My fellow RMs, today, April 13, marks the happiest day I have ever known. It is the day, 38 years ago, a 2 year prison sentence of hard labor in the Virginia Roanoke Mission, came to an end.

I have celebrated every April 13 as a personal holiday and I invite all RMs and non-RMs alike to come and celebrate this wonderful day with me. Come and enjoy my account of the overwhelming joy of my last day in the mission prison system and of coming home.

For those of you who served missions, you know how happy of a day it was when you came home and could restart your life. You knew that there would be no more daily black clouds hanging over you of having to perform smothering, life sucking duties like tracting or filling out useless forms, or enduring another attempt by some prick mission leader to guilt trip you for something petty or stupid.

Below is my personal account of my last day on my mission and I invite all you RMs to also post about your last day and the happiness you felt, so all of us can share in your joy of coming home as well. Many on this board, and me included, would love to hear your accounts of your last day.

Many of you may have seen my account before, so please excuse my repetition, but I know there are those on the board who have not.

Here is my account. Grab a beer and/or a good cigar, and enjoy.

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At long last, the happiest day I have ever known came to me. It was the last day I had to spend in the Virginia Roanoke Mission. That day was Friday, April 13, 1979, and for me, it is a date that lives in infamy. My sentence in this mission gulag was over. Friday the 13th was my lucky day.

I woke up at the usual 6:30am, had my shower, dressed, and sat down to a bowl of "Captain Crunch" while my companion showered. Sitting there alone, looking around, and seeing my bags packed, on the bed, it finally hit me that I would never have to sleep on that torturous lumpy bed and wake up to another morning in this or any other cockroach infested dump of an apartment again. No more would I have to go mindlessly tract all day to fill the weekly reports with hours. With each spoonful of Captain Crunch, a mental list formed in my mind of things I would never have to do again. The list included the following…

1. I would never have to go knock on another door and try to convince an already happy person, that they could become happier if they gave up 10% of their gross paycheck, sacrificed their weekends from being with their families to perform smothering religious duties from endless callings, alienate themselves from extended family and friends, and eventually pantomime disemboweling themselves while dressed up as the Pillsbury Dough Boy in a building that looks like a bowling trophy. (Talk about a tough sell.)

2. I would never again have to ride a bicycle in a suite sweating like a pig in the Virginia summer heat and humidity or suffer frostbite in the bone chilling Virginia winter weather. (I hate bicycles now and can never bring myself to get on one again.)

3. I would never again have to eat starchy pasta for my only food because of no money to buy proper food. (Pasta dishes of any kind are no longer a block in my food pyramid.)

4. I would never again have to endure undeserved ridicule or reaming from any church leader and especially from a pinhead GA-wannabe insurance salesman mission president named Frank A. Moscon. (I am so glad he is dead now and I could not be less sad. I hope his death was agonizingly slow and coupled with unbearable searing pain.)

5. I would never again have to be in an environment that produces overwhelming suicidal depression and loneliness. (so far I am batting 1000.)

6. I would never again have to spend another lonely Christmas away from loved ones. (I only worship Santa now with my loved ones around me.)

7. I would never again have to be shackled to someone 24/7 that I did not want to be with.

8. I would never again have to be deprived of the enjoyment of any music. (I have music on most of the time and I have never played Mormon Tab songs again.)

9. I would never again have to follow a set of idiotic, burdensome, and double-bind rules while trying to perform hopeless life-sucking religious duties.

10. I would never again have to deprive myself of the love, the touch, or affections of a woman.

11. I would never again have to respond to anyone calling me "Elder" or just my last name.

12. I would never again have to go tracting. (To this day, I don’t even like to knock on my neighbors door.)

13. I will never have to………..

You can fill in the rest, my fellow RM's. You know that this list can be almost endless.

Oh, what joy and happiness I felt as I thought about the things I would not have to do ever again.

I sat there just relishing in the thoughts of being home again, restarting my life again, being with my girlfriend, Kathy, again, being called by my first name again, and being able to be alone again. I was so happy, that I poured myself another bowl of "Captain Crunch" pouring so fast that half of the cereal ended up on the table and the floor. “Oh well”, I thought, “I might as well let the kitchen's cockroaches celebrate with me”, as I kicked the cereal on the floor to underneath the refrigerator.

When I finished my 2nd bowl, I threw the empty bowl into the sink while thinking “…let the next sucker Elder clean it. I am outta here…" as the bowl and spoon bounced around in the sink.

This particular morning seemed so fresh and I felt so alive. I had not experienced such a wonderful morning for 2 years and I almost forgot what it was like to live again. There was a nice cool breeze and birds were singing. I still could not believe that the day of my escape from the Virginia Roanoke Mission was here. As I carried my 2 bags down to our car, I started singing to myself that song by "The Guess Who", "....No time left you…on my way to better things...I found myself some wings...."

I had to go to the mission home to get my plane tickets so we drove to the other Elders apartment to bring them with us to the Martinsville bus terminal where I booked a seat on the local Greyhound bus to Roanoke. It was a mini-van and not a bus but I did not care. It was my escape vehicle from this hellhole area. I was the only passenger.

MY LAST BUS RIDE IN VIRGINIA
Just before the bus was to leave; I said my goodbyes to my companion and the other 2 Elders in our district. They wished me well and then I got into the mini-van bus. I remember the looks of envy and jealousy on their faces. I knew they were wishing so hard to be in my place because their Friday would be another lonely day of mind-numbing tracting for the weekly reports but not my Friday. I would never have to knock on another door again.

I looked out the window at my fellow Elders for the last time, I waved at them with a gloating smile, turned away, and never looked back. A huge wave of relief rolled over me and I let out an audible sigh as the van started on its journey to Roanoke. The bus went through the town of Collinsville on the way to US highway 220, and as it did, I looked at all the houses that I had fruitlessly knocked on for 9 months. What a colossal waste of my time, I thought.

Once on the main highway, I spent the journey just relaxing and watching the countryside go by. For the first time in two years, I was able to enjoy all of the green foliage of Virginia without that black cloud of dread hanging over me of having to start tracting in yet another place once the journey was through. Every transfer, I always dreaded starting over again with knocking on doors that Elders had knocked on before, only to be told to get lost. I also dreaded moving into another cockroach infested dump of a place to live.

But today, this bus ride was special as this was my last bus ride, and the beginning of a long journey that would end with me at home and free from this mission hellhole for good. I felt giddy inside, like a little boy going to Disneyland for the first time.

I tried to start a light conversation with the driver to end the silence and this was proving difficult. The bus driver knew I was a Mormon missionary by the way I was dressed and the tell-tale nametag. At first, he was reluctant to talk with me probably for fear that I would start talking Mormonism to him. Sensing this, I told him that I was going home today and had no intention of discussing any aspect of religion or Mormonism. I said this as he watched me take off my name tag and put it in my pocket. I told him that he can call me by my first name and not Elder Flash. Hearing this he visibly relaxed and began to open up.

We had fun conversations all the way to Roanoke. We talked about his job and the unusual cargos he had carried and about his poor experiences with other missionaries that he had bussed around. We finally rolled into the Roanoke bus station around 8:30am. Before I got out, the driver commented to me that I was not like any of the other Elders he met before. He said I was genuine in my demeanor and well-mannered. I told him that I was from California and was not one of the Utah-Idaho factory Elders like those two over there on the bus platform, as I pointed to a couple of mission home office Elders waiting to drive me to the mission home. My comment made him laugh. I grabbed my bags and the AP elders and I drove to the mission home a short distance away.

IN THE BELLY OF THE MISSION BEAST FOR A BLESSED LAST TIME
My itinerary schedule indicated that my plane from Roanoke to Washington DC would leave at 11:30AM, and the next day, I would hop on another plane at Dulles International and fly to California. One month before, I had made previous arrangements for someone to pick me up and give me a condensed tour of the Washington DC area.

In order to create this itinerary, I made up a story to the mission home saying that I wanted to go through the Washington DC temple before departing home and for them to create an itinerary for me to do this. Little did they know that my real goal was to only see the nation’s capital on the Church's dime since I was at this side of the US anyway. Because I was able to fool them so successfully & easily, it proved to me once again, that the mission leadership had the inspiration and discernment of a fence post.

While I waited around in the mission home for my departure hour, I realized how nice it was to just sit knowing that I did not have to do any sort of missionary work. I did not have answer to anyone, not to a District Leader, or a Zone Leader, or the AP office elders, and best of all, not to that pinhead mission president. I now only answered to me.

I found myself a nice reclining chair in the common area to pass the time until departing for the Roanoke airport. I looked out the big picture windows at the woods nearby remembering how I looked at those same woods two years earlier wishing I could run into them and escape. It was fun knowing that now I was escaping but I would be walking out the front door instead of running into those woods.

I began reading several magazines that were on the table next to me such as Newsweek, Time, and National Geographic. I was two years behind on news and events and I found it so refreshing to read something other than some dumb-downed church publication. I was so fed up with church literature that I took two of the Ensign magazines lying on the end-table and stuffed them into the depths of the La-Z-Boy chair never to be seen again.

After a half hour of reading and enjoying the view of the woods, six new elders arrived from an earlier flight. They were fresh from the MTC and they were a mess. They looked so depressed, downcast, and sleep deprived. They reminded me of how depressed I felt when I first showed up at this miserable mission home two years earlier.

While looking at them in their pitiful state, I felt this wave of bitter sickly sorrow and pity wash over me knowing their hell holes were just beginning. However, those bitter feelings of sorrow were washed away by a delightful tidal wave rush of knowing that I was done with it all and I was LEAVING IN JUST 20 MINUTES!! I had fewer minutes than they had months to endure this cesspool.

These new elders saw me reading "missionary-unapproved" material and one asked me; with a holier-than-thou Utah twanged voice, why I was there by myself and not with my companion. I just smiled and told them that my mission ended today and I was on my way home. Hearing this, a few of them looked like they were going to breakdown on the spot judging from the glassy look of their eyes. Two of them looked at me with such jealousy it was palpable.

Thinking to myself that they would have to put up with that pinhead Frank A. Moscon and his stupidity for the next 24 months made me smile knowingly at them but I did not taunt them about going home. I had at least that much civility left in me after my two years of hell. If somehow they could know of the bitter dregs of depression, loneliness, and isolated hellish living that awaited them for the next two years, I think they would have gone into the restroom and sliced their wrists.

I politely brushed them off with a smile and went back to reading my Newsweek. They went off somewhere else in the common area but I did notice that one lagged behind and was staring longingly at the woods outside the common room window. Maybe he wanted to escape into those woods like I did two years ago.

I rebuffed every prodding from the AP Elders to go and have the customary last interview with the mission president. Because of the falling out that I had with him four months earlier, nothing anyone said would change my mind about talking one last time with him. Any desire or need to communicate with him had been fatally terminated. While I was there in the mission home, I did not even acknowledge his presence.

His clueless wife, Loya, tried to goad me into talking with her husband but I was immune to her tactics. Frank & Loya’s chance to be any kind of surrogate parents to me had long since passed. Frank’s never-ending harassment and Loya’s condescending attitude were more than I could take. If I had parents like that, I would have put myself up for adoption.

Looking up from my Newsweek magazine, I gave her a look that would have shriveled a rock, said nothing, and went back to my reading. She huffed off and was probably thinking "…how dare this lowly elder brush me off..." But I didn't care anymore what she or her pin-head husband thought. To me, they were now persons non-grata. I just wanted out of there as soon as possible.

ONE LAST ROUND OF AP ARROGANCE
Time was getting close for me to be at the Roanoke airport so I asked one of the AP elders for my plane tickets. A convert family from my last area had come to drive me to the airport and see me off plus I no longer wanted to spend any more time in that mission home. Being there was serving no purpose and I would rather be elsewhere. Besides, I finished reading all their Newsweek and Time magazines. This Idaho idiot AP elder spouted off to me that only the mission president could give me the tickets (that he held in his hand) and that I did not have his or the MP's permission to leave the mission home yet.

Oh, so arrogant to the end, I thought. But I, being of much larger stature, pulled him aside into an empty hallway, and in a still small voice, told him that if he did not give me my plane tickets, this would be his last day as a fully functional human being, and he would be harvesting potatoes from a wheelchair when he went home. I told him this as I was "helping" him tighten the knot of his tie by pulling it above his head. Needless to say, he loosened his grip on my tickets and I pulled them from his hand.

With plane tickets in hand, I grabbed my bags and walked out of that mission home with the family who came to see me off at the airport. We loaded my bags into the trunk of their car, and after taking one last picture with them, we drove away toward the Roanoke airport. At last, I was finally done being a missionary. No more pinhead mission president. No more double-bind rules to follow. No more minders to contend with be it a companion or Zone leaders or APs. No more carrying around scriptures all day.

As the Roanoke airport came into view, my heart was racing with excitement. I reached over to my coat pocket and quietly slipped my nametag into my coat pocket marking the end of the existence of Elder Flash.

THE FLIGHT OUT OF THE VIRGINIA ROANOKE MISSION HELLHOLE
At the Roanoke airport drop-off curb, I gave my hugs and said my goodbyes to the family that brought me there. After they drove away, I checked in my one large bag keeping with me my carry-on. The woman behind the counter called me by my first name and I didn’t respond at first as no one ever called me by my first name for two long years. I was shocked at realizing that I had a first name. Funny how the little things you have been starved of for a long period of time are now such joys.

I collected my boarding pass and walked to the gate boarding area. Once there, reality hit me that I was finally alone. Even with the airport crowd walking around me, I felt such a thrill at being alone and being separated from the mission collective. Looking around, no other Elder was in sight and I could do as I please without worrying about some judgmental missionary reminding me of the mission rules for this or that.

It may seem hard to imagine why being alone was such a glorious experience. But when you have someone around you 24/7 for two years watching where you are, who you talk to, what you are reading, what you say, what you eat, and what you are wearing, being able to be alone again and accountable to no one is so refreshing its beyond my words to describe.

I always cherished my alone-time as I always needed it to recharge myself. To have it stripped from me for two years proved to be very draining. Only Mormon missionaries or people in prison can really understand the joy of just finally being alone.

While waiting for the boarding call, I decided I should purge myself of any Mormon missionary looks and accoutrements. I no longer wanted anyone to assume I was a Mormon missionary. So I collected together my nametag, the missionary white handbook, and a big heavy envelope of mission reports that I was given at the mission home. Finding the nearest trash bin, I tossed it all in creating a big thud as it hit the bottom of the nearly empty bin.

Watching all that crap disappear into that bin brought on another wave of relief. I stood there by the bin for a few moments letting it sink in that I was finally done with it all. No more reports to fill out. No more fantasy goals to record. No more tell-tale nametag. No more white handbook of smothering rules to follow, and no more of anything to remind me of being a missionary. The only papers I had left were my tickets.

To complete the purging of any missionary look, I went into the restroom and found an empty stall. Once inside, I removed my suite coat, vest, and tie and stuffed them into my carry-on bag. I then took out of my bag a nice blue colored dress shirt that I had been saving for over a year for going home and proceeded to change shirts. I unwrapped the blue dress shirt from its plastic wrap and hung it on the door hook. Then, grabbing the lapels of my old white shirt, I ripped it off popping off most of the buttons in the process. It felt so satisfying to rip that old worn out white shirt off my body and to watch the dislodging buttons ricochet off the walls of the stall and dance on the floor.

I considered flushing that white shirt down the toilet but refrained myself from such amusement and just threw it into the restroom’s garbage bin. From that moment, on April 13, 1979 at 10:50AM, I have never again worn a white shirt again. Even today, the thought of putting on a white shirt disgusts me. I cannot even wear a white T-shirt.

With my non-missionary look, I found myself a seat and happily noticed that the people who I sat next to did not even notice or care who I was or look at me funny. I was just another fellow flyer. It was so liberating and refreshing to look like and be a normal person again. I quietly celebrated my new transformation by imbibing in an "evil" can of Dr. Pepper I got from a vending machine and started reading an abandoned Sports Illustrated magazine I found on the seat next to me. Oh, that Dr. Pepper tasted so good and was so refreshing ice-cold, As I read the Sports Illustrated, I never found the phrase “and it came to pass” anywhere. Life was getting better by the minute.

About 45 minutes later, the call to board was announced. I made my way to the outside gate boarding area to the stairs leading up to the Piedmont plane door, got onto the plane, and found my window seat. Soon everyone was boarded, the hatch was shut, and the plane began pulling away from the gate.

The flight attendants began scrambling to get everyone the drink of their choice and I asked for an “evil” Coke. It seemed like it took forever for that plane to taxi down the runway to prepare to take off. As it did so, I mumbled quietly to myself, "Oh please let there be no mechanical problems." I could not bear the prospect of returning to the gate. I wanted so badly to be out of Virginia and as far away from that mission home as I could get.

When the plane roared down the runway, lifted off, and its wheels no longer touched Virginia soil, I felt a feeling inside like poison was beginning to drain out of my body. Two years of amassed missionary poison that had cankered my soul was draining away. The faster and higher the plane went, the faster the poison seemed to drain out of me. What a relief it was being whisked away from that god-awful place.

As the plane continued climbing, I thought how, for two miserable years, I longed for this day to come. I had dreams of this day. I thought about escaping & leaving every day and now I was flying away at last. To convince myself that I was not in some lucid dream, I pushed on the side of the plane and squeezed the armrest convincing myself that they were substantial objects. I was not dreaming! I was really on my way home! "It is really true?!!" I thought over and over again. I almost cried!

From my window seat, I looked down at the ever shrinking Virginia countryside and thought about how two precious years of my life were forfeited and wasted there. Two precious years; where instead, I could have been in college getting my electrical engineering degree, enjoying time with Kathy, and just living happily. I thought about the two missed Christmases, the missed family birthdays, my brother's wedding I missed, and about the long separation from Kathy. Sitting on that airplane and trying to comprehend and sort through all my feelings of relief, joy, and happiness, and that I was on my way home, and did not have to do or think about missionary work ever again, was beyond words.

The flight attendant came by and gave me my chosen complimentary can of Coke. As I sipped the blessedly caffeinated drink, I amused myself with the thought that, below my feet, some poor Elder was looking up at my plane wishing with all his heart to be where I sit as he tracted going door to door to door endlessly with each door being slammed in his face. I thought how I was mocking him by staring out the window so he could see that I was the one here and not him. I was the one soaring higher and higher and escaping the drudgery of a mission. I was the one flying away leaving only a contrail behind for him to see as he walked to the next door only to be told yet again to “get lost!” I thought how his wishes were in vain because today was my day to taste freedom’s sweetness.

My thoughts then drifted back to the last time a flight attendant, out of pity, offered me a soda two years ago when I was so depressed and sobbing when I left California for that Salt Lake Mission home nightmare. Such a contrast, I thought.

THE WASHINGTON DC MINI-TOUR
In less than an hour, my plane landed at National Airport in Washington DC and I met up with the person I previously arranged to meet there. My plane to California would leave Dulles International the next day so, according to our previous arrangements; he provided me a mini-tour of the Washington DC mall area. He drove me around in his TR7 showing me the White House, the Washington memorial, the Lincoln Memorial, and other mall monuments.

He was very gracious and kind to me and treated me to a McDonald’s dinner. We got along great and he said that he knew how I felt being released from the ‘mission prison system' as he called it. He was also an RM and he said he could see the relief all over my face. He told me he understood how I was feeling inside and related to me the day he came home from his mission. What he did not know is that privately, I was also reveling in the joy of knowing that I was successful in pulling the wool over the AP office Elders' & MP's eyes in order to set up my itinerary to allow for this mini-tour while they thought I just wanted to go through the Washington DC temple. I got the last laugh on those clowns.

After the Washington DC Mall mini-tour, we got onto the DC beltway to go to his place for the night. When the Washington DC temple came into view, I felt nothing inside seeing it. It had no significance to me as it was just another symbol of this ungrateful church. He asked if I wanted to see it up close but I politely said no. Puzzled by my reaction, he passed by the exit and I did not give the place a second glance. Soon we arrived at his place where he let me use of one of the spare bedrooms of his luxury apartment.

That night I had a nice long hot shower where I scrubbed off two years of missionary dirt and disgust. I soaped myself up several times just to let the water rinse the disgust away over and over again. I must have stayed in there for over an hour, but when I was done, I felt cleansed from all the missionary gooey that had symbolically built up. I even shampooed my hair 3 times.

As I prepared for bed, I realized that I no longer had to pretend to say a personal nightly prayer anymore so as to not raise suspicion in a companion that I had lost my testimony. I also realized that I no longer had any rigid schedule of sleep & wake up times to follow with more tracting to dread in the morning. I felt so free.

In bed, I pondered over the day's experiences. What a day, I thought. I woke up in a hot & humid, cockroach infested dump for the last time, was driven away from Martinsville, brushed off the MP and his clueless wife, bodily threatened an Idaho-prick AP Elder for my plane tickets, transformed from Elder Flash to Flash, flew away from that hellhole Virginia Roanoke Mission, toured the Washington DC mall, and ended up in this nice place for the night.

His spare bedroom had a TV and a clock radio. That night was the first time in two years that I got to stay up late and watch “The Tonight Show” and then have a radio sing me to sleep. An air conditioner droned in the background keeping me cool all night as I slept. Gone forever was the nightly ritual of trying to find sleep in the silent & relentlessly hot and humid air of Virginia. “Life was good now” I thought, and I drifted off to sleep.


THE FLIGHT TO CALIFORNIA AND HOME
Early the next morning, I arose with great anticipation of being home at the end of the day. Again, there was no need for a phony morning personal prayer to attend to for a tattle-tale companion’s sake. And WHOOOOPEEEEEEEE!! No tracting to go do! No life sucking missionary duties of any kind to do! My only focus was on getting home.

I dressed myself in "normal" clothes as I was not about to sit for 6+ hours dressed in a suite. I was driven to Dulles International to catch my flight to California. I thanked my friend and tour guide graciously at the drop off curb, checked in my bags, found my gate, and sat down to wait for the boarding call.

Again, it felt wonderful not wearing the telltale nametag or the clothes that screams Mormon Missionary; No suite, no vest, & no tie, just comfortable clothes. Nobody called me "Elder" or avoided sitting next to me. Nobody knew me and I saw no familiar faces. I was just another anonymous traveler and again, it felt soooooooooo good to just be alone.

I bought myself a Dr. Pepper and a newspaper, found an empty seat, and just sat and read the daily news. How refreshing it was to just sit and read the paper and not spend another morning reading the same boring scriptures over and over and over again. Drinking my Dr. Pepper lifted my already sky high spirits even more.

The boarding call was announced and I made my way to the gate to board my plane to California. It was a large 4 engine jet TWA with relatively spacious economy class seating. Way better than the cramped Piedmont Airlines from Roanoke to Washington DC. I found my window seat and settled myself in for a nice long relaxing journey.

The plane was only 2/3 full so I had 2 empty seats next to me where I could stretch out my legs and sleep if I wanted to. I glanced over at the cabin door as the flight crew closed it and thought that when it opens again, I would be in California breathing the dry air of home and not this humid locker-room stuffy stale air of the east coast.

The plane pulled away from the gate and slowly taxied to the end of the runway. There it straightened out, and moments later its four engines came to life. Faster & faster did we roll down the runway and near the very end the plane slowly lifted off, folded its wheels, and began the 6 hour journey west to California. “What a wonderful way to start a day”, I thought.

I looked at the countryside passing underneath the plane for hours while music flooded my brain from the in-flight music selections of "The Bee Gees" to "Bread". The soft music had a way of flowing throughout my brain and scrubbing away the two years of the missionary muck that had gummed it up. I also watched two wonderful “evil” movies. How refreshing to watch a non-church movie. I was so fed up with church movies that if the airline had started playing “Mans Search for Happiness”, I know I would have gotten up and broken the projector.

The food served on the flight tasted great because it was so much better than the crap I had been eating for so long as a missionary. I finished both meals completely plus 4 cans of various sodas plus whatever cookies I could persuade the flight attendant to steal for me.

Oh, how happy I was and how relieved knowing I would be home by the end of the day. I made it a point to reassure myself again that I was really there. I pushed on the side of the plane and grabbed the seat armrests and again they were substantial objects. I was not in a dream that would end with an alarm clock waking me up in Martinsville to go out tracting again. I shuddered from a cold chill and almost puked at that horrible thought as I was grabbing the armrests.

As the flight continued on, the plane eventually flew over Utah. There I looked down at SLC and Provo and briefly thought about that "Bad Boy's Reform School nightmare" week I spent in that Salt Lake Mission Home two years previous. During my mission is when the church started up the MTC in Provo with the domestic Elders spending one month there. How lucky I was to avoid that! I could not imagine spending a month in that nightmare.

I amused myself with imagining that there were some Elders outside in an MTC courtyard looking up at the contrail my plane was leaving behind and wishing they could be where I was. But it was not to be for them today. Unless they had the courage to escape now, they had two hellhole years to go through wherever they would end up.

I also thought again of those poor Elders back in Virginia just starting out. How was their 2nd day in the Virginia Roanoke Hell hole dealing with Frank’s shiz? What dark, unholy, and impure thoughts of “the Lord’s anointed” do they have now about their pinhead mission president and his staff? Better them than me.

For one last time, a wave of pity for them occupied my mind for about two seconds but those thoughts were washed away for good with a tsunami of happy thoughts of being home where I would be loved and wanted and with the girl that I loved. Those poor new Elders and the hell of the Virginia Roanoke Mission felt so far away now, and of no importance, and the relentless roar of the jet engines seemed to magnify these feelings.

Later I looked out the window again and saw the Sierra Nevada Mountains where the California/Nevada state line is. The plane began to slow & descend. Oh God, is it really true? Am I really almost home? I can hear the wheel bays open. My home airport is in view now. I wondered how many people would be there to welcome me home. I hope Kathy was able to make it. We are closer to the ground now. THUMP…THUMP! I am on my home soil again!

FINALLY HOME AGAIN
When I walked out of the jet way, all my family was there to meet me. I cried seeing them and hugged them more than I ever had done before. It was the first time I ever cried because I was happy. I could not believe I was with them again. The two year nightmare was over.

Kathy was also there to meet me. To see her standing there after two long years brought another rush of tears to my eyes. Was this real? Is it really her? How much more beautiful she was in person. At twenty one now, she was a very pretty woman. I rushed over to her and we gave each other a very-very long hug and a deep kiss. I did not want to let go of her. I missed her so much. I kissed off (pun intended) that I was still a missionary until being released by the Stake President. I was threw being a missionary the moment I left that mission home and nothing was going to keep me from Kathy any longer.

The hugs and kisses I received from Kathy, after missing her for two miserable lonely years, poured peace into my soul in such a way that I cannot find adequate words to do justice in describing how I felt. Only those who have gone through this can understand what I am talking about. The English language is just too inadequate to paint a proper frame of reference for someone who has not gone through the trauma of a Mormon mission and returned. For those of you who had the courage and emotional strength to not succumb to the social pressures to serve a mission; coming home was not like coming back from college or summer camp. It was like coming back from the dead.

No event in my life has ever produced such an intensity of relief and happiness as the day I came home from my mission. The joy in the relief of knowing I was done with it all almost overwhelmed me.

That night, at home, after my family retired to bed, I sat on my bed and looked around my room marveling that I was there again. I then began to cry so hard that I had to bury my face into a pillow so no one would hear me.

My tears were of joy and anger mixed together. Tears of joy, because I was back home where I am wanted and valued and where I could restart my life again. Tears of anger, as I thought of the enormous time wasted, the undeserved pain received from the church leaders, the many days of not being able to be with Kathy, the lost opportunities in my education, and the time stolen from me from just living a normal happy life.

Before turning off the light, I checked just one last time that I was really there and not dreaming. Everything appeared real and solid. That night I slept for 14 hours and did not wake up until 1pm the next day. Happiness flooded my soul when I opened my eyes the next morning to find myself in my bed in my room at home. Yes! Yes! I was really home.

NO MORE GHOSTS IN VIRGINIA
For those of you living in Virginia who may think that I am trashing your home, I am not. Virginia is a very pretty place and, as they say, “Virginia is for Lovers”. I did go back to Virginia 15 years after my mission as part of a cross-country vacation with my wife.

What a wonderful feeling it was to be there as an Exmo and to be able to do the things I wanted to do that I could never do as a missionary because of having no time or money or freedom. When I went back, it was in the fall when all the leaves were turning color and my pretty Asian wife was in awe. For the first time, I was able to enjoy the beauty of autumn in Virginia.

Visiting one of the areas where I was a missionary, it felt strange to be in that area again. For a few moments, I felt those familiar missionary depression and hopelessness feelings start to well up inside me of having to go tracting all day. It surprised me that those feelings could still rise up after so many years.

But when my wife put her arms around me, those depressing feelings were quickly crushed and swept away as reality came rushing back and I knew that I did not have to go and start knocking on the doors of the surrounding houses to try and sell Joe Smith and his silly church. I could leave at any time. I could eat at any time. I was not confined to a certain area. I had no weekly reports to fill out and I did not need the permission of some pinhead Zone Leader or Mission President to leave.

As my wife and I drove away to our next destination, I knew I was forever free from the toxic religion of Mormonism. It was so very satisfying being in those places as an exmo because I never felt more free of the Mormon Church, than being in a place where it had chained me so tightly.

A SAD NOTE TO MY STORY AFTER 2013
My wife mentioned in my story, passed away in 2013 at the age of only 58 from a fatal heart attack. There were no warning signs, or symptoms. Just collapsed to the floor. I guess in life, there are freight trains that come out of nowhere and smack us down. Each night, I try to tell myself I’m strong because I have gone one more day without her.

My fellow exmos, Adieu.

what a cool story and the details you can remember. I didn't go on a mission so I can't relate but someday when I finally get the courage to leave the church I'll have the same freeing feeling. My condolences about your wife

I am sorry for your loss. I am also glad to hear she died without suffering much pain.

Great RM story. Was your wife an exmo, as well, or was she inactive? What made you lose your testimony?

Great story!!!

Can I ask how your first day as a missionary was?

As requested, here is an account of the start of my mission.

THE TRIP TO THE SLC MISSION HOME (pre-MTC days)
I had to get up early in order to get to the airport to catch my flight to Salt Lake City. I was very depressed inside as I looked around at my room and my home knowing that I would not see it again until I was 21. I looked at a picture of Kathy and began to cry knowing I could not see here anymore. I would not enjoy our pool; enjoy a Christmas, or other family events for two whole years. It was hard to comprehend that I would be gone and doing something I already knew I would hate to the fullest. I felt like a man who was reporting to prison for the beginning of his sentence of hard labor convicted of a crime that I did not commit. I had only a Pop-Tart and a glass of juice for breakfast as I was in no mood to eat a large meal.

In addition to my family, my girlfriend and our other friends came to the airport to see me off. It was a very tearful and gut wrenching feeling to kiss my family goodbye and especially to kiss Kathy goodbye. The last boarding call was being made and I was compelled to let go of Kathy and walk down the jet way. I found a seat near the back of the plane and just sobbed quietly into a blanket. Such bitterness and sadness gushed out as I soaked the airline blanket with my tears. I understood now what those children in the Old Testament must have felt as their parents sacrificed them into the ovens of the idol Moloch. I hoped in vain that this day would never come, but it did.

After the plane was in the air, a flight attendant noticed my anguish and sat by me to ask if she could do something for me. I could hardly talk but somehow was able to ask her for a soda. She was kind enough to get me one and I thanked her for it. Little did I know that this would be the last act of kindness I would receive from anyone for two more years.

I sobbed for most of the journey and I was running out of dry areas of the airline blanket to wipe my tears. Fortunately, the plane’s engines drowned out my sobbing. The plane was only a third full so I could be somewhat alone in my grief. Somehow I just knew that this two year experience was not going to be a good at any level. My intuition soon proved to be correct.


THE SALT LAKE MISSION HOME
The start of my mission in April 1977 pre-dated the existence of the MTC in Provo so I spent a week in the SL Mission Home in Salt Lake City before flying off to Virginia to be a door to door sales associate for Joe Smith. I never had a worse week in my life. As I said earlier, the warm loving ‘Jesus loves me’ church I grew up in, warped into a mean-spirited adult church boot camp.

I saw the mission home leaders dish out many acts of incredible emotional cruelty and I began to wonder if I was at the right place. The first set of emotional cruelties was witnessing the scene of missionaries being separated from their families and girlfriends. I had never seen so much anguish and sadness erupt in so many people all at once when the families & girlfriends were told to say goodbye to their missionary and to immediately get out while callously reminding them that they would not see them again for two years.

Since I was from California, I had already experienced my own tearful goodbyes to my family and Kathy two hours prior and I was still reeling from that. How gut wrenching it was to witness again people having their hearts broken, and while this ugly scene was transpiring, watching the mission home leaders smile with a sanctimonious glee of sick satisfaction. I wanted to punch them so badly. This scene looked like a WWII movie where families are ripped apart to be sent to Nazi death camps. Oh, remember, families are forever...yea, right.

The mission home nightmare week progressed as the mission home leaders attempted to brainwash me, along with the rest of the Elders, with their non-stop scripture and discussion memorization, multiple temple sessions, endless boring meetings, horrible food, no down time, and sleep deprivation. It was like a week-long Sunday with everyday being not just a 3 hour block of boring meetings and nonsense, but an 18 hour block of boring meetings and nonsense with no breaks. I got so fed up with all the berating talks from mission home leaders or some pinhead General Authority. They constantly said that I (we) did not or could not be worthy in any way to God, that we were not much better than pond scum, and cruelly chastised any Elder publicly when they asked any tough doctrinal questions. The GA’s were the meanest, coldest, and cruelest SOBs I have ever seen. Any respect I had for the General Authorities of the church was now gone. I saw that they had no more inspiration than that of a fence post and no more compassion than someone dripping hot wax into your eyes. If Jesus Christ was like them, I would rather be in outer darkness.

Each day this SLC mission home experience was becoming more and more of a “Bad Boys Reform School” nightmare. I remember one particular day when everyone was gathered in the main meeting room, the GA speaker asked what our jobs as missionaries was to be. Some poor elder raised his hand, stood up and said "...to teach the gospel of Jesus Christ and fellowship people into the church." The response from the GA was, "No Elder, you are totally wrong. Your job is to not teach the gospel but to be obedient and tract out people and baptize."

That elder was so humiliated and stunned. I was stunned. Everyone else was stunned. I sat there and thought, "This is not what I signed up for. This is not what I was taught since my early childhood of what a mission was all about.” This was a major damage moment to whatever testimony I thought I possessed. It seemed like I could almost hear that testimony fracturing like a glass window being over-stressed. I kept thinking over & over, "I left behind Kathy, the love of my life, scuttled my college educational opportunities, sold my car, and gave up my good life to endure this emotional brutality?" It finally occurred to me that I had been lied to during my growing up years.

Oh how I wish that I possessed the courage then to just get up, pack my bags, and hail a cab back to the airport. But at 19, I was too much of a coward to do so. To this day, I regret not taking charge of my life’s direction and just fly back home before suffering two long years of similar shit.

Being a cynical person by nature, I inquired at the front desk of the mission home one day and asked if this was really the LDS mission home. They said "yes, why do you ask?" I replied that I have yet to witness any manifestation of Christ-like love from anyone. That raised their eyebrows and after that I seemed to be watched more closely than before.


NOT DRINKING THEIR KOOL-AID
I was able to not succumb to the brainwashing but by the end of that god-awful week, I was exhausted and shaken from what I experienced. I was still "Flash" and would not allow myself to turn into a mindless Morgbot named "Elder Flash". I still had my self-respect and identity intact after all the ugliness I endured and witnessed. I would not drink their Kool-Aid. Others around me were drinking the Kool-Aid, and heavily, and it was scary but interesting to watch as people became brainwashed and changed before your eyes into mindless missionary Morgbots.

Critical thinking skills had evaporated from most of the Elders. I did talk to a few who were seeing things as I saw them, and they too, wished they had never signed up for missionary service. One of these Elders I talked with did escape because one morning he was gone, bags and all, and no one knew when he left. I wished that he would have taken me with him.

Every night, lying on my bed, my thoughts went around in endless circles for hours thinking: Where was the brotherhood in this nightmare? Where were the spiritual experiences to confirm my testimony as promised? Where was the Christ-like love and appreciation from the Church and its leaders for their "volunteers" that gave up so much to be here? Where was any ounce of compassion for the Elders shaken from being separated from their loved ones?

At the conclusion of this nightmare week, I discovered that whatever testimony I thought I possessed had evaporated. All that I was taught prior to this experience of what a mission would be like was false. I could not believe that I had been deceived my whole life and that I could not see through the lies. I felt so wronged and trapped and now I could no longer trust anyone anymore.

On the cross country flight from Utah to Virginia, feelings of great emptiness, deep sadness, and foreboding overcame me with such intensity that I could not speak to anyone the whole way there. My thoughts only consisted of saying to myself, "What have I done? How did I end up here? Why was I such a coward for not putting my foot down and telling everyone, No, I do not want to serve a mission? I don't want to be here! How could I have been so foolish to get succored into this shit? I should be in college now. I miss Kathy so much it hurts."

Thanks for sharing. I read this story a couple time over the few years that I have been on the board and it never gets old. I am sorry to hear about your wife.

Flash:

Let's start with the obvious...you are a gifted storyteller and an excellent writer. I was entirely engaged with you for your whole post. Your writing style brings mental images to the mind of the reader—so much so that I forgot that I was reading because I was so engaged with your story. If I were a betting man...oh, all right I AM a betting man. I've got $5 riding on "Practical Joke" to win in the Kentucky Derby on May 5, 2017, but that's getting OT. I'd be willing to wager you do a lot of writing in your career. If not, you should be. Being able to use words as masterfully you do is a rare gift.

In your post, you bring up so many valid points about how unnatural the whole mission environment is. The idea of placing emotionally immature young men (read "kids") in positions of authority over their peers as DL, ZL, and AP is unsound, especially so when they are supervisors of the sister missionaries and missionary couples. It's a rare 19 year old who is ready to handle that level of authority and responsibility well.

MPs are yet another issue. These men (usually) aren't trained in handling wild young bucks in this setting so they often resort to paternalistic, coercive tactics to maintain control. I guess that I was lucky in my mission. I had a mission president who WANTED to be a tough guy, but he actually had an underlying humanity that largely saved us from what many missionaries go through. Side note: My mission was to end in October, but my nevermo parents (who, believe it or not, were actually paying for the mission) wanted me released in August so I could get back on track with my university studies in September, and not miss the fall semester. I requested an early release from the MP, but he rejected it out of hand, saying if I went home early, it would not be with an honorable release. I wrote my father that it wasn't approved. About two weeks later, the MP called me and told me I'd be released, honorably, in mid-August. It was clear he wasn't happy about making that call to me. When I got home, I asked my dad what he had said to the MP to secure the early release. He just smiled and said, "I just told him what he needed to hear." I asked him about the conversation many times over the years, but he'd never say more than that. My dad is many years gone now. I still treasure the image of him taking down the MP a few notches as he fought for his son's well-being.

Throughout your post, your underlying human vulnerability comes through very strongly. You were right to bristle under the bizarre mission system—it's an unnatural state for a human.

Finally, and most importantly, I am so sorry for your loss of your wife. It sounds like the two of you had a love affair that lasted your entire marriage. I hope that you are finding consolation in that as your grieve her loss.

Thank you for sharing your experiences.

Gordon

I came home a couple years before you, and I can relate stress of a mission to this day. In its own way, there had to be some PTSD, not to put it on the level with military, but the stress is still stress.

I finally quit having nightmares about being back on my mission. I also was able to go back to my New York City/New Jersey mission as a regular person, and see it through normal eyes. What a difference that makes. Being able to enjoy an area for its history and beauty is something you can't do as a missionary.

Thanks for the great reminder, and how happy I was to be done "serving".

Thanks, I enjoyed this!

It's interesting how missions affect each person differently. On my last day of my mission to Russia, I remember boarding the train to go home. A lot of the members we had taught and worked with came to the train station came to see us off. It was a tight-knit group because the Church was very small in Russia in the mid-90s. So we had interacted with those same people pretty much the whole time.

After the train pulled away, I bawled my eyes out for quite a while as I realized it was over and I would probably never see those people again.

I don't hate my mission experiences. It was hard, but I really felt like I was doing the right thing at the time. I grew a lot personally from sticking it out and doing hard things day after day.

On the negative side, I should have done a lot more of true service to the people there instead of hurrying past people in need to my next teaching appointment.

I also came home with a self-righteous, black and white view of the world. I remember feeling like I was so special compared to the unenlightened Americans in the airport I saw on the way home. I was pretty OCD about reading scriptures, attending the temple, and Church callings for a long time.

Flash, I enjoyed reading your story so much. I could see you doing all those things in my mind's eye. I'm sorry about the loss of your wife.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 04/14/2017 04:57PM by aquarius123.

I might have dodged a bullet by not going but I was forever labeled a rebel and outcast of the religion for not so that was hell too.