Round 2: Transfers

Transfers were stressful times in and of themselves. As a missionary, every six weeks we had transfers, meaning that we had the possibility of switching areas, switching companions, both, or neither. Sometimes this can be a nerve-wracking time of the transfer because of so many unknowns. For others, the change was appealing (especially if the area that you were serving in or your companion was difficult). My first transfer I stayed in the same area, but I was to switch companions.

The fact that I was staying in the same area was comforting. After all, I knew the people, I knew the area, I knew what was going on. On the other hand, my trainer, who was leaving to another area, knew everyone and everything WAY better than I did. She had been there for several transfers and fit in really well with the Hispanics there. How would I be able to fill those giant shoes?

I was also getting a companion who was native to Mexico. Well, that was a blessing because she knew the culture firsthand and would be able to relate with them. However, she didn't start learning English until her mission, and we still covered an English ward. Not only would I be showing her around, introducing her to the area, I knew I wouldn't be able to communicate well with her. I knew some Spanish, she some English. We came from different backgrounds. Would I be able to do something like this? Oh, and on top of that, I now became the designated driver.

Did I ever mention that I really don't like driving? Truth.

Needless to say, I was really nervous about this transfer, which didn't help my depression nor my anxiety.

Then on the P-day right before transfers, my mom sent me an email that was just the slap in the face I needed, so to speak:

You have the strength in you.  It sounds easier that it is, but I know the Lord would not just leave you hanging.  You just need to rely upon him and try your best and GET OFF YOUR BACK!  Don't be so hard on yourself.  Yes it is hard and hot but your can pull up your britches and do what you have to.

Needless to say, I really needed this. It sounded exactly like what my mom would say and was the motivation I needed to keep going. I had the renewed hope that I needed to keep going. Aren't moms great that way?

So, Hermana Garcia became my companion. Seriously, she was such a sweet missionary. This ended up being probably the best transfer I had. Even though we both struggled with each other's language, the Spirit was able to make up for what our language couldn't. I would help her with English, and she would help me with my Spanish. I felt like we worked well together, and others around us could see that.

However, it was during this transfer that my anxiety started to mount. Instead of the normal one hour of language study, my companion was supposed to do two hours. On top of that, our mission president asked her to study how to drive for a half hour each day so that she could get her license in the States. Hermana Garcia was a very obedient missionary, so she did what she was asked to do. However, with all of the extra studying, we often didn't leave the apartment until 2:30 in the afternoon.

Everyday I grew more and more anxious. I felt like I wasn't being a real missionary because we didn't have many lessons with all the studying we had to do. I started even getting claustrophobic in our little apartment. During the day, window blinds had to be open. If possible, doors had to be open. Otherwise, I would feel trapped.

The Mesa Arizona temple had a Visitor's Center that was open to the public. Anyone could come in to learn about the LDS religion, about our temples, families, and God's love for His children. Certain sister missionaries are called to the Visitor's Center to work there daily. Hermana Garcia was one of them. Every Friday morning we had her VC (visitors' center) prep meeting. I can understand how they are helpful for VC sisters, but for someone like me who served full-filled (meaning that I strictly served in the community and not in the VC), the meetings didn't mean much. I honestly tried to get something out of them, but there was not much that I could apply into my own missionary efforts. For me, it was just one more meeting to sit through; one more thing to add to my anxiety. It through our Friday schedules completely out of whack. We had the meeting and wouldn't get home until about mid-morning (if I recall, it was probably about 10 or later). Then we had all of our studies to do, which we condensed because we also had at least three hours of weekly planning.

I began to really dislike Fridays.

The one blessing that came from the VC meetings was choir. I love to sing, always have, although my voice isn't the best. It allowed for some stress relief on those days. Not much, but it helped. To this day, however, if I hear those same songs that we sang then, I can't help but tear up at the memory of the anxiety I had when I first sang those songs.

Hermana Garcia quickly learned that I was struggling. After all, when you spend 24 hours a day everyday with someone, you learn quickly. Well, that and also that I was seeing a therapist at the time. It's not exactly something that I could hide. Perhaps one of the qualities I love best about Hermana Garcia is that she always wanted to help. She would ask me if there was anything she could do. Often, there wasn't, but it was nice to have someone around that cared. We did, however, find some ways to help me out. During our lunch breaks, I started wandering around the yard by our apartment to stretch my legs and get some sunshine. Sometimes we moved part of our studies to one of the local church buildings. The change of scenery really helped. Then, during our lunch breaks, we would play basketball in the gym. Neither one of us were particularly good, but it was fun and a break that I needed.

One of my favorite moments with Hermana Garcia happened one evening when she was having a hard day. It was a P-day. For whatever reason, she was just feeling emotionally off. We were to have a lesson with Nick, but she just didn't have the energy to for it. In fact, we had a few appointments for that evening, but we cancelled them all. Our plan was to possibly stay at home for the evening. Nick, being the amazing young man that he is, told us to come over even though Hermana Garcia was in her pajamas. We spoke to him through our car window. He and my companion got along really well, and he was able to cheer her up. Afterwards, I treated her out to a shake at Sonic. There was one really close to where we lived. By the way, the peanut butter chocolate shake literally became my favorite treat when I was in Mesa. Next, we went to a park, sat on the swings, and just talked. I think it was a healing moment for both of us. It's memories like these that made the mission worth it. We didn't go out to teach, but we were still able to serve each other. One thing I learned from that night is that your companion (or whoever you are close to) comes first. People are important.

Being a Mesa Missionary

The first area I served in was part of the Kimball Zone. Our particular area was relatively small area, and one could drive from one end to the other in about 10 minutes. It felt to me very small compared to the areas that missionaries have back in Wisconsin. The interesting part is that Hermana Watkins and I covered the same area that three other sets of missionaries did with the only difference being that we were assigned over the Hispanic branch and a Young Single Adult (YSA) ward. The other sets of missionaries in our area covered one or two English wards in about the third of the space that we did. With so many wards and church members, I felt like I was back in Utah again, but hotter.

Despite being nauseous for the first week and a half, I really grew to love this place. I could tell you where everything was, where members lived, how to get from one end to the other, which parts were to be avoided at night, and where the nearest Sonic was (priorities, right?). I met so many people who have influenced my life and who I think about nearly everyday since.

Admittedly, I was very intimidated when I first arrived. Hermana Watkins knew everyone and everything. She had been a very effective and helpful missionary in that area, and I wondered if I could do the same. Then I started meeting these wonderful people.

Vanessa one of the first people that I met. She was a less-active member of the church, about my age, with a personal background that seemed so much like a cheesy telenovela, except that it was all real. From what I learned through Hermana Watkins, Vanessa had some rough things happen to her but from the few months prior to me coming, she had changed her life drastically, and for the better. I quickly grew to love her, and she became our go-to person when we were having a bad day or if we had some extra time.

Carlos was a young man who lived with Vanessa and her family. For being someone who had been learning english for only a year, he spoke way better english than I did spanish. He was not a member of the church but had been taking lessons from the missionaries once he started staying at Vanessa's home. Again, here was a guy with a crazy background of things you only see on TV. He was a sweet guy with a big heart and a love for cooking (and it was really good food, too).

Franchessga was also one of the first people I met. She was a young lady about my age with about the biggest heart I've ever seen. Adrian and Chaz were a pair of artistically ambitious brothers. Adrian has published a book and is currently working on the rest of the series (I have yet to read the first one--sad, I know!), and Chaz has been working on making his own animated movie.

And then there was Nick. We inherited him from the elders in our district because, even though he lived in their area, he was technically YSA, and so we were able to teach him. Actually, that whole process was somewhat an ordeal, but that's a story for another time.

Luis and Laura were a hispanic couple with three young children. When I came to the area, the two oldest children had been baptized. Laura wanted so badly to be baptized--she could practically teach us all the discussions herself, and went to church even after working long days in the field picking fruit. Unfortunately, Luis and Laura were not married and could not be until Luis' divorce papers went through in Mexico. Until they were married, Laura could not be baptized. For someone outside the LDS church, this may seem a bit strange that we cannot allow someone to be baptized if they are living with someone of the opposite sex, but it comes down to being chaste--not having any sexual relations outside of marriage. Many people will lose interest in the Church because of this, especially among the hispanics where I was serving; marriage required getting visas and having the money to do so, and many that we talked to didn't see the need to be married. Laura, however, was not discouraged. In fact, several months ago while catching up with a member back in Mesa, I discovered that Luis and Laura had indeed been married, and Laura was baptized. Such a sweet experience shows me that our God will take care of those who believe in Him.

Of course, there were many others we met every single day. Some we would see only a few times before we lost contact with them, others would show no interest from the start, and some wouldn't even open the door for us (even though we knew that they were home and could hear the door lock click). With all these wonderful people and experiences, one may wonder how I even had time to be sad, but somehow I could.

Sometimes it was the day-to-day things that would bring it on. Our day looked something like this: We would get up about 6 am to play sports with our district or zone. I'm so glad that Hermana Watkins was an athletic young woman because she would always want to go and play sports. For me, doing so helped relieve some of the mounting anxiety. When we were done around 7, we would come home and get ready for the day. By 8 am were were doing personal study; 9 am was companion study; 10 am was also companion study, but it was specifically aimed at my personal training as a missionary; 11 am we would have an early lunch; 12 pm would be language study. By 1 pm we would be out visiting people, teaching, and serving. Dinner was usually at 5 pm, and then by 6 we were again out with lessons. By 9 we would be back in our apartment to plan for the next day. Then we got ready for bed and were in bed by 10:30.

It was quite the day. Everyday.

My problems would start as early as the morning. I looked forward to sports every morning. I think it may have been what got me out of bed. Where things started to go downhill was during studies. That brain fuzziness that I struggled with in the MTC and back as school was still there. I couldn't focus, no matter what I did. I tried to take notes, to look for things for the people I was teaching, look for themes. All I would get out of it was sleepiness and fuzziness. I felt like I was swimming all day. When it came time to do companion study, I struggled pulling myself back to where we were and to participate. This brought frustration to my companion as we tried to work together. I just couldn't do it. I was supposed to be learning to teach by the Spirit, to follow impressions or thoughts that I was getting--but I wasn't getting anything. The bathroom became my new favorite place because it was the one place I could go that I didn't have to be with my companion. It was there that I would cry. Of course, more than once I cried in front of my companion.

The problem was, everyone told me that the first transfer, or 6 weeks, is hard for everyone. It wasn't uncommon to cry and want to give up. What I couldn't seem to tell anyone was that I knew that this was more than just feeling like the mission was hard--I actually had a problem. I would get so down about myself because I just couldn't function. I would literally be sitting in the middle of a lesson with my brain moving so sluggishly, the fuzziness overwhelming. More than once my companion would get upset at me for hardly speaking during lessons, but my challenge was two-fold: I was still learning the language, and with all the fog, I couldn't process what was going on anyway. Honestly, I would try so hard to pay attention, but I couldn't do it, and that would in turn make me feel depressed. How was I supposed to help these people when I couldn't feel the Spirit and when I just felt so miserable?

Finally, by the end of the transfer, after talking with my companion and mission president, I was to go see a therapist again. She was out of town for a while, so I had to wait even longer to go and see her. The wait was awful. Everyday it would take all that I had--and more--just to get through. I would literally pray all the time, begging Heavenly Father for some relief so that I could help his children. Somehow I would make it to the end of the day and crash, but I couldn't find the relief.

If everyday as being a missionary would be like this, I wasn't sure I could do 18 months of it.

Hot, Tired, and Nauseous

I really debated about writing about my mission, hence the fact that I haven't posted anything in quite a while. Well, that and the fact that school keeps me so busy that I don't have much time to sit down and actually write something. Also, I really don't want to portray my mission in a bad light. Many wonderful things happened during it. However, when someone is depressed, it's hard to not focus on the many bad things that happened, even if they are seemingly little.

My first week in Arizona was definitely one of the hardest weeks of my mission. We flew out early Tuesday morning, nearly six weeks after being in the MTC. The excitement on the bus and plane was tangible. I couldn't figure out if I was excited or sad. Driving out of Provo itself nearly brought me to tears. Why do painful memories always pop up at inconvenient times? Before I knew it, though, we were on the plane. All the missionaries around me were excited, and I couldn't help but feel so, too.

My first sight of the Grand Canyon ever was on that flight. I also remember how everything was brown and dry-looking--definitely not the lush green that I was used to seeing in Wisconsin. Although I wasn't going to a different country, I almost felt like I was in a different world.

It was hot that day, more hot than I expected. Everything seemed to have a haze, but perhaps that was just me being dehydrated. Our first stop was at the Mesa Temple where we met our Mission President, his wife, and had many pictures taken. I remember looking at the temple and thinking that it didn't look like the pictures. I blame the heat-haze because later on in my mission I realized how gorgeous the temple is.

It was only about midday, but all of us were exhausted, and we still had many things to do for the day; training and discussions. I couldn't wait for lunch--none of us could. I had started developing a headache by then and was feeling nauseous. The water didn't help. For anyone who is from Arizona or has had the water, you'll know that it's gross. I'm sorry, but it is, and no one will deny it. So starting to feel sick and knowing that I needed to drink more, I was kind of in a bind.

In my mission, the first day of new missionaries is called Day-Training. The new missionaries get paired up with another companionship and spend the rest of the evening with them. I went with a pair of native Spanish-speaking sisters. Needless to say, with my rusty language skills, I was a bit lost that day.

Our first stop was at a member's home for dinner. The day was hot, and all there was to drink was soda. My anxiety about the food already started to kick in. The lady had a thick Spanish accent--I had no idea what was going on the whole time. She was very sweet, though, and I could tell she loved the missionaries. There were a couple other set of missionaries there as well for dinner, and they all seemed to enjoy being there.

Just imagine this with a huge
dollop of salsa verde. Oh, and
flan for dessert.

Dinner was...unexpected. I'm not exactly sure what it was, but basically it was a type of macaroni and cheese with green salsa on the side. I'm not sure why it was that way, but it didn't help with my nausea. Not only that, trying to be a brave missionary, I accepted another serving of it.

To this day, I still struggle eating pasta.

My anxiety was hitting the uncomfortable level at this point. My stomach was sick, my distorted thinking saw myself gaining weight as the night went on, I was in a place where I didn't know the language, and I had no idea what was going to happen. I could barely focus the rest of the night, and believe me, I tried. However, when 9 o'clock came that night, I was more than ready to go to bed.

Despite being exhausted, I couldn't sleep that night. I felt awful and sick--mentally and physically. I got up several times because of my stomach. The water, in this sisters' apartment, still tasted awful. The worst part of all, was the noise.

I really don't know what it was, but it felt grating, sending goosebumps up my spine and down my arms. The only thing I could think of what it could be was that it was one of the sisters grinding her teeth. I don't know if that is really what it was, but I couldn't sleep, and it went on all night long.

As grateful as I was for night to come, I was even more grateful for the morning to come. We got up at 6:30 am, said our morning prayers, and had our half-hour of exercise. I couldn't wait to run or do something to get the anxiety out of me. Except, these sisters' idea of exercise wasn't running or doing any sort of sport--it was stretching. My first thought was, "is this what all missionaries do for exercise?" If so, I wasn't going to make it. With all my anxiety, I could easily have run a few miles non-stop, but I was stuck in a little apartment, stretching.

Later that morning, all of the Day-Trainers and their new missionaries went to the Mission Office for some words and training before the new missionaries would get their trainers, a companion we would be with for the next 6 weeks. I wasn't feeling at all good, and I told my temporary companions so. They suggested that I get a blessing from the Mission President. We met him before the big meeting and told him the situation. He then proceeded to give me a blessing, one which was very tender and brought me to tears.

The only problem was, when I went to the bathroom to clean up, the tears didn't stop coming. It was the heaving sobs that I had experienced just a couple months before. I couldn't control myself. I don't know how long I was in the bathroom, but I didn't come out for awhile. When I finally did, I sat in the office with the secretary, blotting my runny nose with many tissues.

I wanted to go home. I knew I couldn't, though. If I left right then and there, what would people think of me? No, I had to toughen up. Once I got in the swing of things, everything would feel much better. I put on a brave face and walked back into the church building where the meeting would be held. I tried, unsuccessfully, to hold back the tears, to compose myself. I saw my MTC companion, bright-eyed with excitement. She knew me well enough by then to know I wasn't doing well at all.

I got my first companion then: Hermana Watkins. She was very sweet and very excited to show me around my new area. She had been in this little area in Mesa for several months. She knew the people well, knew the language, and was confident that this would be a good transfer.

We also spoke with the Mission President before heading back to our designated area. He, too, showed the same confidence and excitement that Hermana Watkins had that this would be a good transfer.

I just wish I could have felt that same feeling.

The War Is Not Over

I totally started this in October, but I never got around to finishing it or posting it. It's better late than never, I guess. Here is what I wrote:

This past month has been the month of anniversaries for me (meaning during October when I wrote this):

Oct 4-5, General Conference weekend. Particularly the Sunday sessions. This is when I had my panic attack that pretty much sent me home from my mission.

Oct 16, a year ago that day I was released as a missionary and came back home to get some medical help and counseling.

Oct 21, this is the day I would have been released from my mission if I hadn't had to go home early. It would have been the end of my 18 months. The only reason why I know this is because my mission president called me that day to see how I was doing.

My emotions have quite literally been all over the place. Some days I feel amazing, other days I just want to stay in bed and cry all day. Honestly, there may have been more of those days than I want to admit. Sometimes I look over the past year and wondered what happened. Sometimes I wonder if I have changed at all. I was an emotional mess for a large portion of the month. Am I really any better now than I was then?

Yes.

Sometimes it's hard to see improvements in ourselves, especially if they are small improvements. Sometimes, at least for me, we focus so much on the things that are still wrong in us and look over everything that has improved or healed.

This past month has been crazy and stressful for me: midterms, projects, papers, assignments, not to mention work, going to the temple, church callings, and dating. Mixed in there has been a few meltdowns, and it has forced me to think if I have really changed since this year I've been home. After all, I'm still having breakdowns. They don't occur as frequently, nor do they last for so long. That's a good thing.

That small amount of progress, though, is still progress. The war might not be over, but I'm winning some battles. Everyday is a new day, a day to start over and try again. As long as I don't stop trying, then I cannot fail.