Enduring Battles

     The cold air whipped at me one last time as I stepped aboard the small plane. Excitement, combined with a very natural anxiety joined me as I started to search for my seat. Tucson, I thought to myself... I was really doing this, and now, there was no turning back.
     I found my seat in the second to last row, on the aisle seat. A sweet old woman sat on the window seat next to mine, and looked oddly at me in my freshly cleaned suit and tie, with a little black name tag hanging from my suit lapel. She didn't say anything immediately, however, and I packed my carry-on suitcase into the overhead compartment, sat down, and buckled my seat belt. I had carried a Book of Mormon with me and intended to give it out, but the prospect of actually talking to a real person and then giving them it seemed to be far more daunting than I imagined it to be. Out of pure nervousness I simply opened it and began to read when the lady politely tapped my shoulder.
     "Young man," she asked, "Why do you look so handsome for a plane ride? Do you have a job interview?"
     My instincts started to take over as I responded, and the nerves subsided, letting me do what I wanted to do. I told her I was going to help the people of Tucson get to know God better, through this book. I learned that she had just lost her brother to cancer, and was flying back home from the funeral. It was the perfect time to start to talk about the beautiful truth of Christ's Atonement for us when the flight attendant interrupted me and announced to buckle up and get ready for takeoff. When She ended  her memorized announcements, I eagerly turned back to this elderly woman to resume our conversation and then give her the Book of Mormon when I realized that she had picked up one of the magazines provided and was reading it. My fantasies and visions of heroically bestowing my testimony with this little, blue book to her where momentarily dashed, and defeated. I read the book again.
     The plane started to growl to life, and began to inch toward its runway. Little did I realize that my entire life was about to be abruptly changed forever. Only a few minutes had passed before the captain received confirmation to take off, and punched the accelerator forward, lurching the entire plane in an immediate and violent pace toward the end. It was this force, this incredibly inhumane speed that triggered something deep within my mind. Something that had not happened to me before.
     It was as if someone disconnected a couple of very important wires in my brain, which made computing things and thinking rationally and logically completely impossible. Hyperventilation was the first physical symptom, causing near asphyxiation and instantly forcing me into as close to a fetal position as the seat would allow. My mind then started to fire insane and incredibly forceful questions at me, about my mission and why I was going. I was questioning my every move, why I was going, what was I going to do, and how I was going to do it. It shattered every last piece of whatever comfort or hope that I had in one single blow.
     Then the nausea of the acceleration and rapid elevation changes even further clogged and clouded my completely broken brain, only making my flight instincts further ravage my decision to board this plane to destiny. To this day I have not had a panic attack so forceful, so violent, and so painful as that fateful flight to Tucson. With every foot that we gained closer to our hot desert city I paid for in sweat, tears, and memory loss of everything I was taught and everything I loved. I could not have been more panicked if the plane decided to stop and go in a free fall into the depths of the Grand Canyon. In fact I wished that I could somehow magically fall out of the plane, and I fantasized  about the sweet possibility of maybe having this pain taken away in the instantaneous death of the drop.
     After two hours of this thorough brainwashing, and destructive spree, the plane harshly smacked the pavement of the Tucson airport, and eventually came to a stop at the terminal. Nearly abandoning all of my luggage and other fellow missionaries, I raced out to greet our Mission President and his assistants, but in my head I was hoping that someone familiar would be there to help me.
     Alas, no familiarity and no comfort came from meeting them. If anything, it seemed to be even more stressful and scary. The rest of my mission would be in this "fight or flight" mentality; I was never able to get past it. I returned home almost a year later because of its effect on me, and even today I am still plagued with nightmares of that fateful flight.


     To me, this has been one of the hardest things I have ever faced in my life. I constantly feel like I have failed, like I am some kind of second class citizen, or like I do not belong here. I think we all feel like that at one time or another, and I cannot say that my struggles are any more or any less than anyone else's, but I do know that the support that I have gained from my family and friends is the reason I am still here and still trying. Keep strong and true, know that you are loved and cared for, and that even though things do not happen our way, they will still work out.