The tale of an medically-released returned missionary and her journey of discovering herself.
The Beginning
Well, I'm not sure exactly if this is the beginning, but it's definitely where I can remember it starting. I figured that maybe I should give a background of where I'm coming from.
If I remember it correctly, it started in eighth grade. Oh! Those tween years where bodies are changing, friends are changing, and classes are changing. No longer are we the little, cute, and innocent children that everyone loves, nor are we the responsible, mature adults that we think we are. We just want to fit it, and in middle school, no one really does.
I'm not going to lie and say I had a lot of friends because I didn't. They were changing, and I felt like I was being left in the dust. Instead of hanging out all the time (because no one invited me), I stayed home and studied. Now, this isn't bad at all. Studies are good, but so are friends. I didn't really have anyone. Sure, I had a couple, but no one I could really hang out with, no one I really felt comfortable around. I wanted friends.
I wanted to fit in.
I think it's a natural desire to want to fit it. We are sent to this earth in families. It's a sense of belonging that we long for. Humans are made for interacting with other humans. It's how God designed us to fulfill his plan. But, when this feeling overcomes logical thinking, the results can be a bit more extreme.
I was never the most athletic kid growing up. I was overweight, uncoordinated, and had asthma. I'm sure I looked kind of comical, this chunky girl running to catch a ball. For the longest time I hated gym class. I liked to play, but I hated the physical tests like running a mile or doing pull-ups (something that I have yet to achieve). I hated changing in the locker-rooms for class. I hated the really athletic kids who showed off and made you feel bad because you're not as good as them. OK, maybe I didn't hate them. I've never hated anyone, but I extremely disliked those kids. They just made gym class so difficult. Sure, maybe they never really said anything directly to my face, but I could tell, by the way they treated me and others, what some of the things they were thinking.
Looking back, I probably was a bit paranoid. Maybe they did think those things of me, but I shouldn't have cared. Now, I really care what most people think about me. I'm me, and that's all that matters. However, keep in mind that this is coming from a middle-schooler's perspective. We don't always have the most rational thinking.
Anyway, during one of these days of physical testing my eight-grade year, we were measuring body weight. When I saw that dial go to 181, I knew I was done with this. I was done with being the fat, overweight girl that everyone picked last for teams, that was made fun of in the hallways. I was done with it, and I had to something about it.
Homeward Bound
Earlier that day I had been praying and came to the comforting conclusion to have patience with God. This was His plan after all. He knows what's going to happen. I figured that I would not hear back about when I would be going home until next week, so I prayed to have patience. Everything was out of my control now. I was completely in the Lord's hands, and I asked him to help me bear my burden while I was still on my mission.
And the phone call came that very same day.
My mission president told me that the plane would leave the following morning. Peace, then guilt, then minor panic washed over me. I was finally going home! I could finally breath and take care of myself. But what about our area? What about all the people we were teaching, the members to say goodbye to, the exchanges later in the day? I had to pack EVERYTHING I owned as well as prepare to spend the night in another sister missionary's area.
But the peace won out. For once.
Sister Coy and I packed quickly, said goodbye to as many members as we could, then went with another sister missionary to her area to teach. My companion kept asking me how I was doing, and I said the truth: I felt fine. A little nervous to see my parents, but completely at peace. That same feeling lasted all the way through the plane ride home (minus the security-check. NO ONE likes those).
One thought did pop into my mind before leaving Mesa: I am alone. After having a companion 24/7 for six months, I am now alone. I don't even have someone to sit next to on the ride to Salt Lake! Besides my family, I know very few people back at home. I have no friends there.
I am utterly alone.
The tears started to come. I had wondered when they would. They had held off for an unusual amount of time, but now they came.
And then I remembered.
I remember the feelings I had when I prayed about the decision to come home, the love, comfort, and peace I felt. God had never abandoned me, although there were MANY days where I felt like maybe he did. He was always there. He knew from before I submitted my mission papers that this would happen, and he had a plan for me. He was not going to abandon me. I could feel that. I knew that going home was the right thing for me. I knew it when I ran down the stairs and into my mother's arms at the airport. I knew it when I snuggled up into the warm bed later that night. Now is the time for my spiritual healing.
As the famous LDS hymn states, "All is well!"
And it is.
P-Day
Today was P-day. For missionaries, that is the day where we run ALL of our errands: groceries, haircuts, washing cars, doctor's appointments, cleaning
And emailing.
I thought that my mom may have heard through the Branch President of my home congregation, or perhaps from the Mission President himself about these things. I didn't realize that I would have to tell her myself. I was bracing myself to respond about her inquiries about why I'm going home.
I guess not.
One of the many blessings (and sometimes a cursing) is that we have a companion with us 24/7, and in this moment, I really needed her. After reading my mom's email about how I only have a year left and how she was so proud of me, how could I tell her that I've been miserable and was going home? Thankfully, it a moment of need, my companion was there, at my side, giving me the courage to write the email.
I think I am just afraid of disappointing my family. After working so hard to get me here, after the sacrifices and support they have given me to get me here, I leave after 6 months. I feel awful, like a failure.
But I'm not a failure.
So maybe I don't finish the 18 months, but at least I'm taking the steps to feel better, to be better. I need to take care of myself so that I can take care of others. This is what I wrote to her, but it was still hard. I feel like I'm breaking my mother's heart. What is she going to think when she reads. When is she going to read it? I think this will be something on my mind for the rest of the day...
Day of Decisions
Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.
John 14:27
And so it is with me
My name is Jesse, uh, I mean Hermana Pothoof. I'm currently serving a full-time mission in Mesa, AZ, for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Before coming on my mission, I've struggled with depression, anxiety, and possibly an eating disorder in high school, but I thought it was normal. Everyone has off days, right? Or weeks? Everyone has breakdowns now and then, or every night. I knew something wasn't right. It did seem a bit extreme, but I had college classes to go to, friends to be with, and a mission to prepare for. It was all from the stress of trying to do too many things at once. Maybe. Maybe it is more. Coming on my mission, I realized that it is. I also realized that I can't take care of people when I can't take care of myself.
Today I talked with my mission president. Should I have been nervous? Probably, but I wasn't. He knew what I had been going through. I saw him just this past Sunday after having a nervous break-down (not one of my finer moments...). Most of all, I knew that the Lord knew what I was going through and what I had been fighting, and this gave me peace and confidence. When I talked with him, he already had come to the decision of sending me home. After talking to the doctors about how I have been on my mission so far, it seemed the logical thing to do. I knew that. He knew that. And the Lord knew that. Sometime this week, I possibly may be flying on a plane home.
Perhaps I should be sad, and I am a little. Perhaps I should also be embarrassed. What will people think when I return home early? That I did some grievous sin that I had to be sent home? Thankfully that is not the case! However, I don't have a visible ailment to use a medical release as an excuse, either (although that is what this will be). Could I not take the stress of a mission? Did I not consecrate myself in the work enough? There is a quote in Preach My Gospel (the manual missionaries use) that says, "If a missionary works, he will get the spirit...and he will be happy?" Well, I'm working! Why don't I feel the spirit? Why am I not happy?
Because there is more to it than that.
Some people have physical challenges. Some have mental. Others, like me, have emotional challenges, and I'm not ashamed of it. Why? Because I know I worked the best I could out in Arizona with what I had. Despite these feelings, I kept going. After caring for other people, now is the time to take care of myself. I'm going to kick this thing once and for all. I don't want it anymore. No mas! And the only way I can take care of this is through medical and psychological help and, most importantly, the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
And this is what brings me peace.
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