a mormon memoir part three: mental health crisis

It was like a volcano had erupted and all of the sensitivities and hurt feelings I’d buried deep under the surface of my consciousness were now burning me to death with their unforgiving heat.

Prior to arriving in Bulgaria, I was scheduled to spend two months in the MTC (Missionary Training Center) in Provo. Here I would learn how to be a missionary through following a rigid schedule and studying the church’s proselytizing curriculum. The MTC experience is like a Mormon boot camp, a place to hone your spirituality in order to become as close to perfectly aligned to the gospel as one can humanly be.  It’s rigorous, it’s demanding, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And I was so ready. 

I studied Bulgarian and quickly memorized a testimony, a street pitch, and the first discussion. The first discussion is a foundational introduction to Mormonism through its origin story. It details how in 1820 Joseph Smith, an uneducated 14-year-old boy living in upstate New York, prayed to know which church was true. To his complete surprise, Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ appeared to him and told him that none of the existing churches were true and that he needed to restore the true gospel with their help. An invocation of tears or reverent silence usually follows this story. We role played this first discussion lesson over and over again, practicing the perfect cadence with which to invite The Spirit.

I learned how to greet people on the street and engage them in conversation. I learned how to invite the Holy Ghost into lessons by tapping into emotional vulnerabilities. Even though these role play scenarios were a bit uncomfortable, I knew I was learning important skills. Plus, it was fun to learn a new language and I was pretty good at it. 

Following the rigid schedule was difficult but I was managing to keep up. Wake up by 6:30 am, breakfast at 7, personal study for an hour. Then companionship study, classroom time, lunch, exercise, more classroom time, language study, dinner, devotional, journaling, and lights out by 10. I was never to leave my companion’s side unless we were in the bathroom or shower. I was grouped with the other missionaries called to Bulgaria: one other set of sister missionaries and two sets of elders (male missionaries). Together we held each other accountable for upholding the mission rules, like never leaving campus and being on time to all our assignments. We didn’t have internet access and we were not to consume any worldly media. I limited my emails, laundry, and resting to P-Day (Preparation day) one afternoon a week. The MTC adjusted us to the mission lifestyle so that when we entered the field we’d have these critical habits mastered. The mission handbook, or The Little White Book, would be like a bible to us for the next 18-24 months. 

I dressed and styled myself according to this handbook. I ensured all my skirts covered my knees when I sat down and that my legs were always freshly shaved. We were instructed to carry around and consult the handbook often. Sometimes we’d have pop quizzes on the contents of the handbook. It was critical we had every rule memorized. 

Obedience is the first law of heaven. This was an important rule I’d heard all my life but it applied especially so to missionaries. Those who fail to keep the letter of the law, such as waking up at 6:31, could lose the gift of the Holy Ghost and therefore be unworthy to receive the necessary revelation to find souls who are prepared to receive the gospel. With great power comes great responsibility, and I had been set apart in a special priesthood blessing to represent Jesus Christ. I was chosen to bear His name. I couldn’t let Him down, not after everything He had done for me. This 18-month mission would be a small way for me to give thanks for His atoning sacrifice. 

“Sister Bocanegra, one of the leaders would like to meet with you about something,” a sister missionary came to me one afternoon. I nervously followed her to a room where a leader waited for me. I was called into this meeting because there was a mission rule I was disobeying: I wore socks with my loafers. I felt embarrassed and a bit annoyed but took them off. I went back to class and as the air conditioning blew onto my bare ankles, I stared at the elder’s socks with jealousy. What a dumb rule. 

But more than that, it was particularly painful because I had thought that perhaps this leader had been inspired by the Holy Ghost to pull me aside and give me words of comfort. Because for the first time in my life, I was emotionally unwell. 

Although an accelerated language and religious bootcamp experience were right up my alley, I was bereft of joy. The separation from my boyfriend uprooted a deep, emotional loneliness that I had spent a lifetime burying. My first heartbreak was brutal. And just as bad as the pain was the confusion. What were these terrible feelings? What was going on inside of me? It was like a volcano had erupted and all of the sensitivities and hurt feelings I’d buried deep under the surface of my consciousness were now burning me to death with their unforgiving heat. 

The hymns and prayers I desperately tried to busy my mind with didn’t soothe my despair like they used to. My identity as the mature-for-her-age, perfect eldest daughter, stalwart testimony, exemplar Mormon was tarnished forever. None of these people in the MTC knew me as I once was. All they knew was this weeping, emotionally unstable girl and I felt so ashamed. 

It was horrific, this caprice. I couldn’t stop crying and I felt like a stranger in my own body. Anxiety rattled me from the inside out. I couldn’t eat and sometimes I couldn’t even talk. I didn’t have the language for what was happening to me. I hated myself for being so weak. I knew missions were supposed to be hard but this was not what I had planned for. It felt wrong to be there. It felt wrong to even exist. I was a waste of resources, a burden to the good and faithful around me.

Had I misread His promptings? Was I not supposed to go on a mission? Was I supposed to get married instead? 

The specter of abandonment by my father in heaven shook my whole world. I had always felt so sure of His guiding hand in my life. So why had He left me in such a miserable state? I was trying so hard to be perfect. Prayer after pleading prayer went unanswered. I just wanted Him to tell me what to do. I promised Him I’d dedicate my whole being to the role of a missionary or a wife, whichever He wanted from me. I just needed to know which one. I couldn't go on without His approval.

I was met with silence. Losing hope, I fantasized about being attacked on the street or given a life-threatening medical diagnosis so that I could be honorably released from the mission. I wanted to crawl into bed and never get out again. 

I turned to priesthood leaders for guidance. At the beginning of each interview I was always asked if I was worthy to serve a mission, if perhaps my emotional turbulence was a sign of my unworthiness and there were sins I needed to confess. “Did you and your boyfriend go too far?” No. I promised I didn’t break the law of chastity, I didn’t even come close. 

“Do these feelings mean I need to leave my mission and get married?” I asked, begging for a solid answer. “It’s possible,” they all said. “After all, a woman’s primary obligation to the Lord isn’t to serve a mission. Her primary focus in this life is to be sealed to a worthy priesthood holder and bring spirit children into this world.” Marriage and motherhood, my divine roles. I knew that. But wasn’t I supposed to feel more… sure?

My incessant tears and panicked heartbeat must be a sign from God that I had made the wrong decision to serve a mission. But then why did I feel so sick every time I thought about getting married? Why wasn’t this critical personal revelation coming to me? Men placed their hands on my head and channeled God’s wisdom through priesthood blessings. They told me my answer would come to me with clarity. 

I wrote a letter to my (ex)boyfriend and asked him if wanted to marry me if I chose to come home. As I built up the courage to drop the letter in the mail chute, I imagined the life of domestic bliss I’d always fantasized of. Could I be ready for that dream already? It felt too soon. But the anxiety in my stomach reminded me of the daunting 18 months ahead. I dropped the letter.

A few days later I got a letter from him. He consented, excitedly, but assured me it was my choice and he’d support me either way. His answer exhausted me. Why wasn’t God speaking to me through him? Through anyone? Weeks passed and the indecision ate at me. I went through the motions of each day and tried my best not to be a burden to others. I failed a lot. Sometimes I simply just wanted to die so that I could be relieved from this mortal anguish.

I didn’t feel ready to get married. I wasn’t even positive I wanted to marry this particular person. Yes I loved him but he was the only man I’d ever been in a relationship with! What I really wanted to do was date him for longer. I wanted to go back to my life as a college student with a nice boyfriend- which was definitely not an option now that I had committed to serve a mission. You can’t just bail on your mission because you miss your boyfriend. So where was this promised clarity? I knew I must be incredibly unworthy to be burdened with this decision fog.

A little over a month in, I was absolutely done. I couldn’t keep living in this state of anxiety. I met with the MTC president and he asked me if I’d like to talk to my potential husband on the phone. A sanctioned phone call to a non-family member? And it wasn’t even Christmas or Mother’s Day? Wild. 

He answered, surprised to hear my voice. I assured him this phone call was approved. I was honest about my feelings, that part of me wanted to marry him but I wasn’t sure if it was the right choice. He was positive and charming. “You can’t see it, but I’m on one knee right now. Katrina, will you marry me?” 

Finally, someone else was taking charge and now I could stop trying to figure it out on my own. That’s all I really wanted, to be free from the burden of choice. “Yes!” I answered. I was engaged. 

That night the sisters in my dorm room threw me an impromptu bachelorette party. We ate treats from the vending machine, daydreamed about marriage, and of course turned off the lights by 10. In the morning, I’d be at peace.

Coming home was rough. Like a boulder, the anxiety refused to budge. It was nice to get back together but it didn’t magically fix my mental health. I was embarrassed, I was ashamed, I was overwhelmed. “It’s just too bad the church spent all that money getting you a visa for Bulgaria when they could have been doing it for another missionary,” a family member mused.

“Maybe there are spirit children who are ready to come down now, and that’s why Heavenly Father wanted you back so soon,” another family member told me as they tried to justify this seemingly rash decision of mine. I doubt anyone wants me as their mother, I thought. A married friend of mine took me to planned parenthood and I got a prescription for birth control pills. I wanted to shut down my reproductive cycle before getting married. And a baby seemed like an insane commitment to make. 

I tried to recreate my old life by moving back to Provo. I found a cheap place in a smelly student apartment. My friends and fiancé were busy with school and work and I spent a lot of time alone. I found a part-time job that kind of sucked but it covered my rent and groceries. I applied to BYU's upcoming semester. I spent a long time on my essays, particularly the one with the prompt: What is the hardest thing you’ve ever been through and what did you learn from it?

In this essay I tried to make sense of my MTC experience. Writing felt like the one place I could channel my vulnerabilities and I couldn’t fathom responding to the essay prompt in any other way. I wrote about how I was in the process of repairing the trust that was broken between my father in heaven and I. I received a rejection letter shortly after submitting my application. It stung. I promptly made an appointment with an admissions counselor. There must have been a mistake.

“Why didn’t I get in?” I asked, highlighting my grades and extracurriculars. The counselor pulled up my application and skimmed my essay. I sat nervously in the chair across from him, feeling embarrassed about how vulnerable I’d been. I waited in shameful silence for him to finish. So stupid. “Oh, it looks like you didn’t finish your mission. BYU gives preference to full-time missionaries.” 

I tried to explain my situation. I was faithful, I was clean. I was trying to follow the Holy Ghost’s promptings. And I was going to be a wife! “It’s just policy,” he replied indifferently. He advised me to apply to other schools and then shooed me out of his office. And just like that, another dream died. 

Ring shopping and wedding planning weren’t as dreamy as I’d always imagined it would be. I felt dead inside. Even so, my fiancé was doting and patient. He helped me design a pretty ring when I couldn’t find anything I liked. I loved being with him but felt absolutely sick about getting married. But what were we supposed to do, just wait? The guilt of leaving my mission and our raging hormones said no. 

The show must go on. Wedding dress shopping was taxing, I hated the modest gowns in the Provo bridal shops. I felt like a Mormon caricature when I tried them on. My mom was generous when I asked her if she could make my wedding dress. We picked out a pretty fabric and she spent hours over her sewing machine designing me the perfect dress.

There were glimmers of happy moments but mostly I was a ball of stress. Money, wedding planning, education choices… And what in the world was I doing with my life and why did Heavenly Father abandon me? What’s wrong with me? I hoped marriage would fix this depression. Some days I was able to channel my nervous energy into a productive wedding planning day and others I couldn’t pry myself out of bed until late in the evening when my fiancé was out of night school. I felt helpless. Maybe I’d be doomed to a life of misery forever. 

On a whim I decided to apply to the University of Utah, a subconscious middle finger to BYU. And a fresh start in Salt Lake City might be good for me. We picked a wedding date based on the school schedule, one week before the spring semester. We’d have time for a honeymoon and then I’d start the semester and everything would be fine. I looked online at the majors the University offered. I needed to pick something quickly. I was finished with my general education requirements and I was already late to register. Classes were filling up. I came across Linguistics. Sure, I liked languages and sociology. So it was declared. 

I planned the wedding in two months. It was like a couple of kids playing adults. A week before the wedding I said to my fiancé, “I just realized, you’ll need a ring too!” We went to the mall and couldn’t find anything in our abysmal price range. I pulled him into Claire’s as a joke. The joke ended pretty quickly when he found a copper ring he liked. A perfect fit. It came in a pack, 10 rings for $5. Perfect. 

My wedding day, the day I’d been preparing for my whole life. The most important of all the covenants I’d make.

In the bridal suite of the Salt Lake temple I changed out of my pretty wedding dress and put on my familiar temple ensemble. All around me college girls fastened their sashes of holiness, green aprons of decency, robes of priesthood power, and veils of womanly humility. It was a popular day to get married, a Saturday and in between semesters. I was lucky to get a spot. 

I was taken to an office to sign some paperwork. “And you’ll take his last name?” the temple worker asked, writing the new full name down. I looked at it and felt sick. That wasn’t me. “Um, no, that’s ok. I’m going to change it later.” I wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment yet. 

I was guided upstairs to the celestial room where I met my betrothed crowned in his baker’s hat. We both wore yellow tags pinned to our chests. His temple escort led him to one side of the veil and mine led me to the other. His familiar hand reached through the belly button opening and I was instructed to do the handshake with him. When it came to the part where I had to whisper one of the tokens to him, my new name, I looked to my escort for permission. She nodded. “Ruth,” I whispered through the veil. A sacred secret shared. It felt voyeuristic to have these two temple workers in on this intimate moment. 

Next stop, the sealing room. Our worthy guests sat waiting for us dressed in their Sunday best while our non-member and unendowed family and friends stood outside the temple in the frigid January wind. I knelt across the altar from my soon-to-be eternal companion. “Sister Bocanegra, take his hand in the patriarchal grip.” I did so.

The sealer, a man we had met for a brief moment earlier that afternoon, began with a small sermon. He spoke of the sacred roles of husband and wife. He kept referring to my fiancé as Melanie because it sounded similar to his non-English middle name. I wondered what it meant that our sealer couldn’t get our names right. Wasn’t he supposed to be very in tune with the Spirit? If I married a Melanie, that would be gay. And a victory for Satan.

Now looking at a card in his hands, the sealer began the ordinance with our correct, legal names. He asked me to covenant to obey my husband as he hearkened unto the Lord. I was surprised when my betrothed was simply asked to covenant to hearken unto the Lord. So he got to hearken unto the Lord and I had to hearken to him? That didn’t sit right with me because I was better at hearkening unto the Lord than he was. And we both knew it! He would always tell me, “I love you because you help keep me strong in the gospel.” We were on the same page! I hearkened more! I hearkened better! If I hearkened unto my husband before hearkening unto the Lord a lot less hearkening would get done. 

And with that, I became a 19-year-old wife. Although leaving my mission and re-entering a familiar relationship offered some emotional relief, my mental health wasn’t magically fixed. Moving in together and creating a home sanctuary was nice but didn’t change my emotional despair. I still fantasized about getting hurt or sick so that I’d never have to get out of bed and face the world. I hated myself for my inability to be happy with my blessings. There was nothing wrong on the outside so why should anything be wrong on the inside?

I began my sophomore year of college. I listened to my peers talk about parties, roommate drama, and the careers they were working towards. I felt incredibly left out and weird. I usually got along so well with others, but now that I existed in a predominantly non-Mormon group I didn’t fit in. I was a misfit, I was mentally ill, and I had lost my confidence.

I was a weird teenage bride who wore ugly underwear and was isolated from society. Brexit, Harambe, Russia’s meddling, the Access Hollywood Tape, who cares. My interest in the world around me shut down as I tried to fix my mental health with worldly media cleanses. I only consumed Mormon content like hymns and general conference talks. Asceticism would surely save me. 

It didn’t. In my scrupulosity I felt more alone than ever. The stress of wondering what I was doing to offend the spirit stretched me thin. I wondered why Heavenly Father could allow me to feel so awful when I was trying so hard to be faithful. I felt unloveable at a soul level. Sometimes thoughts from the adversary would creep in: 

How could God allow so much suffering? 

Why won’t God communicate with me anymore?

Why is God’s plan so rigid?

What if there is no God? 

I floored my husband when I shared these thoughts with him. I felt guilty but also  betrayed that he couldn’t understand what I was feeling. I desperately needed someone to understand me. I was honest with him about my fears that maybe we had made the wrong decision to marry each other and that God was punishing me for not listening to His promptings. My husband was so hurt by these thoughts and I felt awful. I’d apologize tearfully and we’d be okay for a couple days until I needed to express my fears again. The cycle continued endlessly.

I hated my behavior so I went to my bishop for help. He offered to use some of the ward funds to pay for marriage therapy. Together we went to LDS Family Services every other week where a licensed therapist listened to us for a bit and then spent the bulk of the session encouraging me to use scriptures and guidance from the brethren (church leadership) to shift my perspective. I suppressed my boiling rage at this advice. He wasn’t listening. I was already doing everything I could to follow the brethren. Soon the funds ran out and we stopped going. A small relief. 

Later I switched to another therapist for individual therapy and paid out of pocket. I knew something was wrong with me and I was willing to put my part-time babysitting money toward sessions. This therapist, an active member of the church though not professionally affiliated, used Cognitive Behavioral Therapy skills in an attempt to shift my negative thought patterns. I felt illogical and dumb. The worksheets he gave me were insulting but I did them diligently. After all, he was the professional and I was the sick one. I felt nervous around him and nothing improved so eventually I stopped going. 

My emotional problems were alleviated a bit when I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease. It seemed that the intense stress I went through in the MTC triggered the illness. I received treatment and soon my anxiety lessened. My lungs felt more expansive and my heartbeat no longer felt like an intense build up to a devastating bridge in a song. Even so, I still felt broken. The rose colored glasses of my youth had been shattered. Things that were once normal became eerie to me: the jovial sweetness of the not-yet-broken Mormons around me, the incessant gossiping about people we claimed to love and not judge, the empty revelations of priesthood holders. 

I sensed that I was on a journey of deepening my maturity and relationship to Christ through my suffering. As difficult as this journey had been, I couldn’t help but give thanks for the refiner’s fire, “a glorious deliverance, a noble and lasting rebirth” to mold me into the kind of person God intended me to be. Maybe I had lost blind faith, but I never lost hope.