I realize there is no faster way to drive someone away from a post-Mormon blog than to say, “I’m going to share part of my mission journal with you…”

That being said, I’m going to share part of my mission journal with you. (Cue furious clicks away from this page.) I may have mentioned this before, but I wrote volumes and volumes on my mission, most likely to keep from going completely insane. I never missed a day after my second week in the MTC.

Anyway, I thought I’d see what I wrote exactly ten years ago on this date, and see if it was embarrassing enough to post on my blog. Sure enough, I think it is. Perhaps a little too embarrassing. I hadn’t read this thing in a long, long time, so I didn’t remember what a pain in the ass I was. Frankly, it’s a miracle my various companions didn’t murder me in my sleep. Also, I can’t transcribe the entire entry because it is seriously four and a half college-ruled pages of tight scribbling (see above photo). That’s just a typical day in my journal. Sad. I think this entry has it all: wasting time, lying about stats, judging my companion for not praying the right way, thinking other people are unhappy because they don’t have the wonderfulness of Mormonism, and yet being totally miserable myself.

Anyhoo, to set the stage for you, at this point in my mission I have less than five months to go and I’m burned out. Big time. And I hate my companion, Elder Harris. Big time. (Some names have been changed to protect me!) Enjoy:

25 March 98

P-Day. Thank goodness. Actually it was kind of fun except for the actual [district] meeting when Harris went off in a huffy manner about how the datos [weekly statistics of number of hours worked, discussions given, etc.] were instituted of Jesus and blah blah blah. [Some background: my companion Harris, the District Leader, was about to wrap up the weekly review of everyone's stats (in reality a shaming mechanism to make sure no one is slacking) by saying the rote "InthenameofJesusChristAmen" when I yelled out, "The statistics have nothing to do with Jesus Christ." He then proceeded to give us a five-minute lecture on how missionary statistics were instituted by Jesus through his representatives, the General Authorities.] Oh, something from yesterday that I forgot…we brought home the pizza and Harris went off in the other room and I started chowing down. He joined me and after eating half a slice asked if the food was blessed. “In my own way.” “What’s your way?” “Well, I sat down and started eating.” He looked at his slice like it was poison and closed his eyes for five seconds and resumed eating. “Yeah, like that five seconds helps anything,” I said. What would the difference have been had I blessed it or not? He wasn’t going to give thanks if I already had and how much thanks can you give in the split-second interval? I mean he prays at night lying down with his arms propping him up. Por favor.

Gladis [a sister missionary formerly in my zone, real first name!] wrote me; a big surprise. Andrea [another sister formerly in my zone; people I liked I called by their first names] must have told her I wasn’t doing so well because it said, “[Flanders], you are not an apostate, you are a person who can’t stand hypocrisy.” She was half right. Today in district meeting I realized I didn’t believe in anything anymore. I don’t believe in blessing food. I don’t believe in their prayers. I never listen anyway, I’m too busy looking around.  I hate hymns, meetings, leaders, rules, datos, charlas [discussions], missionaries, members, everything. I no longer have a testimony and if it weren’t for the fact that I have approximately 132 days left, I would probably go home because I’m just wasting my time. Everything bothers me. Nothing matters. Nothing at all. And the realization of this in district meeting sunk me down to new depths of depression.

The thing in the dato section [the portion of district meeting devoted to discussing each companionship's numbers] that pissed me off was that they criticized the sister missionaries for not getting the goal of trucho charlas [street contacts] when they gave away three and four Books of Mormon–as much as the rest of the zone put together. They [the ZL and DLs] encourage being trucho [fake, i.e. having large numbers of low-quality street contacts]. And Harris said it was our fault we were the only area without investigators in the chapel. “We have to improve this.” It was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard. I suggested free choripan [sausage served in a piece of bread, quite delicious]. I was under the impression we were always trying to get investigators in the chapel but apparently it’s just a decision we have to make. My companion was being a verga [no translation needed] all while we were there … We also had [Elder] Roman’s breakfast of champions: Oreos, milk, sugar, toddy [chocolate milk mix]. I drank almost a liter of milk. It was darn good and the zone had fun while doing it. Today was a good day for the zone because we were all together…

Football [soccer] was fun; I had [Elder] Martinez on my team so we won a lot… Then we switched teams so Harris could win. He is way too competitive. I just wanted to have fun, which I did. I told [Sister] Woods, “You can’t guard me that close; it’s against the rules.” She said something about my lack of concern for rules. “Oh, that’s right. I don’t believe in rules.” … I am so starved for human company and depressed. I need someone to confide in but everyone’s so far away and I can’t remember the last time someone hugged me that wasn’t an Elder…

…anyway I went out [every P-Day we had to pair off and make as many street contacts as possible] with Leon and tried to tell him about my incredulity towards everything but it just wasn’t the same. We were assigned the park [Parque de los Patricios] and just walked around it twice… We were laughing most of the time so we didn’t give lots of charlas [street discussions]. The fact that it was freezing cold and 10:00 AM didn’t help either. There were very few people there. This morning it was so freaking cold, like winter, but I figured it’d warm up once the sun was out a while so I just had my short-sleeve shirt on. I froze, shivering, convulsing visibly all the way. One lady sweeping her sidewalk told me I needed to wear a coat since it was cold. It is definitely fall… We gave one charla to a guy sitting on a bench in the park. He was nice but not interested, but he listened to a very short charla. We tried to talk to another guy but he was atheist and didn’t want to talk at all. Afterwards, Leon told Perry, [the ZL] “Oh yeah, we got four charlas.” [Technically a lie, since you're only supposed to count it if you get your whole spiel out, which we clearly did not, though we did talk to four different people.] I love that guy…

At home I took a wonderful nap and we did laundry. I brought my walkman but I didn’t feel like writing Mom and Dad so I sat outside in front of the laundromat and listened to my walkman [and verboten music; I think it was Midnight Oil] and watched people walk by in the cool breeze. Like a late autumn day, a November day. It was cool. All the people who walked by looked so sad like they were going to burst into tears at any moment. Moms with three kids, looking worried about money, looking miserable. Old guys, so feeble, nothing to look forward to. [Projecting much, Ned?] Businessmen slaving to work for the family they never saw. Old women so defenseless and decrepit and on the edge of death… This life is so sad and miserable and unpleasant; it’s horrible. “Can this world really be as sad as it seems?” [I think this young man may need some anti-depressants and a slap upside the head, what do you think? And yes, I did just quote Nine Inch Nails. Don't worry, there's more coming.]

The stream of people on Nazca [the name of the street that the laundromat was on] were all heading to the grave and soon… I realized we come here, are unhappy, desperately seeking happiness in some form (the usual way of finding it is with another person) and then growing feeble and weak and not being able to do anything about it, watching everyone die off, and then, bam, we’re gone too. No warning. It’s so short and transitory. Everyone’s miserable. It’s just as Trent [Reznor] says, “I don’t know what I am, I don’t know where I’ve been, human junk, just words and so much skin.” Such a perfect symbol of those who seek gratification and happiness in the most natural way, i.e. pleasure of the flesh, food, money, clothes, but also the least likely to find it. [If I met the guy who wrote this on the street, I would punch him in the face. Oh, wait. Anyway, I am mortified.] On Nazca I regained my perspective and realized I had to believe in something. I’ve never denied God, it’s just some of his supposed organization here on earth that I doubt.

We went to [a cybercafe 15 minutes away]. But first Harris put the oven on low and we left the bishop’s meat [no, this isn't a euphemism--the bishop gave us some food instead of having us over for dinner] in there while we went. I was a little concerned we’d burn the place down but when we got home the choripan were perfect and the ribs not done yet, so it turned out well… [Another reason never to rent to missionaries; they won't think twice about turning the oven on, leaving for an hour, and coming back.]

[Here I've cut out a lengthy discussion of the emails I received, the slowness of the computer at the cybercafe, etc. I even mentioned emailing Maude (we were just friends back then). We were discussing possible mix-tapes that she could send to me. In conclusion:]

Anyone is better than the bundle of problems, confusion, and self-destruction called me…I need so much help…

The end. Wow, I really was insufferable back then. (Right? Past tense?) On the other hand, what do you expect when you cut teenagers off from their family, their friends, their country, and constantly tell them they’re not good enough? Looking back, I’m surprised how disaffected I was ten years ago. I was almost there, but I couldn’t quite make the leap. That wouldn’t come until much later (after I started this blog).