I originally posted my mission story somewhere else on this website on 2/20/14. I have copied it and edited it for this particular forum (Free418years):

I just came across this website while looking for articles on folk religion in America, and it has brought back a flood of memories from my mission, which were the WORST two years of my life. It brought back the memories of all the horrible experiences that I had to live through, and the missionary companions and MP who made them all possible.

A little about myself, first: I converted to Mormonism from Roman Catholicism when I was 20 (much to my devout RC parents' agony) because of a Mormon girl I met in college. I never really believed the whole Mormon story, but I really loved this girl (or, at least, I thought I did). When I asked her to marry me a year later, she said she wouldn't unless I served a mission first. So, for three years I worked two jobs to save the money I needed for the mission, and left for the MTC shortly before my 24th birthday. I expected TSCC to just manage the money that I had given them and I believed that I would be getting that money back over the period of the two year mission. That is what I was told. Boy was that wrong! She actually ended up getting married to an RM after I had been on my mission for five months. She let me know by sending me an invitation (tacky, tacky, tacky!!!). But I can't help but feel that I really dodged a bullet with her, because she has something like 7 kids (I think).

I served my mission in the Canada-Montreal Mission from 1994 to 1996 (the McKittrick era).

My trainer was a complete jackass who thought that just because he is the great-great-great grandson of the man who was the "Profit" and president of the "church" from 1898-1901, that he was some sort of "golden boy" who deserved special treatment. He also resented the fact that I speak French as one of my native languages, along with English, and his French was worse than dreadful -- he could neither speak it nor understand it even though he spent "two whole months" at the Provo MTC learning it "God's way". Even being in a completely French-speaking area did not help him learn it because he never bothered to try to converse -- the only French he knew was found in the lessons.

Companion #2 was the king of all jerks who would take any opportunity to belittle me any time I dared to question his "authority".

Companion #3 was a kid who had "my-dad-is-gay-and-got-excommunicated" issues and chased after everything in a skirt (probably to prove that he wasn't gay, though I really believe he was, and I even told him that it was okay because I have always believed that being gay is neither sinful nor a choice).

Companion #4 was the poster-child for Mormonism. He got the flu while we were together (he actually projectile vomited while we were out proselytizing one day) and refused to take the time off. He only got better when I absolutely refused to go out with him while he was sick. (I got in trouble for this from the MP, by the way.)

Companion #5 was a lazy schmuck who refused to do anything, and then when I got sick and really needed to stay in he yelled at me for not "pulling my weight". But, he was a GA's son (I believe that his dad was in the 1st Q70), so I suppose that he got to have special privileges that I didn't have.

Companion #6 was super cool, and I was his trainer. He was a great guy and was the first human (i.e.: not a Mormon robot) companion that I had while in the field.

Companion #7 was a Jersey boy who quite often "forgot" to flush the toilet after his morning twosie. So "true blue Mormon" that I swear when he cut himself shaving, his blood was blue.

Companion #8 was a TBM who was alright, I suppose, but he wasn't very easy to get along with. He was sometimes critical when I would listen to "prospects" talk about how they were skeptical of organized religion, and so I would just have conversations with them without "bearing my testimony" or something equally ineffective. He also criticized me for talking to the homeless and directing them to soup kitchens and homeless shelters because they weren't "prospects for baptism". (This particular Compy would refer to people who weren't yet investigators as "prospects".)

Companion #9 was a D-Bag.

Companion #10 was an even bigger D-Bag than companion #9. In fact, I would go so far to say that Companion #10 was an E-Bag. He was an Idaho snow-boarder who didn't want to be on a mission (he was only doing it to get his mother off his back). One night I got up to go pee and caught him masturbating in the living room of the apartment (had to walk through the living room/kitchen to get to the bathroom). I just ignored him and went to pee. The next morning he begged me not to say anything to MP McKittrick and I said "I don't care what you do; that's your business." After I got transferred to be with Companion #11, Compy #10 gave McKittrick a letter that I had supposedly written which claimed that I was gay and in love with him (Compy #10). McKittrick called me into his office. He showed me the letter and began accusing me and reaming me up and down about being an "unworthy homo missionary" (his actual words). I said "President, this isn't my handwriting. Just compare it to the weekly letters that I've written to you for nearly two years." He said he didn't need to because the "Spirit had already confirmed" to him everything he needed to know. I told him to suit himself, but that I wasn't going to be intimidated and made to feel guilty about something that I hadn't done. I also told him that at that moment I had lost all respect for him and his so-called authority; that he in was no way "in touch with the spirit"; and that if he didn't believe me he could put my butt on the next plane home. I told him that my parents were very devout, practicing Roman Catholics and that they wouldn't feel the least bit ashamed if I were to go home early. But he didn't send me home, unfortunately, and (although I really wanted to go home) I stayed in that godforsaken hell-hole of a mission for the next four months just for spite. My remaining companions were all pretty much horrible at French, and so they never caught on that (after the episode with McKittrick) whenever we taught a lesson I would actually tell people that they would be better off remaining Roman Catholic or attending whatever church that was closest if they didn't already have a church. I just didn't care about that cult any more. (And, by the way, I never did tell McKittrick that I had caught Companion #10 masturbating. I really didn't care what he did.)

Companion #11 was the best companion I ever had. I truly loved this guy and we were great friends. I wish that I had kept in contact with him.

Companion #12 was my punishment because of the crap that Companion #10 pulled on me. Companion #12 was another huge D-Bag. I got pleurisy while with him and was ordered by the doctor to stay indoors and rest. When we got home from the doctor's office (doc was a member who treated the missionaries in his ward for free), I just put on my jammies and went to bed. Compy #12 snapped "What the heck are you doin'? You might think you're gonna take it easy because you're "sick", but I've got words for you, buddy: if we have an appointment, we're goin'!" I responded to him with two words and a one-fingered salute. I'll let you guess which words and which finger.

Companion #13 was just a bigger D-Bag than Companions #9, 10, and 12 combined. He was my last companion, and when he called me a slur word for gay people, I told him that I would pull out his "f***ing" tongue if he ever called me that again. Let me say again that I don't believe that there's anything sinful or wrong with being gay. I truly believe that people are born gay or straight (just like being born left-handed or right-handed) and that everyone should be treated equally and allowed to live their lives without fear of harm and bigotry. I just didn't like that particular "f" word because it really is cruel and hateful, just like Compy #13.

In the final interview with McKittrick, he told me that he knew I was "unworthy" of a temple recommend, that the "spirit had confirmed it" to him. I told him that if he truly felt that way, then not to give me one as I had no intentions of ever using it. But he must have doubted whatever spirit he was listening to because (believe it or not) he gave me a temple recommend, anyway. I was surprised, but not as surprised as he was when I tore it into little bitty pieces right in front of him and tossed them onto the floor like confetti. After I did that… well… if looks could kill one of us would have died that night because I'm pretty certain that I was giving him the very same dirty look that he was giving me.

The next day, after the APs dropped me off at the Dorval airport, I went into a men's room stall and changed from my missionary "uniform" and put on a tee-shirt and jeans that I had packed into my carry-on bag. I also took off my "garments" and threw them into a trash can and flew home "commando". I also threw my name tag, my journal (with the patriarchal "blessing" glued into the front cover) and anything else that would remind me of the two years of hell that I had just endured into that same men's room trash can. I think that if I hadn't been so stubborn and strong-willed, I would have probably had a breakdown.

A few hours later, my parents picked me up at the airport in my hometown and as soon as I saw them I just burst into laughter and we group hugged for a long time. I had missed them so much, and I was OVERJOYED that my ordeal was finally and truly OVER! Before we got back home, I told them that I wanted to go to our local Catholic Church and go to confession and reconcile myself with the Catholic Church. They were so happy that they started singing "Allelujah!" over and over. They waited at the church while I went to confession for the first time in eight years. It took about an hour, because the priest kept asking questions about the Mormons, and then he absolved me and said that he wasn't going to give me a penance because I had suffered enough. After confession, I asked them to drive me to a department store so I could buy some proper underwear.

That evening, after I got back home, my "bishop" called me at my parents' house and I told him to never contact me again. The stake president called me the next morning because of the phone calls he had received from McKittrick and from my "bishop". His first words were "This is President B…, I must say that I am disgusted by what your mission president had to tell me…". I cut him off at that point and (politely) told him to shut up, and that if he ever called me again concerning matters relating to that cult, I would get a lawyer and sue him for harassment, along with the LDS church that he represented. He said that I needed to be "officially released" from my mission and that I needed to answer and explain myself before the Stake High Council for what McKittrick had told him, blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. I told him that I had released myself from my mission and that I didn't need his or anyone else's approval to do so. Likewise, I told him that my life is mine to live and I don't have to explain myself or answer for my actions to him or anyone else -- especially if those demanding that I do so are Mormon cult leaders. Just to drive the point home, I packed all of my remaining "garments" (unwashed) into a box and mailed them to his house. I haven't heard from him or anyone else affiliated with the LDS since that day.

Occasionally I'll run into a missionary pair and when they approach me I tell them that my family and I are devout Roman Catholics and are simply not interested. If they knock on my door my wife and I will invite them in for a glass of water and a sandwich and chips but only on the condition that they do not try to re-convert me or try to teach my wife and children anything about their cult. (No one has ever turned this invitation down, either, regardless of the condition, which, to my knowledge, they have always respected.) I do this because I know what it's like to be hungry and out on a mission for a cult that doesn't care anything at all for its members, least of all their missionaries.