I was still in a dreamlike state, as most kids are at that age, when in the distance, I heard a boy calling out to me, Loretto! Loretto! What an ugly name! It sounds like a boy’s name! Hahaha! His laughter echoed in my mind, and it woke me up. I was paralyzed, mortified, and ashamed