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.

To Write A Poem

To Write A Poem

     There are many times in life when the world presses down upon us and the feeling of Atlas, all alone and holding such a incomprehensible weight, is adopted by our feeble minds. It is a romantic notion that many of our heads love to entertain, though it is one that is rarely true for most of us. As the wise words of Jon Donne recall, no man is an island, yet we still isolate ourselves from the love and care from those that love us, and indeed we create many of our own nightmares in that regard. I suppose that is what makes depression so incredibly disheartening, because it is not so much a negative world seeping into an innocent soul but rather a negative mind feeding a fearing soul. We discredit those that love us because we do not love ourselves, and how can anyone deal with that? We feel that we are a burden, a mask that so quickly lifts to reveal nothing more than pain and future regret.
     And yet, it is so much more than just that... Like any true emotion, no amount of elaborate language can satisfy the simply complex depth. Let me try though.

When decisions must be made

Often our hearts turn heavy,

Entrenched with man-made levees

     It was a cool day, which was typical for New Mexico at this time of year, almost like it was not able to decide what it wanted to be, a cooling rainy shadow, or a sweaty hot mess. The atmospheric ambivalence played to my heart though, and as our little Jeep rambled along the dusty dead road, I felt my fears swell up again. The dirt's earthen hues combined with the dry grey sky seemed to adopt my melancholy, and the Jeep's inadequate engine was quiet enough that the whole scene seemed like a morbid montage played to the tune of death itself. And yet, I mused to myself, here I am, as alive as ever.
     The past few days had been some of the worst in my life. Even retrospectively, I still have nightmares and still regret those days with a sense of guilt that only the Lord could ever hope to relieve. I had been misunderstood, mistaken, and taken advantage of by others as well as myself. I had been stripped of everything I thought I loved and cared for, and everyone seemed so quick to continue the hate, myself, most of all.
     My companion knew all too well that there was nothing to be said at this time. While he was more than supportive, without the exonerating diagnosis I would receive much later, there was no way of understanding the situation. It was like looking for the final puzzle piece when the manufacture agonizingly forgot to include it with the others. Hope, as it seemed, had released its final petal and only working with blindness was left to continue.
     While he worked hard to be accommodating, understanding, and even content with the situation, I could not be. I had been stripped clean of all preconceived notions of who I was and what I was doing here, and there was not a minute that ticked by that those pervasive thoughts assaulted my already fragile mind. Insanity was at its peak, with all sorts of absurd philosophies and ideas starting to swirl around me, until I could no longer discern them from the truths I was sure of only weeks ago.

These scenes so quickly I can recall,

Hauntingly clear and vivid

Painfully reminding me of how hard I did fall

And how the trauma bruised my heart livid

     Quickly after the worst episode of the complete abandonment of my senses (because of my continuing and untreated depression and anxiety), my Mission President gave me what we both thought must be the answer to this issue, simply do not worry about myself, but get lost in the service of others. The doctrine had been drilled into me for all of my entire life, but never had it struck a cord so harmoniously in me that I thought that this must be what it was referring to. For a brief moment, my identity crisis seemed to be averted, cured, and completed, leaving me to go to work yet again.
     It seemed that, for the following few days President was right; I was indeed making leaps of progress and was functioning nearly to the degree that I thought I would be, right up to the minute it all collapsed yet again.
     We where in the hospital visiting a good less active member. The room was what I thought every hospital room was like, an ironic place that had the power to sustain and save lives, yet was devoid and sanitized of any character and soul itself. The whir of pumps and the hum of machines dominated this sterile habitat, and always it made me unnaturally uncomfortable. Maybe it was the help of the room's infertile and aseptic atmosphere that helped push me beyond the brink; Maybe it was the question that this inquiring man asked me. Either way, after hearing about his condition (which was a decidedly uneasy stability) he turned to me specifically and asked if I could give him a blessing of comfort and peace.
     The irony of the cold, calculated room started to immediately deafen me, and for what must have been multiple eternities I was engulfed in such a fiery pit of doubt and hate that I could not see what was in front of me. The small and overworked bottle imprisoning all of my fears, doubts, cynics, and paranoia burst into oblivion as they rioted back up to their rightful spot, in the forefront of my thought's focus. While even now, over a year after it has happened, I can scarcely recall the details with any of the vivid accuracy; I was at a complete loss of what on earth had just happened at the time. Tears uncontrollably streamed down my cheeks as I chocked on my words, finally having to shake my head a very solemn and weighted "no." Today this is probably the single worst moment of my life, not only the loss of my testimony at the time, but the failure to help another keep his. After another couple eternities of the most hellishly heavy silence, I found the words to B.S. my way out of the situation and quickly closed our eternally brief meeting.
     I have often reflected on this moment, naturally being the time when I could not be any less sure of what I knew and how I knew it. Today I can (to a reasonable extent) illustrate this with Descartes's introduction to Meditation I, where he admits that he has no idea how he knows anything and how he could know if any of it was possibly true. Again though, at the time I could not explain what had happened and what I was feeling. It was a truly out of body experience for me. I had no idea who I was, what I was to do with myself and what was important to me. I was so apathetic that it felt like I was viewing myself from the third person. This sounds dramatic (even by my standards) but it is exactly what I was feeling. There was no outlets I had discovered to safely and productively bleed and release the tension. When I was trying to work harder after my Mission President's counsel, I was not taking my pains and stresses to the Lord while I was trying to help others, I had kept them to myself to carry as well as the burdens of others. It was only a matter of time before I collapsed from the near infinite load.

Further and further

This little road descends

Darker and darker

'Till my hope seems to end

     This was my Atlas moment, where I was burdened with what seemed to be my entire world, no help, just criticisms all around. I had effectively completely isolated and alienated myself from even my own peers. I had defeated myself, and the ache of failure came upon me yet again. The Jeep was heading home after a long day of work, and the failures squeezed every bit of interest and love right out of me.
     The sun had started setting when we arrived back at our humble apartment. Darkness began to grow from the far east bends of the sky, slowly though consistently defeating the fragile last line of sunlight. Our apartment was also dark, and the few lights inside where quite inadequate with warming up the place. My companion and I bowed down into a kneel and prayed, planned and then set off to get ready for bed. Instead of slumping onto my mattress though, I went to my desk and sat, knowing that I could not go to sleep. Truly I had no idea of what I wanted in this mission, or even in this life anymore, but I knew that I could fight these feelings. I just needed the right outlet.
     My desk was cluttered with all sorts of my stuff, so I started to look through it, trying to find something that could explain me, and give words to my feelings. I opened up my scriptures, and verse after verse I felt no comfort, connected with nothing said, and discouraged I put them under my desk and began looking again. After clearing some missionary paperwork, I noticed my journal under all the clutter. Curiously I picked up the small, leather bound book and flipped through its pages. All of the passages were rather lifeless, dull, and purely explanations for what happened that day. I vocally snorted at my past self's writings, was this who I was? Day after day of nothing else but the same thing? Soon though I saw the days start to grow shorter in description, and many days were not accounted for at all before I finally stumbled upon a fresh, blank page.
     I can write better than that, I told myself. Gripping my pen I started to write. In my hilariously childish handwriting, I began by saying who I was and what I knew. I started to try to talk about my fears and pains, my goals and aspirations, and my dreams. When what must have been an hour had passed I was finished. I had put all that I thought I could possibly put into this, and was eager to read the results.
     With each word read, and each paragraph digested, my smile started to fade. I did not make it all the way through.

Back in my burnt down remains,

The dregs of my soul begs and pleads

Confined in this misery, Though with hope to evade

My hell seems content to be

     Though it was not poorly written, it had no weight to it. It was all just a story, a retelling of events and thoughts. A flat, emotionless, indifferent and cold work that did more harm than justice to my broken self. Even through my rage it seemed to make sense, one cannot try to describe the hopelessness of a situation by merely writing what happened and expect to feel it. No, I needed something more powerful. I resolved to abandon all physical context to get a pure sight of what I was feeling. It would be a journal for the mind, I mused to myself as I again began writing.

     It was not too much later when I decided to take a look at what I had created. Again, My hopeful ambitions, like a light from a flare, quickly faded before being completely extinguished. It had made even less sense in reality, not only denying me something to connect to and comfort myself with, but also mocking my struggle. Anger flared as I mercilessly ripped the page out and threw it as hard as I could away from me. The paper seemed determined in its campaign to humiliate me however, as it did not soar across the apartment but instead whimsically and almost calmly flipped around my airspace, again proving I had no control and no idea.

     It was enough for me. I rested my head against my desk, accepting my loss. Tears unwillingly strained from my eyes as I sat there alone. After five or so minutes of this, I sat up, wiped my tear stained face and looked down at what was left of my violently violated journal. Again, through some of the rough rips of the previous attempt I saw a white blank page, almost begging me to try just one more time.
     Hesitantly I picked up my pen, and wrote a simple sentence. It was just a statement, nothing elaborate, just a plain, crafted sentence. Again, I wrote another sentence to follow up the first one, still as spartan. Carefully I inspected the two, and found something interesting; I had accidentally rhymed the two, and noticed they flowed better. In fact, it kind of stirred something in me, like this elementary literary device had somehow sparked a kind of emotion inside me. Intrigued, I abandoned the novel narrative and instead tried my hand at poetry. I had never been a huge fan of poetry; I had tried it a few times as a child but never really found much interest in it before. Now though, it seemed very different.
     I wrote a simple A-A, B-B form, only writing what came to my mind. It was quick, and even fun. It took only a couple seconds for me to think of words that rhymed while still staying true to what I was feeling, and the rest was just simply writing it down. 

     I knew exactly when I was finished, because I said what I was feeling. I looked over it, soaking in each word and each line, and for the first time in months, I felt... understood. It took me by such surprise and force that I found myself literally crying at my desk. Part of me was just so impressed that a simple rhythm and rhyme could trigger such a meaningful response, and the other part of me was nearly ashamed that it was so. All of the time I had been praying and pleading to not only my Heavenly Father, but also my mission president, companions, and family back home had not yielded half of the results that this stupid piece of paper with ink on it seemed to. It was a rudimentary poem, primary by nature and so poorly written that I dare not share it, but there it was, the painting of my despair, my hope, and my dreams, both broken yet at the same time alive and well. At this time even music could not hold a candle to this intrinsic poem of mine, partly because I could not listen to the music that probably would have. That was acceptable to me, however, because I had found something new to work on and enjoy. I had written a poem.

Personal Insights

     One might say that this was a proof then that God could not exist. He did not answer me when I had asked Him, even begged for an answer, right? And yet I feel so strongly the opposite, that this was God's way of showing me how to help myself out. This was the beginning of my new testimony, a stronger, more heavily wailed upon armor that had stood the test of time and will continue onward. It is battle hardened and has many cracks in it, but still provides just enough of the strength required to get the job done.

     Another argument that could arise is the fact that despite me finding poetry, I still went home early, and even attempted to take my own life before that. Surely these would not have happened had the Lord taken away my pains and sorrows, or given me a silver bullet to defeat them all, and yet I am still inclined to disagree. You see, if I had not found poetry, I would have killed myself months before. God knew it would be a close call, but He also knew that if I chose to that I would come out with the tools necessary for my life. It was not a gamble on His part so much as it was on mine, I was the one with the choice, I decided (with a lot of help) that ultimately I did not want to die and leave behind a legacy of terrible pain. I had felt that before, and it was not a warm and welcoming feeling. He knew that I would come home early because He had only called me for 11 months. It is still hard for me to speak on, and you better believe that putting this into writing is no easy task (I have been writing this post for well over a month now) but I know that one day it will make sense. Until then I have my poetry, blog, friends, school, work, and family to help me out. 

True Christianity

     Ever since news of Robin William's suicide has struck heated debates and arguments all over social media and the news, I have been reminded of what I attempted to do, and what dear family and friends have done. Most of what I hear on Facebook and on various blogs seems to hurt these thoughts and feelings more than help, and it is not too hard to see why. Many people (especially those who consider themselves Christian or at least spiritual) have taken the exact opposite side of what the mainstream media has done, and while I certainly see the validity of many of their points, I generally feel it is in a rather spiteful and contentious tone.
     Being a "survivor" and knowing a few others, as well as many who have experienced the depths of depression and the gulfs of despair that for some reason suicide seems to temporarily fill, the last thing we need is more hate and hopelessness. Yes, we should avoid suicide and prevent it, and yes, we do always have the choice, whether it feels like it or not, but we do not need to be calloused and heartless about the matter! Think, what would Christ do? Do you really think that He would guilt, shame, and scold those who are suffering depression and considering suicide? Because many people seem to think He would by how they are saying their opinions.
     In fact, I have not even heard Christ's name through out most of these debates, and that is just wrong! He DIED for us, so that we could conquer death. How cool is that? Robin Williams, as well as my uncle, and my friend who all committed suicide, despite it being a poor choice, will live again! Isn't that beautiful? They will not only live again, but they will not suffer the same thoughts and feelings that they did here on earth. Wow! Doesn't that just inspire you? Isn't that what we ought to be talking about, as Christians and believers? Instead of focusing on the sad choice that they did do, and condemning them for it, praise God for His wonderful plan that allows us to live again! Instead of spreading gossip of the gruesome details of his demise, let us look to Christ with a hope, a faith that even though we do not understand how, His plan will work out. We should not celebrate his death, nor anyone's, but we need to remember that there is ALWAYS hope. There is always a choice, but if we do not spread our Savior's Gospel then we are telling everyone they have a choice but with holding what the best one is.
     I believe suicidal thoughts can be overcome, because I believe that our Savior Jesus Christ has conquered them. It may not be immediate. It will likely be an uphill battle, where every inch of ground must be purchased with sweat and tears. There will be times we will feel completely alone, but we are not. That is the true difference between faith and fear, the same events happen, but those with faith have the hope that Christ is behind them, helping us on our way. Just because we have faith does not make the fight easier, it simply helps us see the worth of it. One of my favorite quotes of all time is someone saying "I never said it would be easy, I only said it would be worth it."
     Those who are depressed and feeling the inky black pits of hell, you are not alone. You have many who love and care for you. I promise, MANY. You are a worthwhile human being that can contribute to society and help people out. You can touch hearts and make smiles out of people that NO ONE ELSE can. Suicide will not take away your pain, it will merely transfer it to those who love you, which as I said before, are many. Pray, my dear friend, pray that you might be able to see that this struggle is worthwhile. Pray that you might understand more clearly your Heavenly Father's plan for you, that you might see that there is a Christ who has overcome all things, especially death. He loves you.  I know this because I have felt it.
     I pointed a Smith and Wesson Model 19 .357 magnum revolver at myself with intent pull that trigger. I was going to end it all. I was done, there seemed nothing left to me and my worth. It seemed that I had exhausted all that I thought I was good for, and so ending it seemed to be the next logical step. But as I held that gun to my head, something happened. There was no vision, not even a warmth or a feeling, just the feeling of killing myself was gone. It has been a rough battle since, and I have slid down hill many times. It feels like a never-ending circle of fighting depression and succumbing to it. It is tough, and I can only imagine how those who have it worse feel, but I also know that one day this will not be a problem anymore. That day may not very well come until the next life, but I know it, and I could not have survived this long without it.

     To those who are considering suicide, remember there are other options. Always. People really do care about you more than you think, and there are many tools to help you, both spiritual and physical. Please do not be afraid to ask for the help you need. It is scary, and really quite nerve racking, but it is worth it, I promise.

Here is a link to the suicide prevention website. it has people who can help you.
www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

Here is a link to some folks who would love to hear your story and tell you how much God loves you and what His plan for you is:

http://www.mormon.org/chat

     And finally, to those who have friends or family who are struggling with these thoughts and feelings, you can help. Do not police or pamper them, but continue being a friend. Do not pry them open, but listen when they talk to you about it. Listening is probably the most helpful thing you can do, and do not judge them. Everyone is different, and getting used to the situation will take time and some trial and error, but never be afraid to tell them how much they mean to you. Even if/when you get uncomfortable when they start talking about their feelings, continue to listen, and only give advice if they ask you. Refer them to help. Love them. You have a beautiful ability to be a true friend. Do not waste this opportunity, it may have fatal consequences. Remember you are loved, and trusted.

     Remember that we are all in this together. Lets stop with the hate and the spite, there is enough of that around without us helping it. Let us be true Christians to one another, and helping one another get through our various and complex issues.

Validation

     It has been about four and a half months since I stepped foot off of that plane from Tucson, Arizona. The events swirl around my head constantly, consistently reminding me of my faults and my doubts. Like everyone's unique trials, it gets old, and starts to erode your confidence and self image if left unchecked. My trials are not more special or less special that anyone else's in the world, and I am constantly reminded of that. The fact I attempted suicide does not make my trials more than the girl down the street who has never known her father, the old man sitting across from me who just lost his beloved wife, or the teenager who struggles with her self image. Nor does it make them any less.

     When I was first diagnosed with depression on the mission, it really bugged me. I had grown up in a wonderful family, who loved me dearly. I never really had many issues, and never lacked for love. My companion at the time, meanwhile, had his family torn apart in a messy divorce, and was constantly having to put up with them fighting and back stabbing one another. It was a huge trial, and one day I snapped, breaking down because I did not have any reason to be so sad all the time, and that my life was easy, there was simply no warrant for these feelings! My companion wisely told me right there to stop comparing.

     "To compare, my friend, is to despair." He told me. "What you are going through, I could never go through and come out alive," he then said, "and I firmly believe the opposite is true as well."

     What happened then, and has happened many times since, has been the realization that we all have our own struggles, and that we all have the same access to have them lifted. We go through tough things, maybe not for someone else, but for us, they are tough.

     Pat yourself on the back for making it this far. You are still alive, you can still smile, and you have such a beautiful smile. You would be making such a mistake if you did not share such a truly magnificent smile. You can help others by being happy. You can make their burdens seem lighter by just being you. Even though you are so sad at times, even though you want to quit and run away, or end it all, or whatever, you can still help people, and you really can still smile through those tears of yours. It may not seem possible, but it really is.

     Let this video demonstrate what I cannot effectively say. This is a beautiful piece made by Kurt Kuenne. For fear of stealing any of its thunder, please watch this short if you are ever feeling down or out.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cbk980jV7Ao&feature=youtu.be

Go validate someone, and find yourself being validated by doing so.

Midnight

     The sun started to set on the expansive New Mexico sky, burning the calm shades of blue into deep purples, reds, and oranges. It was the end of summer, a long, tiring summer full of work and with little to show for it. I was ready to finally go about this work the way I had imagined it, and to be able to go forward and help fix myself. I had a long journey ahead of me, and I was not prepared to face my worst enemy yet.

     I had just gotten officially diagnosed with depression. I think I have always had it, but as soon as I got on the plane to Arizona I think it really snapped, and I started to spiral downward in a rate and time that was unprecedented. When I was sent to New Mexico it only dug deeper and got bigger, consuming what little I had left of any courage or care. I finally felt alone, perfectly and completely alone.
      And yet I was not alone. Far from it, I had a companion who cared deeply for me and wanted to help, who wanted to see a change in myself as well as the area, and he worked hard to help out. When finally I decided I needed help, it was him that was there for me. After my first visit with the psychiatrist, I came out of the office hugging him telling him "It's legit! I am depressed!"
     Two weeks later, that support left, and was replaced by an Elder who did not understand, nor did he care to understand the suffering I was going through. We fought, and I was blamed for a lot. We tried to make things work, and in our eyes the other was always wrong for everything. It hurt. We disagreed on so many different parts of even basic and fundamental parts of our religion and beliefs. My nametag had almost lost all of its significance because my worst enemy put the same one on every day. I did not want anything to do with that hurt and pain, I had no anticipation to be a part of the same movement that so much hatred came from.


     As the sun started to sneak behind the Florida Mountains, I found myself in the church parking lot, confused, alone, and tired. I was in our crummy little Jeep Compass, waiting for my companion to stop talking to the sisters so we could go home and I could try to cry myself to sleep. I once tried to talk with them, but it was increasingly apparent that he was usually talking about me, and did not want me to hear it, so I stayed in the car, and waited for him to finish up. They started to laugh, and bitter tears forced their way unwillingly out of me. Nothing seemed to work, and my body seemed to not repress any longer the loneliness that failed me. The sun ominously and dramatically finished its retreat into the mountain range as rage started to heat, simmer, and finally boil inside of me. I did not, could not, and should not have to endure this.
     I honestly do not remember much else of that night. It was a blur of drunken hatred. We went home and in the middle of the night I was still wide awake from the explosiveness of my rage. I walked to our little porch and sat down with a cup of hot cocoa, taking in the chilly shadows of Deming without a sun. The sounds of sirens occasionally echoed off of the otherwise quiet surroundings, and rang in my soul. In front of me laid a cold desert community in which I was visitor, a casual observer for only a few months, someone who they knew would be replaced in only a matter of time. Behind me slept another human being who could not and would not connect with me, and refused to help in any way. Everywhere was merely indifferent to me or hated me, and I couldn't tell which one hurt more. Night surrounded me, the inky black shadows started to engulf me. Not even the hot cocoa could warm that cold void that was realized inside of me. I drained the cup and burst into pitiful tears, not sure why I was feeling so alone. My life was supposed to be awesome! Sure I am not best friends with my companion, and sure I am feeling a little bit of displacement, but I have a loving family and friends who support me, and I have a testimony of Jesus Christ and His love for me... Why then, why was I feeling so... so alone? Why was my head giving me such vile thoughts about myself and others, why was I so depressed? Why couldn't I just get happier?!

 

 

The night had to grow a little darker yet before the sun would rise. The endurance test was not yet completed.

Dusk Pt. 1

Dusk.

The time when the sun fades from the sky, and night takes reign. The time when there seems to be light, and yet everything is covered in shadows and darkness, hiding their true identities. A time of confusion. A time of change.

 

     It was not everyday that I woke up with bitterness in my head. It was not common for me to get from my bed more tired than I got in it, with less energy than if I had stayed up all night. It was not everyday that I had hatred in my very soul from my sorrows. But that dusk came for me, and I started to realize all too late that I was being engulfed in the very pain that I was trying to help others from. I was falling into the very darkness that I was warning others of literally all day.

     Can you spell hypocrite? I sure felt like one. I felt that I could not give to others what I myself was lacking, and though there was light and hope, it seemed to not be able to reach anything that was immediately important to me. It merely lighted the horizon, and kept the details veiled with inky, thick darkness. I was alone, and alone in the dark.

     I tried many of the remedies I had prescribed. I read the scriptures, said my prayers, tried to find peace with those who had already found some. Nothing seemed to light up the darkness though, nothing could penetrate the living shadows that covered what I so desperately needed. Waking up was a chore, and putting on my nametag, which I had fought to wear in the first place, became a weighted and almost sad affair. I felt like a fake.

     That was only the beginning as well. There would be even more struggles, my sun would seem to set all together, and I for a while lost almost all hope.

I want to emphasize the word "almost" in the last sentence.

 

     This was when life gave me lemons, and I was eating them raw and plain. This was before I started to figure out the sugar in life... Vital, it started to dawn on me, that I needed something, and something quick, to figure this out.

 

This is my conversion story, wrapped up in a four series part, each labeled as different part of the day/night cycle. The events are mostly in chronological order, and reflect some of my many personal moments that have helped me understand who I am and what I want to be. It contains some of my fears and conquers, my hatred and finding love. This is my story. This is my life.

Good, Better, and Best

          Although I was not there, I can imagine my parent's wedding day was a spectacular and beautiful event. I can almost see their young and smiling faces look toward such a bright future full of potential and adventure. It must have been an absolutely joyous occasion. Yet funny enough, when they found one another in a secluded spot on that day, my mother turned to my father, with a little bit of worry and doubt in her eyes. She questioned very carefully yet very bluntly to him: "How will I know that you will not cheat on me or leave me?"
     My father turned to her, and contemplated his answer.

STOP.

     What an interesting question huh? And what potential to be romantic and mushy gushy right? I mean haven't we all heard the answer before? "Well because I love you too much. I could and would NEVER do that to you." See, you get points for 'proving' your love and you answer her question... Right?

Let's back up a few paces.

     When looking for a friend or someone to date and possibly marry, we tend to look for a lot of things that quickly blend into not a lot of things. Let me explain, all too often we hear that shallow people look for good looking people and not shallow people look for good personalities. These two parts of us are indeed important parts, our identity is very much based upon how we look in both dress as well as our aesthetics in many ways shapes us, and what that doesn't solidify in our identity our personality seems to fill. We are mere percentages in this regard, mathematical equations of identities of cliches. We have nothing that sets us truly apart, we are all the same set of robots in different masks. There really can only be so many personalities and quirks, and so many different faces and body types.
     I used to think those two where the defining factors of people, especially when looking for a relationship. Let me further my explanation with yet another story (While I have climatically left the first one unanswered... added suspense I suppose).
     There was this girl I have known for a long time. She is absolutely beautiful, a true stunning example of God's great creation, and anyone would say so. I met her quite a long time ago, and have always been attracted to her. When I was quite young, I mustered up the courage to ask this gorgeous specimen out to try to get to know her first. I remember asking the question online, and her answer was a hesitant but somewhat adventurous yes. I nearly exploded, and kept looking at her picture and her beautiful face thinking that somehow I lucked out enough to get this dear beau monde.
     One could tell simply by examining the way I refer to her in the last paragraph that this 'relationship' probably lasted a total of four days. It was mind blowing to me to see it crumble and fall. At first, I blamed it on her. I said "I gave you all! I treated you like a queen's queen! I called you beautiful every second of the day, and what do you do? You say it is not enough? That I don't care?"
     Well, she wasn't entirely right, but she hit the important part on the nail. I did care very dearly about her, but it was more about how beautiful she was than anything else. It was idol worship instead of any kind of relationship.
     That was when I discovered that women aren't merely defined by their hair and their symmetry (or asymmetry) but also by another factor: Their personality. The way they talk and laugh. What they like and do not like, all that good stuff. Well, upon discovering that women are actually very human too, I decided to try to see how this certain young lady matched up with it all. I liked her alot, and we got along well. We talked and laughed together, and we clicked pretty well.
     Upon passing that test, I decided to again, muster up the courage (online again, my courage only went so far back then) and ask her out. She said yes a little easier and happier this time, with a greater sense of what she was getting herself into.
     Well, for nearly three weeks we went out this time. It was interesting to see how I was still obsessed with her beauty, but I was shocked by a couple of times when she opened up to me and let out some of her imperfections. I saw some of the first inglorious parts of real relationships with her, and at the time I really didn't expect any of that. It would take years for me to start to appreciate them.
     Again though, she cut the cord. I was not enough, or rather, I was too much for her at that time, and honestly with my state at the time I was far too much for anyone. I still did not get it though. I bought her things, I told her so dearly how much I loved her. I complimented everything about her... Why was I failing? Again, at the time I very foolishly labeled myself of superior  maturity and that one day she will understand. That has yet to happen expectantly enough! :)
     Well, then I started to forget about her. I wandered far from my trusted paths and friends, and lost myself in so many strange new worlds and places. Many times they where dark, and many times I was far from home spiritually. That was when I found out the third and most important part of our identity: our character. Our character is influenced by our personality, but it is truly who we are when no-one is looking. It is who we are when the lights are turned off. Our character is really what binds us to our identities, at least the identities that really matter.
     This is what we really will live with when we get into a relationship. Their looks and beauty will eventually fade, as sad as that may be. They too must grow old. Their personality can only go so far. You can only do so much with their personality and they with yours.
     But their morals, their character... That is lasting. That is what will either bind you or break you in any kind of friendship or relationship. That is what really matters.
   
     Now, I never connected a third time with this beautiful friend in a romantic way, but I know that if I did, it would last possibly for all eternity. Not because I am a great man, or she is a great woman, but more so because we both have an interesting part embedded into our character. We both love God.

    Before you all moan and complain that God has nothing to do with relationships, He absolutely does! C.S. Lewis paints this picture extremely effective with his essay "The Trouble With X:"
     "That is one way in which God's view must differ from mine. He sees all the characters: I see all except my own. But the second difference is this. He loves the people in spite of their faults. He goes on loving. He does not let go. Don't say, 'It's all very well for Him; He hasn't got to live with them.' He has. He is inside them as well as outside them. He is with them far more intimately and closely and incessantly than we can ever be. Every vile thought within their minds (and ours), every moment of spite, envy, arrogance, greed and self-conceit comes right up against His patient and longing love, and grieves His spirit more than it grieves ours."
     Elder Bruce R. McConkie of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles said this of worshiping God: "Perfect worship of God is emulation."
     When we love God, we try to be like Him. When we try to be like Him, we become happy and loving people who are dedicated to helping others feel a similar love and happiness. We become united.
     I have talked with this great friend of mine often, and I cannot tell you how much more impressed I am with her character and her love for others. She truly is one of the best people I know in that regard, and though her life is not perfect (like all of our mortal lives) I know that she is trying very hard to make it work out. She is truly trying.


     Now to return to my first story. My Father had just turned to his beautiful Wife, who had just poured her entire soul into this one question. He took a breath, and simply stated to her "Because I love God too much, and I will not violate any of His laws."
     Not exactly romantic by man's standards, and when he first told me that story years ago, I kind of balked at him for losing such an opportunity to profess his love for her, not necessarily God. Now though, I have started to really see the absolute beauty in it, and my Mother was perfectly happy with that, she understood his love for God was more than his love for her because God's love for us is far more than we can ever comprehend. When we trust Him and do as He says, He NEVER leaves us out in the dark. My Mother understood this, as did my Father, and that is what I mean by their character, they understood love in the true nature of it: God's love. They have given so much back to Heavenly Father by loving their family and giving them the best home they could. They serve others and help as many as they can. They are far from perfect, but they have given me all along this grand love that I only barely have started to comprehend. Stunning.