I'm Sick

I have a confession. You know those boys that sit under their covers with a flashlight and a National Geographic magazine at night? Well, what I've done is WAY more weird. Last night, I spent almost an hour looking at photos of airliners. That's right...airliners. I think I must be sick. Ever since I was little, I've been obsessed with airplanes of every kind, and last night proved that I still am. I can point out the differences between a Boeing 737, 757, 767, and 777 (the 747s are a given), MD-80s and MD90s, as well as most of the Airbus models. I've spent hours drawing pictures of jets—trying to get the pictures right with my limited artistic abilities means it takes even longer. I like to go to the airport two hours before my flights not so that I can be on time, but so that I can walk around the airport, take pictures, and quiz myself on the different models of airplanes. And you know the little toy stores at the airport that sell model airliners? I have to talk myself out of buying the overpriced junk every time I walk by. I've seriously considered redecorating my room to an airplane motif (as an almost-21-year-old), and I think I just might. Oh, and I hope you don't have to drive by me as I'm going South on I-215, because my head is almost definitely going to be turned to the right, trying to spot the neat planes on the tarmac. Another confession—I've contemplated becoming a flight attendant after I graduate from college (and before I go to grad school) just so that I can spend a little extra time on an airplane. I'd be a pilot, but that costs WAY too much money (although if any of you reading this want to offer me a flight school scholarship and the use of a plane, I'd be more than willing to accept).
Oh, and every day I have to check the USA Today Sky Blog, the Delta Airlines Blog, and the Southwest Airlines Blog—just so that I can be up-to-date on their happenings. I've also been known to spend hours of my time reading Wikipedia to learn more about the different models of aircraft and exploring different airports around the globe. I can tell you which airport has the most on-time arrivals (SLC), I can tell you which airport is the largest airport in the world with only one runway (SAN), and in case you didn't notice, I can tell you most of the airport codes in the US (SFO, LAX, PDX, GEG, ABQ, JFK, LGA, IGA, SNA, PHX, etc). By the way, anyone that can tell me what GEG stands for without looking online gets a prize...although the prize may just be my praise, but we'll see.

I also spend way too much time online filling out surveys and looking for deals, just so that I can add Skymiles to my account. In fact, I applied for the Southwest Airlines Visa just because it would give me enough Rapid Rewards Points for a free round trip. I won't ever use the card, and I know that it's probably not the best idea to just apply for a credit card, but it was worth it. I just used those points to get a round trip to New York City! Oh, and I'm not going with anyone...just meeting some people for part of the time. Am I looking forward to my trip? Oh yes, but I'm mostly looking forward to spending four hours on a plane, and I'm really looking forward to my two hour layover at BWI. I remember every trip I've ever taken on an airplane, and I even have the boarding passes from some of my first flights! I've also been known to design fake boarding passes on the computer for my family, and we had a "flight" for family home evening where we watched a movie and I made the safety announcements.

So what do you say? Am I sick? Do I need some kind of shot or pill? If you give me one, I probably won't take it...I like this disease.

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.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Nothing on earth can match the experience of reading a new book. That signature smell of a paperback wafts through the air and fills the room as the pages are thumbed through for the first time. The feel of the spine cracking ever-so-slightly as the book is opened wide enough to read sends shivers down the spine. The fibrous beige paper accentuates embossed letters that flow from cover to cover. Best of all, devouring books brings journeys from around the globe and throughout time to a living room sofa or the desk in a study.

My latest adventure in reading has brought me to a book that I never would have read had it not been for one of my classes. Maya Angelou's autobiography I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings has been excursion for me back to when the prejudiced South was filled with misconceptions and demoralizing actions. Angelou's book has brought me a new perspective on a topic that I knew only a little about. She writes with such astonishing detail that I can hear the creaking in the rickety church benches, taste the salty home-cured ham, and feel the angst Maya herself felt as a young girl. She brings such great insight to the prejudice from which our nation once suffered and, in some areas, still suffers from today.

Tomorrow, a historic event is in store for the United States of America. In just over nine hours, the nation's first black President will recite the Oath of Office, ushering in a new era. The bigotry of the past has been all but eradicated thanks to great men and women who lost their lives in pursuit of basic civil rights. Our nation has seen its share of people being martyred for what they believe. The puritans sacrificed what was left of their lives to practice freedom of religion in the "New World, and our nation's fathers sacrificed everything during the revolutionary civil wars, so we can experience the freedoms we appreciate today. Noble people like Martin Luther King, Jr. spoke out when injustice was rampant in the mid Twentieth Century. Tomorrow shows a culmination of these events, and, hopefully, a new beginning of events to come.

Now, I don't pretend to believe in everything that Barrack Obama stands for—in fact, much that he believes in I see as utterly wrong—but I wish him all the strength in the world. Obama is about to undertake one of the most difficult jobs in the world, and I wouldn't wish that on anyone I love. I do hope, however, that as the nation sees that we're over the period of hatred to those with a different skin color, they will begin to realize the importance of why the nation was founded in the first place: freedom of religion. The First Amendment to the United States Constitution states, "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof." Recently, however, lawmakers have seen it necessary to neglect this sentence in the constitution by ignoring the constitutional rights of religious institutions. A church in New Jersey has been forced into a lawsuit because they refused to allow a homosexual wedding on their property. The Ocean Grove Camp Meeting Association, a Methodist organization, has lost part of its tax-exempt status because of the lawsuit. Apparently, the New Jersey Supreme Court doesn't find itself in need of following the laws set forth in the US Constitution. Churches far and wide, especially the LDS Church, are being persecuted because of their stance on same-sex marriage, and it's time that is stopped. Churches have the right to believe what they want and support those beliefs in legal manners that they deem necessary. It says so in the very constitution that allows you and I to live the free life that we do. Future President Obama, I sincerely urge you to make it a point to defend our religious rights. Our forefathers gave their lives to support these rights, and the forefathers of black people around America gave their lives so that you can now be President. Please respect these martyrs and protect our constitutionally promised right to exercise our religious beliefs.

More things that make you say hmm...

Today I've got a couple of things that make me go hmm... First of all, I almost made a fool out of myself during my night class tonight. It's a three-hour class, so there was a ten minute break. During this break, I thought I'd check some email, read some news, and do a little surfing. Here's what I found. It's a story of terror. Mostly because I've eaten at the very restaurant where the incident happened, but also because I'm terrified that some people are either so lucky or so stupid. If you didn't click on the link, a man was eating at a Carl's Junior restaurant and he decided he needed to relieve himself. Our man headed to the restroom where, while he was sitting on the toilet, his concealed handgun went off, shooting a bullet directly at the toilet bowl. The bullet shattered the bowl, and a piece of fiberglass flew off of the toilet and directly at his elbow where it cut the man. First of all, how stupid does a man have to be to keep a gun in his pocket without the safety on? And how is it that the man was so lucky that the gun wasn't pointing at him (possibly leaving him unable to have any more children ever), but he walked away with a cut and a possible STD in his elbow (after all, who knows what's on that toilet)?

In other, more disturbing news, three children were taken out of their home in New Jersey – no surprise, I know, it is Jersey. However, the young boy was named Adolf Hitler and his sisters were named other Nazi-related names. The child protective services in New Jersey decided that naming a child Adolf Hitler could be considered child abuse and therefore removed he and his sisters from the home. How seriously stupid do you have to be to name your child after the führer himself? That kid really has no future ahead of him if he keeps that name! Okay that is all...have a lovely evening!

Things that make you go "Hmm...."

So...I've been putting off writing this post for quite some time now. I can't remember where I got the title for it, but here are some of the things that make me go, "Hmm..." (kind of like the baby in the picture is doing). There are so many people, places, and Ideas out there that make me go "Hmm..." so I hope you can get a little fun out of them. Here's my first in my Hmm Series.

I headed over to Delta.com the other day to check on my flight to San Diego in a couple of weeks, and I found out they had changed the flight just a little bit. The times were all the same, so that wasn't a big problem...Delta just decided to change the flight to one of the CRJ-100 Jets that Skywest flies for them as Delta Connection. Now, if any of you have ever flown in one of these "commuter jets," you'll know that they're a little smaller than your typical 

school's "short bus" and have significantly less comfort. A flashback immediately appeared in my mind. About a year ago, 

I flew to San Jose on one of the little jets, and I was stuck to a man that was...a little larger...aw heck. He was huge. I, of course, requested the window seat because I like to look out the window as I fly, but I had no idea this man would be sitting next to me and impede on...no...pop my personal bubble for the duration of the flight. But it gets worse. We flew out in one of the biggest snow storms of the year, which meant our plane had to be de-iced. We waited on the tarmac for over an hour in line for the de-icing pad. Meanwhile, my seat companion sweated profusely (they turned the air off to conserve fuel), kept adjusting his position in his seat (giving me an inevitable elbow), and constantly cough (not politely into the aisle...directly into my face). I am an airplane lover, but NEVER was I happier to get off of a plane than on that day. 

Well...when I discovered this new plane assignment, it got me thinking. Do you know those little cage-looking things the airlines have placed at the check-in counter so you know your carry-ons are the right size? I've decided I'm going to create some kind of airplane seat-sized judging device. If the gate-agent sees that a passenger is "of size" and won't fit into the model, he or she will simply have to say, "Your side fat rolls exceed the maximum carry-on size, so you can either buy the empty seat next to you, or pay to be upgraded to first class where they will help make your troubles go away with unlimited alcoholic beverages and exorbitant foods." Though the passenger may be a little put-out, the airline will make a bigger profit from fewer passengers, those of us who have the sense to have our weight at least semi-under control will be much more comfortable, and maybe they'll just get the hint and lose a few pounds before the next flight. What do you think?