Mish Story...Part 3 of 3

Kent Allen – a family friend, a family therapist, and the first in an extensive string of angels placed in my life – re-arranged his entire schedule to meet with me the very afternoon I returned home. As we were talking, he pointed out a truly amazing scripture: “And if men come unto me I will show them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.” 

“Nathan,” he assured me, “You have come unto him. You showed the Lord that you were willing, ready, and worthy to serve Him, and now He has shown you a weakness. He will make it strong for you.”

This hit me harder than any scripture had before in my life, and I saw the first glimmer of hope I’d seen in several long days, because I knew it to be true. In the months to follow, I met with Kent numerous times. He and my family doctor diagnosed me with a chronic form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and Kent guided me through the burdensome ordeal of balancing the chemicals in my body and, a much more arduous task; starting my life anew. I had a plan for the next two years of my life that would no longer come to fruition. Though it would be exasperating at times, and the anxiety never really went away, I needed to move on with my life. I had to come up with an entirely different plan and take it all day-by-day.

The first step toward moving on was finding employment to keep myself from wallowing my time away. I was in no frame of mind to go job-searching, so my dad called a few friends, and I eventually found myself employed in the marketing department of a great local company. During my first week, I was assigned to travel with a woman named Kimberly Kemp to clients around Northern Utah. I didn’t know her at all, so our car ride was destined to be quiet one—or so I thought. In all reality, the trip led me to another saving angel: Kimberly herself. Kimberly had undergone great trials in the past few years, including some very similar anxiety. The two of us clicked, and we never found ourselves without something to say. She helped me realize that despite my trials, I was still loved and still had the opportunity to become a great man—mission or not. Though I only kept that job for a few short months, until I started school again, the many times Kimberly and I conversed changed my life forever.

People with similar situations seemed to come out of the woodwork. One friend, whom I’d known during my first year of college, brought me great comfort when he told me of his experiences serving a mission. He also experienced anxiety that was was horribly debilitating, and he, too, was sent home to take care of it, but not until after he had been in the mission field for quite some time. He not only knew what I was going through and proved to me that life does go on, but he showed me I could still prosper. This man’s amazing strength and attitude was an example to me as I suffered through the first months of re-building a shattered life.

Despite innumerable thoughtless comments from some people in the community such as “Why are you not on a mission?” or “It’s obviously too easy for missionaries to come home these days,” more people were understanding and supportive. Countless other guardian angels entered my life over the next few months. My wonderfully supportive family helped buoy me up; my great friends, both old and new, gave me the camaraderie I needed; and sweet children in my good friend’s pre-school class gave me a little taste of joy each time I volunteered at the school. The generosity and kindness of these incredible individuals helped me to overcome my own personal tragedy—a tragedy I thought would never end.

People always seem to call missions the best two years of their lives. Though I intended to spend the best two years teaching the people of Oslo, Norway, the growth and knowledge I gained of myself and those around me at home in Ogden, Utah, has superseded anything I could’ve learned on a proselyting mission. Every year, thousands of young men serve two years as missionaries for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I served a four-day mission and grew leaps and bounds over the following two years – my best two years. Not unlike the poem by Robert Frost:

I shall be telling this with a sigh 

Somewhere in ages and ages hence: 

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

The Mish Story...Part 2

My companion, Elder Swan, and I were somewhat less than thrilled when the unwelcome blaring of the alarm clock bellowed at 6:30 AM. Not only were we waking up in the middle of hot, lazy summer at an uncharacteristically early hour, but we also spent the previous night tossing and turning – unused to the uncomfortable beds, the strange noises, and the altogether unfamiliar place. Somehow, we dragged our bodies to the restroom, where the frigid water coming out of those evil shower heads shocked us into waking reality.

That morning, we met our teacher, had a crash-course in Norwegian, and learned a little about teaching, all before breakfast. Each day was pre-planned for us by the MTC, and every last second was accounted for. The hours were packed with classes, meetings, study time, and gym. After eating lunch with my district (the group of missionaries I ate, slept, learned, and lived with), we headed down the hall for a meeting with all of the other missionaries who had entered the MTC the day before. Since our goal was to arrive at every meeting early, we quickly found some available seats. After being asked to scoot-in numerous times to fit all of the missionaries, we were stuck right in the middle of the sweltering, muggy sea of bodies. As the lights dimmed and a training video began, all I could see in every direction were innumerable dark suits accented by the blue glow of the projectors. Each missionary seemed to breathe in sync, and the resulting waves in the grey, drab ocean of people resulted in an overwhelming feeling of nausea. Over time, the nausea led to clammy hands and a racing heart, and in a matter of minutes I was suffering from a full-fledged anxiety attack. Though I had felt a couple “pre-cursers” to this attack in the past year or so, I had thought nothing of them, and none of them could have prepared me for a panic attack as devastating as this.

“Find a counselor...a teacher...anyone. You need help.” This was the only rational thought my brain gave me during the hour I suffered through that meeting. I used my last ounce of constraint keeping myself from screaming at the top of my lungs and darting out of the room in the middle of the film. On our way out, I grabbed my companion, who knew something was wrong (how couldn’t he after I spent that much time shaking, sweating, sniffling, and crying next to him), although he seemed a bit disturbed.

“I have to talk to someone,” was the only thing I could sputter out of my mouth. Elder Swan nodded with as all the blood drained out of his startled face. My face was as pale as a sheer, white curtain hanging in a sunny window; the veins in my eyes popped out and shone bright red; and the sweat on my forehead had drenched the hair toward the front of my head. I must have looked like a zombie from an old horror movie. Elder Swan knew I needed some kind of help, so we rushed to the information desk, where the lady attending the desk quickly transformed from a smile to a look of confusion.

“Hi Elders! What can I do for you?” she chirped at my companion and I, trying to hide whatever emotion she was feeling.

“I have to talk to a counselor,” I muttered sullenly.

“Okay, head directly down this hall to the District Presidents’ office.

 The secretary will tell you which one you’ll need to see,” she answered, pointing down the hallway.

As we sat in the District Presidents’ office waiting to meet with President Bird, Elder Swan and I sat in silence. After about twenty minutes, I could tell he was anxious and wanted to get back to class, but I eyed him as he ripped a piece of paper from his planner and jotted a note down. He handed me the crumpled paper, and the note I read was of more help to me than Elder Swan would ever know. I knew I had someone else there for me.

My first meeting with President Bird, though slightly comforting, wasn’t even close to the end of my panic attacks. For the next two days, I was riddled with unquenchable anxiety that hung over my head. The dark, dismal rain cloud followed me around everywhere—the gym, our classes, and even meal times. I wasn’t able to have any fun when the other Elders were telling jokes and having a great time, to concentrate and learn in class, or to get the constant pounding of my heartbeat out of my ears. After numerous meetings with my District President, a psychologist, and a doctor, I tried to think differently, experimented with new combinations of medication, and prayed in my heart and out loud like I never had before. I wanted so badly to serve, but my circumstances were proving to be an enormous obstacle.

At breakfast Saturday morning, my mind was treading in an ocean of thoughts. I was trying desperately to keep myself afloat amid great feelings of inadequacy and worries of what was to come. It was then that I had the most crippling panic attacks I would ever experience. My body shook the table so violently that the other missionaries’ spoons were trembling in their cereal bowls. I felt looks of scorn from every direction, even though everyone was much more worried than judgmental toward me. More thoughts raced though my head; this time, however, the thoughts were much more focused and prominent. Elder Swan and I rushed down the hall toward President Bird’s office. He was just coming in for the day and caught us on our way, and he held his arms out for me to embrace him.

“Elder Alexander, these are getting worse and worse. I think it’s time we send you home to get some help,” he compassionately said to me, patting me on the back. As my parents traveled back to Provo to pick me up, Elder Swan and I trekked back to our residence hall, and I began to re-pack my things that I had so carefully organized just four days before. When my companion snuck out for a restroom break, I completely broke down. I plopped onto the bottom bunk and sobbed into my arms. Between the intermittent plagues of quick gasps for breath, I wailed into the pillow, thinking of all the experiences I was about to miss because of my flawed human body and its imbalanced chemicals. I thought of all of the people who wanted me to succeed at home – people who had supported me all of my life. I thought about my younger brother and whether this would influence his decision to serve a mission in a few years. Most of all, I felt like a failure. I felt like I was letting myself, my savior, and my friends and family down because of a stupid mental disorder. In that small dorm room, I nearly suffocated as my entire world crashed down around me.

The Mish Story...Part 1

I had to write a personal narrative for my Biographical Writing class, and I thought I'd post it here...bit by bit. Here is part one:

THUMP. Darkness. THUMP. Body Freezing. THUMP. People everywhere. THUMP. No way out. THUMP. Tears streaming. THUMP. Sweat dripping. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. As I sat in the crowded room, random thoughts whizzed through my mind at a speed usually reserved for stealth fighter jets. The deafening throb in my ears from my frantically beating heart was sheer torture. I felt everything my brain was throwing at me with perfect awareness: the seemingly frigid air that engulfed my body; the sweat that beaded on my forehead then dripped down my face, mixing with the tears gushing from my eyes; the frantic, uncontrollable shaking in my arms and legs; but there was nothing I could do about it. I wasn’t in control of my own body, and except for occasionally being able to wipe the tears from my face (while trying to hide it), I could barely move my arms. I was having the most horrific experience life had ever dealt me. Little did I know, it was the first in a seemingly endless stream of debilitating panic attacks.

* * * * *

For my entire life, I had been looking forward and preparing to serve as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I listened to the Elders as they spoke in Church and anxiously awaited the day when I, too, could be one of those great men. In Sunday school as a young child, I fervently sang “I hope they call me on a mission, when I have grown a foot or two,” and I meant every word. A mission wasn’t just a rite of passage for me. It was a time when I would be able to strengthen my knowledge of God and His teachings, a time when I would be able to grow as I served my fellow man, and a time to prepare for the rest of my life. Throughout my childhood, my excitement only grew as I drew closer to the missionary age of nineteen. I spent countless hours devouring missionary preparation books, attending a “Mission Prep” class, and delving into the Scriptures, so I could learn more fully the principles in them. As a result of all this preparation, excitement filled every fiber of my being when the time came for me to serve. In fact, the four months between the day I received my mission call in that famous white envelope and the day I entered the MTC were the longest months of my life.

Like thousands of other nineteen-year-olds before me, I strode into the Provo LDS Missionary Training Center on July 18th with my head held high and a gleaming smile. I was filled with anticipation for the next two years in Norway, love for my Savior and new calling to serve Him, and a little apprehension for the unknown that lay ahead. The second my mom pinned the shiny black name tag on my lapel, I knew I had made it. “Eldste Alexander,” it read. “Jesu Kristi Kirke av Siste Dagers Hellige.” Those little name tags are known all around the world, and I had one with my name on it. Sure it was my name in a strange language, but it was my name nonetheless.

While sitting in a cavernous room with my family, waiting to say our final goodbyes, my frantically beating heart was hardly calmed by the slides on the screen informing us of trivia such as how many cows it takes to produce the milk used in the MTC cafeteria. My family and I sat in silence, and the only thing that interrupted that was my dad intermittently saying things like, “This is going to be such a good experience!” I was glad for these little interruptions; they helped to distract me from thoughts of family, friends, school, and everything else I was leaving behind.

After a rousing rendition of the hymn “Called to Serve” – seriously rousing; I don’t think I’d ever sung a hymn that fast before – the dreaded moment came. I squeezed my mom, dad and brother tighter than I ever had before, for this was to be the last time I hugged them in two long years. Tears were in our eyes, but they were happy tears. I was truly doing what the Lord wanted me to do. My parents exited out one door, and I another. I glanced over my shoulder for one last look, but it was too late; my family had gone, and it was just me and the Lord. On my way out of that solemn room plagued with tears and lingering goodbyes, I caught sight of an old high school buddy. 

“Jake...er...I mean...Elder Cable! Wait up!” I shouted down the hall. Every single one of us was headed in the same direction – like a herd of cattle being driven across the prairie. Elder Cable and I followed the hoards of missionaries ahead of us to be oriented with the MTC Campus. Though we were separated at our first stop, it was a great sense of relief to spend even a little more time with a familiar face. After I had a couple extra vaccinations (the remnants of which stayed in my arm in the form of a painful, racquetball-sized lump for days), I headed to my room to settle in. During the couple of hours before my roommates arrived, I placed my clothes in their proper place; made my bed to the strict missionary standards (not a wrinkle in sight); and organized my bookshelf alphabetically according to title, re-organized it according to author, and re-organized it again from largest book to smallest. The rest of that first day is nothing but a blur to me now. All I remember is something to do with a caffeine-free Dr. Pepper and a Lunchable out of the bookstore, getting lost in the maze of buildings around the campus, and a relentless array of introductory meetings.  What happened the next day, however, brought an end to my world as I knew it.