Posted by:
flash
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Date: April 23, 2012 10:35PM
anon7, you have inquired to recieve further light and knowledge of what happened to me after arriving in Virgina and going home. Blessed art thou for thy curiosity. Enjoy.
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THE VIRGINIA ROANOKE MISSION (Hell on Earth)
The Virginia Roanoke mission was nothing more than a tracting mission with few, if any people there, wanting to know about Joe Smith and his silly church.
If there is anything I hate more than going door to door selling something, I don’t know what it could be. I hated tracting with a passion and that is all I ever seemed to do. The drudgery of spending all day, every day, weekends and holidays, knocking on doors and being told to “get lost” drove me into the ground. The degree of being told to get lost varied widely from a polite "no thanks" to having guns shoved into my face, but rejection is rejection no matter how it is dished out. A person cannot receive daily non-stop rejection and be immune to it.
Coupled with this daily drudgery was the constant harassment of the mission leaders with their false sense of urgency for higher baptism numbers, more tracting hours, and more teaching appointments.
The quarterly Zone conferences provided no relief from the mission drudgery as they turned out to be nothing more than day-long reaming sessions by our “numbers-pushing” clown of a mission president or by whatever pin head General Authority that came to speak. "Work harder" they would always say, "Tract more hours and don’t waste any time". If you’re not finding people to teach, it was because of your unworthiness". The gospel really took a back seat in favor of just getting higher numbers of tracting hours and baptisms.
Did I ever receive any encouragement to keep going and just hang in there?
Not once!
Did I ever receive any praise for my efforts, or encouragement for enduring daily rejection, or gratitude for giving so much of my time from my young life to bring souls into this church?
Never!
All I got ( and all the other Elders too) was unjustified condemnation for not working hard enough, for being slothful, or being nit-picked on the way were dressed, or condemned for random bad luck, or for breaking mission rules; rules that often contradicted each other so you were damned either way.
I found out the hard way that if you ever let it be known that you were having a bad day or that you were tired or depressed or just needed a break, it was always because of your lack of having “the spirit”. The responses received for feeling down or for feeling depressed were “You don’t have the spirit, Elder.” “You must have some grievous sin in your past, Elder.” “Are you worthy to be here, Elder?” “Are you masturbating, Elder?”
Empathy and compassion toward one another were foreign concepts in this mission especially to the MP and the Elders that came from Utah or Idaho. They were the most intolerant, arrogant, selfish, compassionless, and ignorant bunch of oxygen wasters I have ever been forced to associate with. The Elders (or Sisters) not from the Moridor of Idatah (Utah-Idaho) felt the same way, I found out later.
On and on and on did the days of being a missionary drag on. I found myself just merely existing to get up in the morning and going tracting, maybe eating some lunch if I could afford it, then go do more tracting, have some swill quality dinner, then doing even more tracting and then maybe, if I was lucky, go to a teaching appointment that, almost without fail, fell through. The next day I would do the same thing, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day…all week…week after week…month after month. Work without end, toil without reward.
The yearly holidays would come and I would find myself out tracting. It’s my birthday and instead of celebrating, where am I? I am out tracting. It’s Thanksgiving Day, and where am I? Out tracting and interrupting someone’s family gathering. It’s Christmas time; that depressing time of year deserves its own chapter.
THE DEPRESSING MISSIONARY FLAVORED CHRISTMASES
Christmas time was the most depressing holiday for me as a missionary. Knocking on door after endless door in the December bone chilling Virginia air, I was always thinking that another Christmas is coming and going by and I am still stuck here as a missionary saddled with a smothering religious duty of endless tracting to perform. I was always thinking of my family buying gifts for each other and thinking about being with Kathy.
When people would open their door during my endless days of tracting, I would see their lighted Christmas trees with presents under them and see them enjoying the holiday time. These scenes would make my heart almost stop from the flood of depression that would wash over me. How I longed to be with my family and Kathy. How I missed the fun of Christmas shopping. How I missed watching NFL football while a fire burned in the fireplace. How I missed listening to Christmas music and enjoying all the fun things of the Christmas season that were now, as a missionary, considered evil, taboo, slothful activities, and a waste of time.
No one, and I repeat, no one who answered their door at this time of year were ever interested in knowing about Joe Smith, especially from two depressed 20 year olds who didn't even want what they were selling. I remember some people wishing us a “Merry Smithmas” because they believed Mormons worshipped old Joe and looking back now I understand why due to all the emphasis on Joseph Smith, Joseph Smith, Joseph Smith, and more Joseph Smith.
What kind of church sings a song like “Praise to the Man” at Christmas time? And don’t get me started on the un-Christmas like services the Mormon Church has. I was always grateful that no investigators ever showed up at church at Christmas time.
I did call home a few times at Christmas and also called Kathy. I was so happy to hear their voices that I cried and cried and could hardly talk. I did not want to hang up because I knew I would sink even further into depression (if that was possible). When the calls ended, I sat there and cried until there were no more tears left thinking to myself over and over again how could I have been so stupid in my choices to end up in this god-forsaken place and condition? The first mission Christmas I experienced was worst of all because I knew that when Christmas rolled around again a year later, I would still be trapped in Virginia doing the same exact stuff; more endless mind-numbing tracting.
THOUGHTS AND PLANS OF TERMINATING MYSELF
The mission drudgery dragged relentlessly on and more & more lonely thoughts would swirl around endlessly in my mind with ever increasing intensity. “I could be in school now finishing my degree”, “I wish I had my car instead of this damn bicycle”. “I am so cold” or I am so miserably hot.” “I am so lonely and I miss Kathy so much; her kisses; her soothing presence.” “How could I have been so stupid to allow myself to end up in this hellhole place?”
In a desperate attempt to deal with the pain of my loneliness and hopelessness, I just shut myself down and just did the physical motions of the job to get the tracting hours to go on the weekly report. Some people did comment to me that my countenance had become so joyless but I had run out of energy to fake it anymore. I just didn’t care. My prayers were never answered. My leaders just constantly condemned me unjustly and my family seemed oblivious to my suffering.
I found myself with no hopes, no dreams, no joy, or any real reason for living anymore. How down and out I was. "Could I do anything at all to change this hellish existence?” I said to myself. Was there any way to put an end to it? What could I do? What options are open to me?" A solution slowly began to creep into my mind; a solution that would definitely put an end to this comedy.
For the first time in my life, I started considering suicide as a sweet and practical way for ending my joyless existence. To part of me, it was such a shock to even seriously consider such a course of action but I had reached absolute rock bottom and I truly felt that I had nothing to lose.
Here I was, a missionary of the Lord’s supposedly true church, who was supposed to be blessed by the Lord for sacrificing all to serve him, who was promised the blessings of success for following all the ridiculous & uncountable amount of double-bind rules, who was promised the ministering of angels for support and encouragement.
Here I was, a missionary, planning my own murder as the way to end the pain generated from the drudgery of missionary life and to end the lonely horror of having nowhere to go and escape. I had reached the point of having no tears left to cry, having no one to talk to, and of being unable to produce the courage or money or family support to just leave. ...."My yoke is easy, my burden is light…”. The Lord was apparently out to lunch when the missionary program was enacted.
Several circumstances presented themselves as the chance to end it all but I never fulfilled them. For example, one day I was riding my bike on a narrow busy road against traffic and I saw a large semi-truck approaching. Without any sense of self-preservation, I found myself on a collision course with that truck and I didn’t care.
Thoughts of how quick and sweet the end could come, kept me there in the lane. Some people slowed down and yelled at me to get out of the way and the horn of the truck was blaring loudly. But I did not care. Sweet relief from the horror of being a missionary was coming fast. Only when the thoughts of the sadness Kathy would feel upon hearing of my death entered my mind, did I swerve back to the shoulder and barely in time. What a bizarre feeling it was to not have anything to lose or where even your own life means nothing to you.
After this event, I actually heard in my brain a loud snap sound and I think my brain was saying “enough of this mission bullshit.” I had reached the point that I was not going to take shit anymore or from anybody. My fear of man left me and this experience gave me a strange sense of empowerment and courage that I never had known before. Unknown to me, I would use this new courage at my next Zone Conference.
THE DROOLING ANGRY MISSION PRESIDENT
Four months before I was to go home, at a Zone Conference, I had the usual interview with the MP as every missionary did. But as the usual “blame the Elder” one sided interview commenced, the MP became unusually hateful and vindictive toward me because this time he stood up from behind the desk and proceeded to yell into my face saying that “I was a failure as a missionary” as he pointed out my lack of baptisms and the low number of investigator discussions indicated on my weekly report. Every Zone conference always produced a similar tirade from him but this time was the last straw for me with this GA-wannabe pin head.
Too many times did I sit through similar interviews and said nothing, but now, with my new found courage, I fired back at him. I stood up from my chair, leaned over the desk and yelled back into his face, using several colorful metaphors in the process, that he was a fucking failure of a mission president for blaming me about things that I had no control over. I continued yelling into his face saying that if he was incapable of offering any kind of encouragement, support, or compassion for me or any other missionary who gave up everything to be in this armpit of a place, he should pack his bags, take his clueless wife and his dumb-ass children, and get the hell out of our lives. This man was not the kind of man used to being put in his place by anyone let alone a lowly elder.
In all my days there, I have never seen him madder but I did not care anymore. He went beyond red faced to purple and began to drool onto the desk. He was so angry he could not speak anymore and I had run out of colorful metaphors to continue. As I turned toward the door and began to walk out, my last words to him were that I would never speak to him again for any reason. I then walked out of the room, left him with his puddle of drool, and I never did speak to him again for the remainder of my mission.
After that heated exchange, I went outside the church building for the remainder of the Zone Conference to calm myself down. For the next 3 hours, I fed two squirrels from a jar of Planters Peanuts. That was the last time I ever took lip from him or his assistants again.
That day, any belief I had of the divinity of the Mormon Church and any belief that God cared about me ended. I now saw with high clarity that the whole Mormon Church was a bowl of excrement and that I had been swindled out of two years of my life, tricked into laying on the fools “Alter of Forfeit” my girl, my education, my car, and my freedom. Now what do I do? I have 4 months left. Should I end my existence? Do I have the strength see this hell hole through? I did not know at that moment.
I decided to finish the mission and my only reason was so my parents could at least have their bragging rights in the ward of having an RM son. That last 4 months was the hardest time to go through but my thoughts and desires of suicide slowly evaporated. I knew I was going home soon and Kathy was still there.
I do wish to say that had it not been for Kathy’s love and her weekly letters & tapes, I would have gone over the edge and terminated myself. Unknown to her, she was the only anchor that kept me tethered to the world of the living.
My day of release from the “best two years of my life” was coming fast but not fast enough. I just did the mechanics of the job for the remaining 16 weeks.