Reading about cell phone separation anxiety made me think of all the shit I went through on the mission. There is an idea in the church that missionaries leave early due to fake illnesses because it is an easy out. I know, because I thought that once. I spent 6 months in the mission office (best time of my mission) and watched several missionaries leave with mystery illnesses, usually stomach related. I looked down on them. Even my first MP went home early because of an inexplicable illness. I had to take the Mormon blinders off to really understand what was going on.

The mission fucks you up. Everyone has a unique experience but this is mine. First, there is enormous social pressure to go on a mission. I know, I waited until I was 23. I graduated from BYU without going. A good friend of mine told me that she and her friends couldn't find anything wrong with me except that I hadn't been on a mission. People who didn't know me, would ask in passing where I went on the ole mish, never assuming I hadn't. My dad would tell me how my mother would cry when others would ask her when I was going to go, because as far as they knew I wasn't going. I always felt that I would be a second class member if I didn't serve, but I had no real desire to go. I had no mind-blowing testimony experience and frankly, knocking doors sounded terrible.

But when I graduated from BYU I was in limbo. I could have taken a job or one of several research positions that were offered, but instead I decided I would serve a mission. This made my parents elated, but I told them I needed some time to prepare.  I had to free myself of one of those dreadful porn addictions. Dear god, don't get me started on confession and the repentance process. Let's just say it was horrible, but after nearly a year I wound up in prison (aka the MTC). Though I had repented, it only took one day for me to start feeling guilty about my worthiness. I knew I was unworthy, because god had never really given me that Spiritual confirmation that the church was true. It was true, so I must have been unworthy. I felt guilty all through the mission.

So I figure I was shamed into a mission, and then guilty from day one, my freedom was gone and replaced with the most ridiculous rules that demand exact obedience, and to top it off you get stuck with a companion 24/7 who will likely rat you out if you step out of line. Then you get tossed into the field, with only a basic understanding of the language.  My trainer didn't speak English and the people in my first area didn't really speak Spanish, the mission language, or English. The living conditions were shitty. The food made me feel terrible.  The weather was unpleasant, and the hours were grueling.  I was fucked, that is to say, I was miserable. I was dead set on leaving. It was in almost complete isolation, surrounded by people with whom I couldn't communicate. I remember I finally went on splits with the American zone leaders and I spent all day venting in English how awful it was. When zone conference rolled around I was going to tell the MP that I was through, to just send me home. I got into our interview and I was terribly nervous. He asked how I was, and all I could say was, "I'm great pres." 

You see, I was miserable, but that didn't stop me from remembering the missionary mantra: Return with Honor. Going home early means mandatory social ostracism. It's like having failure tattooed on your forehead. So I gritted it out. Fortunately, it got better. I wouldn't have made it 2 years if it hadn't. But it was never easy, and there wasn't a day that passed without me thinking of that blessed day of departure. Every missionary thinks about, even dreams about it.

While the rules aren't as rigid as they are in the MTC, they are twice as ridiculous. Allow me to list a few of my favorites:
-Two calls home a year. And please limit the call to one hour, or be prepared to feel guilty for exceeding the limit. That's right, I felt guilty for talking to my family longer than an hour.
-P-day lasts until 5. Mind you the hours we worked were ridiculous. And P-day isn't even really for recreation. It is for shopping, cleaning, laundering, and other necessary preparation. I didn't feel guilty for spending P-day doing what I wanted though, whether that meant sleeping in or enjoying some of the local sites (but not swimming, that shit could get you sent home).
-You must be out proselyting until 9:30. I remember one of my senior comps insisting that we walk around the block one more time because it was only 9:25. It didn't matter that it was pitch dark and raining. Miracles happen in the final hour.
-Bags may be worn on only one shoulder. God damn I hated this one. My shoulder hurt for two god-damn years lugging around those god-damned bags on one shoulder. I personally call down hell-fire on the jackass who made that rule.
-Don't drink the water. I mean, what the fuck? We are walking around all day in the blistering sun carrying all the water we can stand on one shoulder and that'll last you like 2 hours and then what? I broke this one because I would have died of dehydration if I didn't. Or I would have spent my allowance all on bottled water and starved. Fucked or fucked. (they were probably right about this, I think I got parasites that fucked me up permanently)
-No emails from friends or as I like to call them, satan.
-No phone calls to other missionaries, unless for official missionary business. Turns out I am something of a gossip, and in my office elder days I pretty much had to talk to everyone, it was my business. So I was a notorious offender of this rule.

I could go on, but my point should be clear. I was living under a heavy handed totalitarian regime. There was no escape. There was only pain. After my first transfer cycle I never seriously considered leaving the mission, but I never really looked forward to another day of street work. Even in South America the rejection is brutal. 40 baptisms is supposed to be the mark of great success, but I made over 7000 street contacts and not one of those was baptized. I sympathize for those who didn't have any satisfaction from success, but I think that every mission is largely a tale of repeated rejection. It breaks people.

I never really considered leaving but I saw others who did. They had crippling pain that at the time I believed was fake. It was not. The psychological stress of missionary work causes people real pain, it just manifests itself in different ways. For some it is stomach pains, for others headaches, for even others anxiety or nightmares. I saw these things as excuses, and maybe at some level they were. I think the subconscious is searching for a way out of the hell. You can't just say you want to leave. They  won't let you go. I remember in the MTC I saw a recording of an impassioned Elder Holland saying that he would never ever let a missionary go home. We put the missionaries who tried to go home through more hell. Repeated doctors visits to diagnose their condition, interviews with the MP that lasted hours, phone calls to anybody who could talk them out of it. Sooner or later it would become apparent that there was nothing to do but send them home.  I drove a few to the airport and I saw them light up when they realized it was really over, that they would be free. But the reality is that their sudden optimism and improved outlook would soon be stolen from them. It's like a cliche ending to a horror movie, where the hero believes he has escaped the danger and found freedom only to be drug back into the abyss. Those who returned then had to deal with the stigma of having left early.

I gutted it out. By then end I was a defeated man. I lost 20 lbs and reached a weight I hadn't since before puberty. I had frequent stomach pains, caused by parasites perhaps, and a skin rash that was spreading, but I was going home. The happiest moment on my mission was stepping into the mission home and realizing I didn't have to talk to one more person about the gospel. I could go home and reap a reward of blessed marriage and copious babies.

The story doesn't end there. It turns out that returning to normal life is equally traumatic. I experienced severe depression in the months following my mission, and I still have stomach trouble that I attribute to my time there. I conclude that the mission is an extreme psychological shock lasting up to two years, that may cause permanent damage. I feel I have recovered and I think most do, but there are those who carry real damage for the rest of their lives. So, please be kind to the missionaries, even if they are a couple  of pushy robotic ass-hats. God only knows how miserable they are on the inside.

I KNEW IT! I always suspected that behind the plastic smiles was great pain. Why else would I feel so very sorry for them when they appeared to be hap-hap-happy all the time.

Thank you for that. It was eye-opening for me.

Anagrammy

Even though I'd committed and back out twice, and, yes they were extremely aggressive. they almost wouldn't take "no" for an answer after that. Finally they did respect my wishes, maybe they transferred. i did request my info never go to anyone else i.e. address, phone no., etc. that was obviously answered and even though the aggressiveness and persistance did still exist, I was never rude or mean to any of them. I'd still give them something to drink. It's as if yes, you can change your mind, but it's not accepted. eventually it was. Myself, I can't intentionally be mean to anyone.

You brought those mission memories flooding back.

I felt the same things as you did on my mission. Since I was state side, at least I did not have to deal with learning another language.

It is amazing how much mental anguish the Mormon Church lays on its missionaries for 2 years. If it were any other church, they would probably fall down at your feet for willingly spending 2 years of your young life at your own expense to bring converts into the fold.

I always wondered what the Mormon church was so afraid of that they would put young men and women into such shackles. We did after all voulenteer.

I am convinced that the Mormon Church is the only church on Earth that persecutes its own missionaries.

I've heard most of them before, but what's with the thing about carrying your pack on just one shoulder? There is a REASON why those things are called "BACK-PACKS!"

I'm sure that many of these rules were simply pulled out of somebody's anal orifice (often an attorney's; this is alternately called "covering your @$$.")

But I would love to hear the rationale about this backpack thing.

The reason that the one shoulder rule was implemented was to make it easier for thieves. There is something of an urban legend that a missionary got mugged, but couldn't get his back pack off, so the mugger stabbed him. It kind of makes sense, but not as a generally applied rule. There were only a handful of times in two years that I actually felt threatened, but I was never mugged. I just couldn't be so openly disobedient as to wear the bag on two shoulders. You just weren't allowed to use good judgement about when to apply rules. Every zone conference and often at district meetings there were lessons given about the importantance of obedience. A disobedient missionary would not have the spirit and would not be able to find those yearning for the gospel. I actually believed that shit at some level.

"You just weren't allowed to use good judgment about when to apply rules" That is a great line; it describes the entire church. NO rated R movies, only one piercing, special underwear, no coffee, no tea, no alcohol, no fun on Sunday etc... Tons and tons of guilt if you break these rules and never use your on judgment about how ludicrous they are.

When I was a TBM I used to go to sacrament meeting when a returning missionary gave his talk. They always talked about how sad they were when their mission ended and how they wished they could do another two years.

Then I hung out with a lot of missionaries. To a man they were trunky. They were looking forward to the end. I then realized that every one of them would go home and give a talk in SM about how it was the best two years of their lives and how they were so sad when it ended yadda yadda.

In Mormonism you say what is expected not what fits reality.

Ah... The memories...

Learning a language that is supposedly the 3rd hardest for an American to learn (Korean) in 6 weeks, along with all the culture, doctrine and brain-washing they could squeeze in between hearing about how the MTC was the best place in the world to learn a language... What happened to me there that was great?

- My first MTC companion was a jerk... no one wanted to talk to him and my teachers advice to me was basically, that I didn't love him enough and I needed to try harder to understand him. Meanwhile he's started several bible thumping arguments with people (while still in the MTC, about doctrine... He was going to make a great missionary...
- One of our teachers disappeared half way though the program, we found out later though the grapevine that he was kicked out for cheating on his wife...
- My second companion basically ignored me, because he thought that I agreed with my first companion.
- Had a couple of anxiety attacks that that in my deluded way wrote off as satan trying to "possess" me and turn me evil...
- My "branch president" almost didn't let me go to the Mall (because it was an evil place) so I could get a new walkman to listen to tapes from family and hymns.

Then it was off to the field, which in my case was Korea...
- Fun standing on street corners talking with drunk people about the church (in Korea, you don't go door to door because the more apartment style living isn't conducive, either it's just a woman at home, and you couldn't go in, or they just didn't answer the door).
- Had a "native" companion that refused to speak english to me, even though he was fluent (don't give me the crap about how he was trying to help me, I had only been there for 4 months and no one could understand me beyond than "where's the bathroom"). He was assigned to be the Branch president, so I got to sit around the "church" (which was a rented floor of an office building) while he had interviews with all the young women in the Branch... Meanwhile he was "breaking me down" so that "he could make me stronger"... Not my favorite companion...
- Got to baptize a few kids that I'm pretty sure weren't 8 yet and I think my companion forged their parents signature.
- Had another companion assigned to me that was in the hospital for a short time and ran away in the night to "spend time" with another sister missionary... Later I was supposed to keep him off the phone because he kept calling her, he was in "love"...
- Had another anxiety "Satan's coming for me" attack, my companion agreed that it was some type of warning and we needed to head back to the church and pray.
- Couldn't understand a word my Mission pres said because he refused to use a translator...
- Two phone calls a year to my family, which was both good and bad... Having to listen to my Mom cry pretty much the whole time we were on the phone, was not exactly faith promoting.
- Constant sore feet due to them being flat and not diagnosed as such until my mission (how could that happen? I didn't even really think about it, I just thought peoples feet hurt after standing or walking, fortunately the MTC physician noticed and sent me for shoe inserts, they helped, but they didn't stop it... I didn't know what painful feet were until walking for several hours straight trying to give out BOM's)
- I was best friends with all my companions, until we transfered, then we never spoke to one another again, often not even at conferences...

It wasn't all bad...
- I did come to love the Korean culture and would love to go back someday to see the things that I couldn't squeeze in on my P-Days (I never stayed in the apartment on P-Days and I never traveled in "missionary" clothes on P-days when I could get away with it)
- I realized that I could survive on my own, without my families support, so I guess I built some confidence there.
- I lost who knows how many pounds of un-needed fat due to all the walking (there was no way they were going to give us a car or a bike on the streets of Korea, it was dangerous enough just walking.. there are no rules of the road)
- Learned how to sing 4 part harmony

I wanted to go home early (there was an option at the time to leave honorably a month early or a month later), but I didn't want to "shame" my parents by taking that option. The best day of my mission was the last in my MP outgoing interview when he said "It was a worthy sacrifice" I broke down in tears right there and couldn't talk anymore... the Office elders told me later that it was the fastest home-going interview they had seen.. I couldn't wait to get on the plane.

After my mission, there was a huge period of adjustment, I didn't know how to talk to women, I didn't know how to socially interact with anyone. I gave the standard talks in church and I think even a stake conference, my parents were so proud, but strangely they never really wanted to talk about my mission, I was very lonely. If I hadn't moved in with my inactive sister, I don't know what I would have done.

In some ways I'm glad I went, but if I could do it over, I wouldn't. There were other ways to get me out of the house that wouldn't have left me so messed up in the end. I probably would have left the church much sooner if I hadn't gone on a mission. (which is the #1 reason why they send people, just as you are staring your life you are throughly brainwashed)

To anyone who is considering going on a mission... I suggest going to college and living either on-campus or at least out of the house. If you want to go to another country, three words foreign exchange student. You will get the confidence building of moving out of the house, opportunities to build proper social skills, the freedom to make choices (both good and bad) and no weirdly twisted view of the world.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 07/13/2011 09:04AM by finallyfree.

Suck it up. It builds character.

Severe anxiety runs in my family, as does stomach problems. My mission was 2 years of misery.

I got food poisoning several times on the mission (I was stateside, mind you). I had anxiety attacks nearly every day..

When I came home, I weighed 135 pounds. I had lost weight from stress and sickness. Yet I put up with it and gave it my very best as often as I could because I sincerely believed in what I was doing.

My heart goes out to you. I feel your pain in a very real way.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 07/17/2011 12:34PM by greekgod.