Open Letter: I Choose Right Now

To everyone I love, and all those who love me,

With a sober mind, an earnest heart, and some measure of apprehension, I have carefully chosen this time to share with my friends and family that I am no longer actively participating in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Though I still retain my membership on official records, I have chosen to step away from the body of the Church in order to protect my own personal sanity, health, happiness, and wellbeing, which have all been immensely strained for the past several years as I’ve struggled to maintain a grip on the faith which, for so long, was the only sustaining power in my life. I have let go of what I had hoped could be, and have moved on to what I know I can have right now.

The sun has set upon who I once was, and the lifeless
landscape through which I made my tiresome journey.

Though it weighs heavily on my heart to make this announcement, nevertheless I am very grateful, honored, and overjoyed to also announce I am not stepping away from the body of the Saints with empty arms or an empty heart. For more than a year now I have been in an amazing long-term relationship with a wonderful man whom I care deeply about, and it is one of the best, most fulfilling decisions I’ve ever made in my life. We entered each other’s lives at just the right time for both of us, when we were each ready for the love and devotion that we had never before experienced, with the partner (and gender) of our choice. We could not have known then just how perfect of a match we would be, and how strong our bond would become. 

Though our relationship took root very quickly, we have been content to spend as much time as possible growing and learning together and preparing our hearts for our future life as a couple. We are both very much in love and taking our relationship very seriously; however, we know that in a local culture of quick courtships and hasty marriages, we do not want to be like our peers, and we aim to do things right the first time. He is not going anywhere, and neither am I; this is not a fling or a temporary arrangement. This is more than he and I could’ve ever hoped for in our fondest dreams, and we are lucky and truly blessed to have each other. And I hope, someday, to be able to share our joy with the world, but it will be in our own time and in our own way.

Knowing that I cannot maintain this loving relationship and my membership in the Church simultaneously while remaining in “good standing” is the primary reason why I have been forced to make the difficult decision to separate myself from the Church. I wish it were not so that giving my whole heart to a caring and adoring man who loves me and makes me happy was a spiritual death sentence—an act of apostasy according to the doctrines and teachings of the Latter-day Saint Church. But that, unfortunately, is not something within my power to change. As Gandalf the Grey once said in J.R.R. Tolkien’s epic tale The Lord of the Rings, “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” And the simple fact is that I have chosen love for the time that remains of my life on earth, and it has brought me newfound happiness.

Through the ensuing darkness, the light of a new hope
still shone to guide me into unknown territory.

I have witnessed many LGBTQ Latter-day Saints before me leave the Church; I have heard their stories, and I have long-anticipated the mixed reactions that will come from those who care about me—many of whom have traveled along with me on my personal path of faith, through my blog writing, social media posts, and candid, private discussions. Thus, I understand that this news will be taken in varying ways, based on your own personal feelings and experiences, and how well you feel you’ve gotten to know me. I am not asking anyone to feel a certain way about it; I’m not even asking anyone to understand, necessarily, because this is all immensely complicated. But I do wish to elaborate on three primary points that I feel are important, and at the same time set some clear boundaries for those who may want to show their support or express their love to me in the coming weeks.

Firstly, even though I’ve always spoken very openly and publicly about my life, faith, and sexuality, I don’t feel that I owe anything to anyone as I carry out these monumental life changes. Not an explanation. Not a reason. Not an apology. Nothing. Now—I know how harsh that sounds, and I don’t mean to come off as bitter and uncaring; but separating myself from other people’s feelings and opinions (something I’ve struggled to do all my life) is really the best way for me to approach this whole situation as I prepare for the mixture of positive and negative feedback from people who know me (because it will come).

I hate to say it, but I have put off my doubts and my longing for an intimate human connection for far too long, out of fear of how others would feel about it, rather than how I actually felt about it. I wanted a partner, and the Church was no longer bringing me joy; but I was afraid that others would stop loving and respecting me, and no doubt, some will. There will be those who will message, text, and call to wish me luck regardless of how they feel about my choices; some will be genuinely happy for me, and others will be unsure of their feelings. And that’s okay; this is still very new for me, too. But I know there will also be those who will contact me to express their disappointment and sadness, and will feel the need to recommend scriptures and General Conference talks, and to share their testimonies that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is true, and they will bear witness that I am making a choice with immense eternal consequences.

In the absence of the blinding light, new paths came into my
vision, and better ways were illuminated before me.

So I am telling you right now: That is not what I need or want at this time. Truthfully, my faith is largely in shreds, and I am not presently in a position to incorporate religion into my daily life, nor to consider religious beliefs to be a critical part of my future development, as I once did. Eternity is not on my radar right now, as I have much in the present to work on in order to be successful for what remains of my mortal life; not to mention preparing to share my life with another person and build a successful relationship. I am focusing on myself, my future career, and my partnership at this time, and I don’t have a place for even well-meant gestures that ultimately just foster guilt and shame related to my choice to step away from the Church. There may come a time in the future when I feel ready to delve more deeply into my reasons for leaving, the state of my religious beliefs, and the emotions that I’ve battled with over the last few years; but that time is not now, at least not on a public scale.

Secondly, I fully understand that I didn’t need to announce this publicly; frankly, I’ve felt that it was really nobody’s business. And so, obviously, over a year has passed with few but my closest friends and family members knowing that I am partnered and inactive. But it was my choice to finally announce this after lengthy and careful consideration. Over months and months I have gone through dozens of versions of this letter, and considered a handful of different ways to share it with everyone. With all the options I considered, I still had apprehensions about how my message would be received.

If I was too confidant and blatant, it could be seen as rude or inconsiderate; if I was too subdued, my sincerity could be questioned or I might not be taken seriously. Regardless of the mode of transmission, I was still letting the opinions of others direct my actions, from which I am trying harder to refrain. So I decided finally that I was not going to make it my responsibility to ensure that everyone I knew received this information at the same time, but rather that I would make access to it available to all, and let each individual choose whether they were interested in reading about my life update.

The roads were still rough, but I did not tread them alone; the
journey was still long, but I had renewed strength to carry on.

Another major motivator for me arriving at this desire for a public announcement has been the feeling like I am living in the closet again, hiding my true self from the world for fear of backlash, rejection, and criticism. That is an awful feeling; it is stifling and uncomfortable. No one deserves to feel confined to a space where they cannot be who they were meant to be. So in opening the door and coming out again now, please try to understand that I cannot and will not hold myself personally accountable or responsible for what anyone thinks or how anyone feels about this news or how I’ve chosen to share it. I dislike feeling like I have something to hide, like I did when I was young, closeted, and putting up a façade for everyone. Honestly, I’m tired of keeping track of who “knows,” and who doesn’t; who I’ve told already, and who I haven’t. I just want it to be over with already, in one swift, but quiet motion.

Even though it is for the best for me to remain somewhat detached from others’ opinions on this topic, I want you to know that I fully understand the array of emotions you may feel, because I have already cycled through them many times over in the last few months (and years) as I saw my time in the Latter-day Saint Church drawing to a close—despite my death grip on my faith. Some will feel that this public disclosure was indeed necessary, and others will see it as attention-seeking behavior, but I cannot change any of those thoughts. I spent years in the closet and remember my liberation from it very well. I am seeking that freedom again by telling everyone that I am now living as authentically as I can after finding the right time and way to make this leap.

I acknowledge the pain and sadness some of you will feel. It does make me uncomfortable to know that my choice will hurt some of you. I understand that there are those who have looked up to me and been inspired by my faith and devotion to the gospel for a long time now. But because I invite others’ feelings into my heart and mind so easily, they do not just remain personal opinions or fleeting feelings—they become scathing expectations and heavy responsibilities that I cannot help but take upon myself personally, and it causes (and has caused) irreparable damage to my wellbeing. I have chosen to be true and faithful to the truest part of myself that I know (and have confirmed) will bring me the most happiness now, not later. And I am learning to do this regardless of what anyone else will think about it—even those I am closest to, who I know care about me and just want the best for me. I’m not very good at it yet, but I keep trying, and it is getting easier to do.

With the smallest glimmer of a new day on the horizon, all
fears seemed to vanish, and I felt the warmth of life returning.

And that brings me to my third and final point, and that is that I AM HAPPY. You need to know and understand this the most. I am happy with this decision. Please do not assume for one second that I arrived at it easily; it is probably the most difficult choice I’ve ever been forced to make, and forced I was. But it needed to happen in order for me to be happy with my life and optimistic about my future—both of which seemed to be hopeless and going nowhere before the fall of 2019, when I met my partner and my life slowly began to change and take on new meaning.

After thirteen steady years as an active member of the Church, I was uncertain and uncomfortable at first, even as I was falling in love with an amazing man. But the simple passing of time within a new way of living (and loving) has brought about a solid awareness and a clearer recognition of the joy and satisfaction I feel being loved and in love. I am more certain of the happiness I feel with my partner than I was with the type of happiness I felt as an openly gay, fully active Latter-day Saint. I do not regret my time as an active member of the Church. I do sometimes wish that I had been ready to make this change sooner in my life’s timeline; but that is one more thing I cannot do anything about now. Still, my broken faith aside, I choose to believe that everything which has transpired in my life happened exactly as it was meant to.

I think it’s also important for you to know (or be reminded) that I have been to the brink of wanting to take my own life because I was so unhappy and felt so hopeless. Within the last five years, even, I have come close to ending my pain and exiting this mortal stage rather than exiting the Church. Both options seemed like a failure. And I have known and heard of many like me, LGBTQ Latter-day Saints, who approached that same dark precipice and chose to plunge over the edge to end their pain. I did not want that to be my fate when another solution seemed to be in sight: Embracing my sexuality to the fullest extent possible and seeking a loving relationship with a man. I could no longer push through the agony and anguish toward a time, somewhere beyond the veil, when I was told everything would be okay, and all would be made up to me a hundred fold. It was too far, and too lonely a path to trudge for the rest of my living days.

Challenges lay ahead on every road I had yet to travel, but my
heart was at peace and my soul was no longer weary from toil.

No one—absolutely no one—deserves to feel (or be told) that they have to wait to die in order to truly start living. Not one single person deserves that, especially those like the LGBTQ Latter-day Saints, who are so often willing to sacrifice everything to continue making costly deposits into a heavenly bank account of everlasting joy, while in the meantime living on earth in a state of mental, emotional, psychological, and spiritual poverty. That was my plight; I lived it every day for many years, waiting (sometimes wishing) for death and my ultimate eternal payoff. I was waiting to die in order to start living.

I can only say that it was a miserable state of limbo to be in when I was taught that life was meant to be enjoyed, and when I tried so hard to make myself believe that God had a plan of happiness for me that was supposed to be the entire purpose of my existence. Eventually I decided that I deserve happiness now—not at some future time, especially when my mental health struggles were so challenging at times that I couldn’t even see myself lasting long enough to reach the finish line.

And I am happy! You don’t have to believe it; but I want you to know it regardless. I am not without many of the same daily challenges; but I’m happier now than I’ve been in a long time, because I can compare and contrast my joy and my pain, then and now, and I see the difference starkly. What I thought was happiness as an active member of the Church probably was happiness according to the limitations I put on myself in order to please God and others. But this, what I have now, is somehow fuller, and more satiating to my soul. It feels different, and that is something that I didn’t think was possible—indeed, I was told that it wasn’t.

I basked in the light and warmth of a new life, as if I had never
known joy—as if it couldn't possibly exist.

In the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints I was taught to believe that true happiness comes from having the gospel in my life and by obeying its teachings; it only follows, then, that those who do not have the gospel message are not truly happy, or that their fulfillment and joy in life are fleeting, fragile, and temporary—not in their purest and most lasting forms. This is why we send tens of thousands of missionaries out into the world to spread our message and share our joy with others.

Whether intentionally or unintentionally, I was taught in the Church to believe that my satisfaction and contentment with life exceeded that of others because of the knowledge that came from my faith beliefs. Any success or joy or happiness was not of my own making, but a gift of the gospel and a blessing from God. With a collective conviction such as this, I often wondered who wouldn’t want to be a member of our church, or worse: Who would choose to leave it?

My experience has been that this overarching notion has led many Latter-day Saints, including me, to become convinced that anyone who chooses to abandon full activity in the Church or allows themselves to fall into unbelief is deliberately choosing not only unhappiness for life but spiritual punishment in death. With the abandonment of one’s membership willfully comes the loss of potential blessings, the loss of conscience (through the separation of the Holy Ghost), as well the eternal consequences of breaking God’s commandments. This is the message I received, and it is truly what I believed as I sacrificed my health and life for God, believing that that was what He wanted and required from me, and that I would most certainly be damned if I chose any other alternative.

Thus, there will be some, I’m sure, who will believe that I am deceiving myself and everyone else when I say that I am happy with my decision to love another man outside of the fold of the Church. But I promise you all that I am happy now, and this is for the best. I can feel the difference, in my flesh and in my bones. I am happy in love—I have an intimate connection with another human being that is not limited to the type of love I feel for my family and friends. It’s what I’ve always wished for; and it’s what many of you already experience and enjoy without prohibition.

In the fertile soil of my open heart, love took root, blossoming
into something more beautiful than I had ever imagined.

As look back on my life, I can see so many instances where I made choices that were not my own, but stemmed rather from pressure, intimidation, expectations, or even well-meant encouragement from others—parents and other family, friends, leaders in school and in the Church, my peers, my society and culture, etc. Getting a college education, for example, was not really my own desire the first two times I tried it, and I am certain that that is part of the reason I failed on those occasions. But when I saw that my life was going nowhere, and it seemed that a college degree would give me a leg up on more opportunities and enjoyment in living, I luckily took serious the chance I got to go back to earn my degree. And because it was my choice to go back that third time, I was ready to make the most of the opportunity and I worked hard to make my dreams a reality—and certainly, in the end, I did. I graduated.

I see the circumstances surrounding my exit from the LDS Church much that same as my college experience. I am finally living for myself and what I need to be well and happy. It is my choice and my opportunity, and I am giving it all I’ve got, being careful, taking my time, and working hard at maintaining this remarkable relationship I have. I am not (or am trying to not) be concerned about how others will take it, because it’s my heart that is in the decision this time, not theirs; and it is proving to be the most correct choice I’ve ever made on my own.

I am conscious of the “risks” involved, both relational and spiritual, and I am the one who will face the consequences of my choice, should I ever be required to do so. But equally and oppositely, I am also the one who will feel the positive reverberations coming from my choice to love and be loved. I am the one who gets to share all that happiness with my partner. I am the one who will enjoy companionship and intimacy, perhaps for life, rather than loneliness and despair. I am the one who gets to be happy now, after years and years of living to please others and bring them happiness first.

I am putting myself first for once. It is my turn to be happy now, and truly I am. And that is all that matters right now. Nothing else.

My happiness finally matters.

With love,

~ Wade

This is the heart of the Eagle Nebula, a formation of cosmic dust, gas, and other matter known as the "Pillars of Creation," a cradle of life for the birth of stars.  "New" stars are created from the remnants of themselves—stellar matter ejected from old stars which have died in massive supernovas, and then gathered together again over eons to form new light and life.  Sometimes, as John the Revelator once spoke, former things must pass away in order for better things to manifest (Revelation 21:4).  Similarly, some parts of ourselves, even ones that we once considered vital to our character, must die in order for us to become a better version of the person we want to be.  But that doesn't mean that our "old self" didn't serve a purpose; it is from the former versions of us that we gather together the key elements of who we are and begin again the slow process of regeneration and rebirth.  THANK YOU to all who supported the light that my former self strived to shine upon the world.  I hope you will find that my new self carries with him the same familiar warmth, but with added brilliance and clarity. ~ WAW

Song Dissection—"Second Hand Heart" (Pt. 8)

See my introductory post, “Song Dissection – Second Hand Heart (Pt. 1)” for background on this essay project. If you are a new reader, I invite you to listen to the song and watch the official music video below. The lyrics are listed for you to read as well; after which, I will continue to dissect the song and share my thoughts on the lessons that it taught me, which is one reason I love this song so much. Be sure and check back for subsequent updates in this 10-part series.

* * * * *

– Second Hand Heart –

Performed by Ben Haenow

(Featuring Kelly Clarkson)

The light of the morning finds you sleeping in my bed

And it’s not like the stories; it’s never like what they said

I know who you want me to be but I’m just not there yet

Yeah, the broken road’s always been home and it’s so hard to forget

Wait for me now

Will you wait for me now?

CHORUS:

I might think too much, drink too much, stay out too late

I know I’m just a fool, but I swear I can change

I can’t steal you the stars, but I can give you this secondhand heart

All your friends think I’m hopeless, they don’t understand

That this imperfect love can start over again

It’s been broken apart, but will you still take my secondhand heart?

(FIRST STANZA REPEATS)

(CHORUS REPEATS)

FIRST BRIDGE:

If you let me show you, I could love you the same

And I can’t steal you the stars but I can try every day

Oh, you know they’ll never tear us apart

SECOND BRIDGE:

And I’m just a fool, but I swear I can change

And I can’t steal you the stars, but I can try every day

Oh, you know you got my secondhand heart

(SECOND BRIDGE REPEATS)

* * * * *

“All your friends think I’m hopeless, they don’t understand that this imperfect love can start over again.”

These lines hit home for me because I care a great deal what others think about me; another person’s perceptions of me hold more power for me than I have of my own accord, and my self-esteem rests often in the judgment—good or bad—of others. I’m sure there have been many times in my life that others thought I was a hopeless wreck; some of those times I probably thought I was too. But with my recent success in college and my approaching graduation (after dropping out twice over a ten-year period), I have shown myself and others that I am capable of much more than either party probably supposed.

Errors and imperfections are a part of life for everyone;
thankfully, God allows retakes and do-overs for a fresh start.

Certainly I am a prime example of the ebb and flow of testimony and religious activity. I grew up not knowing any God, and soon after I made covenants to follow the God I found, I became disenchanted with Him once again as I pursued forbidden paths. If you’ve read my blog before, you know that I came back; and in more recent posts (see “15 Years a Mormon—A Reflection”—November 2017) I’ve shared my wanderings back to that fence that ten years ago I straddled between a religious life and a nonreligious life. Doors that were once closed are now unlocked and ready to be opened, though presently I choose to stay in the faith.

I’ve always tried to keep my blog compelling, and I am compelled by personal tales shared in truth and vulnerability. I have told my tales of struggle and triumph in the hopes that others may be inspired; but I do admit to worrying a great deal about what others might think when I share old doubts that I had once conquered, but am suddenly reliving. I lose sight of what it means to repent and be forgiven, and I fail to remember that repenting and forsaking our sins and shortcomings does not mean that we will not make the same mistakes again. The beautiful thing about the gospel of Jesus Christ is that perfection is sought after, but not attainable, and we all get as many do-over’s as we need.

I'm discovering just how fragile faith is, as challenges have more
than once stripped my base of testimony down to its roots.

In my head I make up scenarios of people gossiping about me when I’m not around, and they say, “How can he be doing that again? I thought he moved on; I thought he was past that stage of his life. I guess his repentance wasn’t heartfelt; I guess he didn’t try hard enough to change.” In reality, I think these made-up conversations are expressions of my own conscious awareness of my struggles and how I feel about them, rather than how most others really view me. In my circumstances, it is probably not all my other friends who think I am hopeless, but me thinking such thoughts about myself.

While I could probably have a very heated debate with my imagined gossipers about why I am not a hopeless cause, and how I can start over again at square-one, convincing myself of that is a bit harder. Bouncing back from mistakes has never been my strong point, and my slate is never quite as clean as I’d like it to be after erasing my errors. Truly, I am my own worst critic and my own worst enemy; we all likely are, in one way or another. When I am faced with such critical decisions—sometimes questions of faith, sometimes questions of life or death—I have to travel back to the roots of my being to rediscover, again and again, why I choose to be present and accounted for.

Building upon foundations of faith can bring me back to higher
ground, and back again into the enlightenment of God's truth.

With my faith, these are doctrinal concepts such as, “Do I believe in God? Do I believe that He loves me perfectly? Do I believe He has power to help me if I ask Him?” Though the answer has not always been in the affirmative when I am living in dark moments, I usually come back to the light with a resounding and peace-lending “Yes!” With my life circumstances—living with physical disabilities and mental health challenges—the fundamentals I come back to are questions like, “Who are they that love me and would miss me if I were gone, and how can they help me through this difficult time? Do I believe that things will eventually get better? Can I hold on long enough to get past this most troublesome moment?”

Wilford Woodruff, fourth President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints once admonished:

          “Put your trust in God and rely on his promises, living up to the light and knowledge you possess; and all will be well with you whether living or dying.”
          ~ Discourses of Wilford Woodruff, ed. G. Homer Durham, 260.

Though not particularly profound, I have long loved this quote because of its back-to-basics approach. Whatever we have available—be it faith, family, friends, or other beneficial resources—we should utilize them as we carry on along our journey; this includes reaching out to loved ones when we are struggling, visiting a professional therapist, talking to ecclesiastical leaders, taking time for ourselves, and practicing self-compassion.

Imperfection is expected of all; indeed, it is the one character trait that we all share as human beings, and which can be anticipated with 100% certainty. While others may judge us (or seem like they are), they cannot escape the same fate of failing at one thing or another, just as I do. Whether or not we can start over again—and again and again!—when we do imperfect things is the true test of our character and our faith. And when I do find that my faith is in need of repair or renovation, it’s helpful to remember that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ love me perfectly in my imperfection; and that divine love provides the eternal blueprint from which I can reconceptualize my existence, reframe my challenges, and reconstruct my faith.

Captain of My Salvation

Utah Valley University in Orem, Utah, USA - a beautiful campus
nestled in the shadow of the majestic Mount Timpanogos.

School is back in session, and I am finally officially in my undergraduate program for a Bachelor’s degree in Family Studies. This last year has been one of the most difficult since I was a young man, just entering adulthood. As I’ve been navigating my way through Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) for more than a year now (finally knowing what it is and realizing that I’ve been depressed for many years now without really understanding it), it has become amazing to me how a single choice each day affects the rest of my week, and even the months after. 

My one choice is like a bullet ricocheting off of a solid stone wall that I put up to try to keep out hard issues like pain, struggle, discomfort, and anxiety. I’m talking about choosing to skip school, work, or time with loved ones to isolate myself in my room and sleep, because when I am asleep, I don’t feel anything; I only dream, and usually those are the most pleasant and surreal moments for me, completely deadened to my grief.

Living with depression, my choice of whether or not to get out
of bed every day is like choosing to fire a bullet that eventually
comes back to strike me.

But eventually I have to wake up from the safety and innocence of my subconscious mind and face that bullet that I fired ten, fifteen, or even twenty hours before, which has slowly bounced back to strike me square in the chest. And as I sit up on the edge of my bed in a fog and suddenly take in all that I have put in jeopardy—my grades, my employment, the trust and care of my family and friends—I feel as if I am falling figuratively to my knees as my lone wound quickly gushes out a flood of emotion—shame and guilt, mostly.


As I lay dying (or at least, feeling like I would rather perish in that moment), I see flashes of the day I could’ve had, and should’ve had. The things I would’ve learned in class, the money I would have made at work, and the fun and enjoyment of the company of others all appear in my mind’s eye and then dissipate like a stinging mist of regret and self-blame. Sometimes, for a second or two, the idea of just lying back down to escape this new pain once again seems appealing, if not for the stiffness of my muscles and growing hunger in the pit of my stomach.

This is often when I force myself to get in the shower, which consists less of cleansing my aching body and more of leaning my head against the shower wall under the hot water, reliving the day that might have been. Frequently I even say out loud, “I can’t believe I slept all day.” But then the pessimistic voice of shame and guilt blurts out, “Of course you can! You do this all the time!”

I've taken numerous medications to treat 
my many disorders for over 20 years; for a
long time I was reliant on drugs to function.

After I wake, there is a cocktail of drugs that I must take (far past the time when they will actually do the most good) upon which I have relied for twenty years to achieve some level of normalcy and functionality. The pharmacological mishmash that I have become dependent on to have some quality of life seems to really keep me bound in chains, fearful of what might happen if I suddenly ran out or was separated from them. It’s like my tics, my OCD, my anxiety, and now my depression—all of which I take several medications for—are each different demons living within me; they are the dreaded creatures that will erupt from within my body if they are not appeased by an array of tablets and capsules meant to keep them at bay.


Sometimes, on a good week, sleeping most or all of the day will occur maybe just once or twice, if I’m lucky (which is all I consider that feat to be now—sheer luck). Other times, I have weeks where my Sunday night, start-of-the-week rest, turns into a Thursday evening of waking up to the piercing feeling of that bullet in my chest, after literally not leaving my room for three or four days, except the use the bathroom a few times. 

The lengths of time vary; sometimes I will eat between those days, sometimes I won’t. Sometimes I counteract my oversleeping by staying up all night (which is usually when I wake up, after the day is already over) and then go to bed “normally” at the end of the next day over 24 hours later. I get so sore and weak on those days, and the increase in motor and vocal tics under fatigue do not help soothe my mind or body. Sometimes I lose my voice or ache so terribly that I can’t get to sleep even when I’m exhausted.  My mind continues to race and retrace my day, or plan the coming day, and I struggle to turn it off.

But even after sleeping an entire day and staying up and entire day, I am afraid to go to bed the next night. In fact, I am afraid to go to bed every night, because I literally don’t know how I will feel about getting up the next day. The more tired I am, or the more trouble I have falling asleep, the less motivation I have in the morning to face my day. The scream of my dozens (not an exaggeration) of alarms is the worst thing in the world for me to hear. I always have the best, most responsible, active, productive intentions when I say my prayers at my bedside every night. But even when asking for help from God, I am usually always disappointed at what seems like a lack of heavenly help.

I use excessive sleep to avoid my anxieties, and have frequently
missed school, work, appointments, and time with loved ones.

As far as faith goes, I wax and wane between feeling like I do not needs God’s help if He is content to ignore me, or feeling so helpless and lost for guidance and assistance that I cry to Him for mercy. Some nights I feel Him there, and my words ascend to heaven like the sweet smelling smoke of incense burning within the holy place of the ancient Hebrew temple. Other times, I get frustrated and angry, telling God that I am not going to ask Him for help anymore if He is unwilling to give it. I sometimes stop praying for a few days in protest until utter need for comfort and peace brings me to my knees finally. After not praying most of the summer, feeling betrayed, I have finally come back to trying to trust God again.

I have hurt many people by choosing to sleep instead of to wake. The anxiety of certain events, people, or going certain places will always play a role in my decision of staying or going (next to how tired I really am). Not uncommon for individuals with neuropsychiatric disorders like Tourette's and OCD, I have many sleeping problems, including insomnia and sleep apnea (a condition related to my steady weight gain over the years on psychiatric medications). Still, my mother has told me that I was the most disturbed and unpredictable sleeper of all her four boys, even as an infant.

After dropping out of college twice because of my mental health
issues, I finally earned my Associate's Degree in Behavioral
Science.

I have almost lost at least one friendship that means a great deal to me by standing her up too many times—while I stayed home and slept knowing that we had plans together.  I can't imagine my life without her now, and it terrifies me that I almost forced her out of my life by my neglect.  There is a person whom I considered a good friend, but have not seen in many years because I failed to show up at her going-away party several years ago. She is now living out of the country, is married, and has a young son. I’ve missed wedding receptions, family get-togethers, scheduled appointments, and so many other things.

Countless others have been affected by my poisonous depressive “medicine.” My parents and siblings have expressed that they don’t like to take me on trips to see other family members because I just end up sleeping most of the time out of town. I have missed many bonding moments with them and my niece and nephews because I was unconscious. On those trips I wake to criticism and playful teasing from my family, who act shocked when I actually get up at a reasonable hour and walk into the kitchen for breakfast. This has gone on for years; and even though I know full well my issues with sleeping too much, my family doesn’t seem to conceive how much it tears me apart inside to be reminded of it so callously.

Danish artist Don Kenn captures mental illness 
so well with his macabre, otherworldly drawings; 
this one represents my feelings on depression 
and the way it seeks to constantly drag me down.

More than this, a large portion the treatment for my myriad disorders has been stalled or interrupted for weeks and months at a time because I sleep through my appointments frequently. I have a therapist with whom I’ve been working for over three years, and I’ve only seen him maybe two-dozen or so times because I choose sleep instead of the satisfaction of my visits with him. I’m lucky (again, I use the word loosely) that I only have to see my psychiatrist every three months to refill the prescriptions that keep me going to the weak extent which I have been. I still miss those appointments often, too. I recently had to find another primary care doctor because the one I had would no longer see me because of my failure to keep appointments.

I have been blessed (no, not lucky—truly blessed) that I have had understanding teachers and a patient, forgiving boss at my day job as a cashier at a retail store. In May 2017 I reached a welcomed milestone by graduating with an Associate degree in Behavioral Science after twice dropping out of college in 2005 and 2012. Still, I have been known to be absent for at least one class or more per week at times. In truth, some semesters I have missed more days of school than I have probably attended in the last three years as a part-time student. 

I still get my homework done, often in the middle of the night after I’ve slept through the entire rising and setting of the sun. When others are lying down after a long, productive, busy day, I am rising to take a bullet in the chest, with a river of shameful blood pouring from my stinging wound of regret. But I do what I have to do, usually in an uncomfortable rush against the clock. And somehow, as I keep my instructors informed and receive a little leniency from them (per my Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) student accommodations), I have been getting all A’s (I got my “worst” grade of the last three years just last semester—a B+).

Monthly Social Security Disability Insurance has kept me afloat
since 2006; but my goal is self-sufficiency after college.

My boss at work has known of my disorders and struggles since he took over our store about three years ago, after I was hired by a kind man who saw past my shortcomings and looked instead on my potential and my need. At 31 years old, this is the longest I’ve ever held a job in my life, though I’m still only paid minimum wage. Prior to this I hadn’t worked since I lost my job as a certified nurse’s assistant in 2007, and I’ve been living below the poverty level now for almost a decade now.

Another blessing is that I’ve been able to receive social security disability benefits since I lost my CNA job, without which I would be living on the streets or with my parents. I don’t tell a whole lot of people about where I get my money, but I know they wonder. I have to use Medicare and Medicaid programs for my health care and medication management, and I have lived on food stamp privileges on and off for ten years, before I started working again. The increase of coprolalia, the tics that involve swearing and inappropriate words and phrases, made working with the elderly difficult for me; and an increase in the medication I was taking at the time was the fuel to the fire for my needless sleeping, as many neuropsychiatric drugs cause extreme drowsiness and fatigue.

Another unsettling illustration by artist Don Kenn; 
this one is representative of the ever-lingering 
disruption and disorder of living with heavy, 
often debilitating anxiety.

Nevertheless, I am persevering through school in an attempt to make a better life for myself. Though blessed by my social security disability payments and full insurance, I am ashamed of getting “free” money at the expense of others, and I am reminded by some of my chiding friends that their taxes pay my rent; I don’t think they know that their joking hurts and embarrasses me. But I have never been content to stay on government assistance forever, and the help I’ve received has truly been a godsend while I’ve been focusing, slowly but steadily, on completing my education. 

I know that God prepared a way for me to live while I got my life together through this long learning process, and I am forever indebted to Him for that. My intention is to use the challenges I’ve been given and the experiences I’ve had to help make sure that other people like me don’t have to suffer psychiatric disorders and mental illness alone; that’s why I want to be a therapist, to show others that there is hope and empathy in living with these types of challenges.

It’s frustrating to experience troubles in life that seem to come out of nowhere at the most inconvenient times; certainly that happens to all of us from time to time. In my experience, though, it is even more difficult knowing (or feeling, at least) that most of my problems are my own fault. Not to suggest that I am personally to blame for the biology, physiology, and genetics that resulted in me having Tourettes, OCD, anxiety, and MDD.

But rather, it's that I most often feel like I am not trying hard enough to combat these issues, choosing to avoid daily responsibilities rather than to face them bravely, and worsening my circumstances. I recently read over three-hundred of the timeless fables of Aesop, and among many of the morals, one stood out to me especially, declaring, “Misfortunes springing from ourselves are the hardest to bear.” True, indeed.

All my life I have put up emotional and psychological 
walls to avoid difficult feelings and stem my deep fears 
of failure.

When faced with normal daily tasks—like work, school, social life, and taking care of myself—the strain of subsisting from day to day usually feels impossible or hopeless. It takes a great deal of effort most mornings to want to get up and begin the day. These challenges I face in motivating myself to act like an adult should (or the ominous possibility of challenges unforeseen) leave me in constant fight or flight mode, and I almost always choose to fly away to the magical world of dreamland, which, in the moment decision, is always the easiest.

I would rather keep sleeping than be at work for five hours. I would rather sleep than shower, do my hair, brush my teeth, and get dressed. I would rather sleep than drive to my friend’s house in a nearby town for a party. I would rather sleep than sit in a lecture for over an hour taking notes at the sound of a droll voice. So, rather than fighting against my better judgment, knowing that I have the figurative gun cocked in my hand a ready to fire, I find life that day too scary or too stressful—before it has even begun—and I pull the trigger at the wall that I put up to keep out the pain, and I lie back down and drift away.

It’s difficult to describe this to people, and why I do it, which is one reason I haven’t talked to many others about it—other than my therapist—until now. I often hear, “Well, I don’t want to get up and go to work every day, but I do it anyway because I have to.” These people don’t usually understand how anxiety feels when it is constantly present in one’s life. Of course I realize each time I fire that gun that everything I am doing will most likely come back to bite me; I could lose my job, fail a class, miss a huge assignment or social event, and disappoint someone I love.

Anxiously avoiding emotions and responsibilities creates a
snowball effect that only increases my stress and worry.

But in the moment, I just don’t care about anything but making the anxiety go away immediately. Then, as I wake to the anxiety that still exists, I get even more anxious about the approaching consequences, and the anxiety compounds and snowballs from incident to incident. The relief of avoidance is temporary, and I rotate through this anxiety cycle. My therapist and I have been working on helping me to take the leap of courage to face my smallest insecurities and anxieties when they occur, so they don’t linger and grow worse and more debilitating.

I have been so wishy-washy about my commitment to a college education over the last twelve years, that I’ve pockmarked my transcript with many unfortunate grades. As a poor, first-generation student with no other way to pay for college, I have been blessed (yes, again) to receive federal financial aid to pay for my schooling. Bad grades along the way, and dropping out twice has made it necessary to file three separate appeals to my university petitioning for reinstatement of my financial aid.

With endorsements from many wonderful and influential people in my life, all the appeals were approved. I have almost had to file two more in the last year because I had reached the maximum time frame allowed to earn my degree, and because I had exceeded my attempted credits limit for my Associates Degree. I escaped those appeals by graduating this year and switching over to a Bachelor's Degree.

"Jumping ship" is a phrase I've used to describe my total physical
and psychological abdication of the responsibilities of daily living
in favor of choices that are easier and less painful, for a time.

When I thought that I might have to appeal the cessation of my financial aid again, I looked up the appeal statement letter that I submitted three times before to gauge if another appeal would be successful. In two of my letters, I had to explain to the Satisfactory Academic Progress board members why I had dropped out in 2005 and 2012. The phrase I used in both letters, hugged by quotation marks, was “jumping ship.” I explained that due to my mental state and other challenges, I had grown accustomed to “jumping ship” to escape my problems instead of facing them.

This phrase wandered in and out of my mind for several weeks while I was working simultaneously on four different blog posts, one of which I only just finished (see “God Will Send Rain,” May, 2017). I had incorporated some beautiful imagery into one post about how life was like sailing a ship. I enjoyed the metaphorical pictures so much that I cut all references to the “jumping ship” idea and inserted them into this post already in progress at the time.  Because of this, you may notice that my tone or the emotion of this post will gradually change as you read on; that's because I wrote the two halves of this blog months apart, after my life had improved.  Still, allow me to carry you into the scene that played out in my head.

I liken life to sailing a ship; our bodies are
the vessels, and the ocean represents mortality.

My “sleeping issues,” a careful and discreet label for my depression troubles, is the abdication of all my responsibility and accountability, like a Captain deserting his vessel when the waters get rough. That is how I feel about what I am doing; my behavior is an act of total physical abandonment and emotional deadening as I sail this body and soul through the waters of mortality, which can be unpredictable and dangerous from day to day.

Our bodies have been called our mortal vessels—the vehicles that allow us to travail through life. I can see myself and my body as a large ship. When our ships are brand new and aching for their trial at sea, we are born, and then take our maiden voyage to a greater and grander port than the one from whence we launched. Though we will make many stops along the way at many ports, this will be the only trip we will make, and so it has to count.

I think of the water as life itself. It sustains us; it is what carries us on to our destination. The water can be calm and pleasant, wavy, choppy, or sometimes downright tumultuous. Sometimes life can seem like it is going to destroy us and take us down to a watery grave. But we cannot sail a ship on a nice, even plane of asphalt; our vessels were not meant to take the easy route. We are here to learn how to sail, and we knew the risks to some extent before we launched into the ocean. The water is the only way we can get where we’re going, and we take that risk as Captains of our vessels. 

Sometimes our time at sea is uneventful, but safe and purposeful; we know the basic naval skills and we float along steadily and consistently. Naturally, waves will come as the tides of mortality wax and wane, and we may need to put more effort and attention into our captainship. In all of our journeys, there are hopefully some of those moments when the elements are on our side, and we glide along the water’s glassy surface briskly with no interruptions, no apparent dangers, and a lively wind of motivation to keep us sailing in stride with nothing out ahead of us but an ocean of potential. 

Neglecting compassionate self-care can
create slow, mental and emotional "leaks"
that can eventually sink me.

In these wonderful times, though, there is the risk that we can become complacent with our success, and relax to the point of contented idleness; if we don’t remain vigilant, misfortune can occur, whether by our own neglect, or the natural forces of the ocean of life. Sometimes we cannot maneuver out of the path of a hidden, treacherous reef, or sometimes we slacken our maintenance duties by not caring for ourselves, and our ship can weaken and spring slow leaks that threaten our success. 

This has been the pattern in my own life: If I sense for even a moment that my ship—representing my present or sometimes perpetual situation in life—has even the smallest risk of a leak, I am much more compelled to dive overboard to avoid perishing with a sinking ship, rather than trying discover the issue (if there really is one), and then work to repair it. Certainly getting a little bit uncomfortably wet to repair a small leak in my vessel and ensuring its continued buoyancy and efficiency is much better than treading water in the middle of the pulsing ocean, far from my destination shore.

But I don’t usually think about that in the moment; all I am thinking about is avoiding the hurt, pain, distress, increased anxiety, and hard work of being a good Captain and meeting head on the responsibilities of sailing my ship on to the next port. I figure if I can detach myself from what seems to be the problem (even if that means utterly abandoning the well-being of my ship), I can be free from the guilt and shame of knowing that I have neglected my vessel and been a poor sailor. Obviously, this causes more problems for me that I may not have encountered had I just stayed aboard, taken a deep breath, and problem-solved a little. 

Sometimes in my life, after I have already forsaken my vessel, there will later come a sudden sense of panic and a rush to action as I realize that I only have one ship, and that I am not going see the safety of the shore again without it. I see that even though jumping over the rail was an easy task, bringing an instant feeling of relief, the stretch of water is endless around me (as life goes on without me), and I see the greater despair of my hasty choice.

Being a good Captain of my own life is a
conscious choice I have to commit to every 
single day, and it still isn't easy for me.

In those moments, I often find a shred of courage before it’s too late, as I float regretfully in the sea with still no plan, and no better solutions than I had before I jumped. Before my ship is about to crash into the craggy rocks of a harsh, uncharted shore, I swim back—close enough to seize a dangling ladder and pull myself aboard my aimless and neglected ship to recover it just in time. I am able to steer it away from disaster, even heroically and brilliantly stopping the leak, while living to tell the tale another day. 

That means jumping out of bed just in time to get ready for the day ahead; running into class and finding a seat just as the teacher begins; rushing into work a little bit late, but nonetheless present and accounted for; showing up fashionably late to a gathering, but smiling cheerfully knowing that I saved the day (literally).

These are the real-life waves—the back and forth motions—of living with major depressive disorder (MDD) and anxiety. It’s like an indecisive fight with my body and mind in deciding how much I want to “adult” each day, and then convincing myself, exhaustingly, to take that first, reluctant step in my day, my week, or whatever task is at hand (again, usually a work shift, a class, an appointment, plans to spend time with someone, homework, or big school projects like papers—all the responsibilities I presently have in my life).

I once saw it represented in an internet cartoon that anxiety is the creature upon its feet that is pushing us to the next needless task in an effort to feel busy and productive, while depression is at the same time tugging at our wrists from a comfortably-resigned spot on the ground, convincing us not to bother, insisting that any efforts we put in won’t matter anyway. Having anxiety and depression, I relate to that tug-of-war so much. I had never really put an image to the push-and-pull that I have felt for a great deal of my life.

The waters of mortality can be tumultuous and unpredictable;
when compounded with the waves of my mental illnesses, the
success of my journey is often threatened.

Being entrusted with such a priceless vessel on this mortal ocean is a blessing; no doubt, though, for many, it can feel like a curse. We prepared for untold eons to be Captains of our ships, but there was no way to know what exactly sailing would be like until we launched out from our ports. It’s interesting to me that when I experience true joy in life, this journey is the greatest experience I can imagine, and I never want it to end; but when I am anxious and depressed, I feel trapped on the waves in the middle of nowhere, wishing that could just sink into destruction.

This past year, I’ve experienced these vastly contrasting emotions a lot, alternating back and forth depending on my choice each day of whether to fire the gun at the wall, or to unload the ammunition and tear down the obstacles to my happiness. It seems like such a simple choice; believe me, I realize that! But it’s not for me; it’s the most difficult decision I make literally every single day. That choice determines my mood for days, weeks, and months at a time, if I consistently choose the bricks and mortar, and the gun. My happiness deteriorates with each anxiously-avoidant behavior I engage in, and it is very hard to build it back up, even when I am doing well, because I am a huge perfectionist who criticizes himself a great deal.

When I use maladaptive coping mechanisms to deal with normal daily stresses—whether in smooth sailing or mountainous upheavals—even a small hole can sink a great ship with time and deliberate neglect. We can ignore it, certainly, and sail on; and I certainly try to do that often. But eventually a small issue can become (or at least sometimes feel like) our doom. I often notice these leaks myself, but I let them go. Practicing self-compassion and taking time for me has been an important thing for me to learn and consistently practice. 

Using sleep to avoid my fears and anxiety sets a course for
destruction; these emotional wrecks leave me feeling hopeless,
helpless, and alone.

There are times when I am doing well with my “sleeping issues,” comparatively, but I notice other things going awry—not eating well, giving in to bad moral habits, unwise spending as I reward myself for good behavior. Afraid to disrupt my good sailing fortune, I hide away in my Captain’s quarters thinking that if I ignore the present needs of my ship, they might just go away. After all, who wants to risk doing more work than necessary when the weather is agreeable? I suppose I feel that if my biggest challenge in life is under better control for a time, I can indulge in more of the things that I don’t get to do when my challenges hinder my participation in them.

Sailing our ships can be a breeze in fair weather. But when the waters of reality become turbulent once again, it’s easy to lose our direction, even if it’s just a brief departure from our goal. And it’s then, when I know I’ve gotten a bit off course, that I feel all is lost. Serendipity and grace fly right out the window, and suddenly all is for naught. “If my course cannot be perfect,” I criticize myself, “then I no longer want to sail this ship.” Being a Captain is no longer appealing, and my grand ship becomes a creaky, waterlogged burden.

Deliberate choices and purposeful actions every day contribute
more to my mental wellness than anything else; peace and
reassurance come from knowing that I can persevere. 

Being a perfect sailor is not necessary; we only need to stay afloat long enough for our sea trials to come to an end when we reach our destination. On the open sea, a Captain can do little about the whirlwinds. But as a Captain I can develop the knowledge and skills to navigate through the storms and learn by my own experience how to not just survive, but to flourish.  Thomas S. Monson, president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormons), has counseled that to live an abundant life, it is wise to remember that “we can’t direct the wind, but we can adjust the sails” (“Living the Abundant Life,” Ensign, Jan. 2012).

I also am learning that preparation is the best way to make the best choices. For me, that sometimes means having my clothes laid out and my backpack ready the night before in case I sleep in too late; this helps alleviate the fight-or-flight panic of whether I can make it to my destination on time. It also means getting homework done early and staying ahead of the reading and assignments so that I’m not up late racing deadlines, and can go to bed earlier to ensure better rest. 

Why build a taut ship unless you know that there is a risk of foundering on the sometimes-tumultuous seas? I spoke earlier of luck being my only savior in whether or not I actually get out of bed and go on with life each day. It’s true, I sometimes leave it up to fate whether I will succeed or fail, which is unfortunate. I suppose that’s one reason why I often feel like God is not answering my prayers for help—because I’m expecting results and solutions without any effort or forethought. Perhaps what I see as luck in these circumstances is the combination of divine support, faith, and eight or more hours of sleep. Or, perhaps Oprah Winfrey was closer to reality when she stated, “Luck is a matter of preparation meeting opportunity.”

When I am mentally drowning, Jesus is my rescue.
("The Hand of God" by Yongsung Kim;
Copyright © by the Artist & Foundation Arts)

After all of these lengthy details, I am happy to report that I am feeling better about being the Captain of my ship after a long and difficult year. Last I saw my therapist, he asked me what feels different now, and why I feel more confident in myself. As I searched my feelings, I expressed to him that I feel I am more keenly aware that I am the agent of my own life. I choose my behaviors (Tourette's aside), and therefore I also choose my own consequences. 

What feels different is that the sky above me has seemed to clear, and I can see more clearly my responsibility to myself to care for my own mental health rather than conceding to the status quo and asking for God to save me in my troubles. Certainly, that is not to say that we are not to ask for divine support; that is another thing with which I am getting reacquainted—leaving my troubles at the feet of the Savior, “after all [I] can do,” and letting Him make up for the rest (2 Nephi 25:23).

Since school began again August 21st, I have been implementing this new focus on being in charge of my mental health, and I have seen considerable progress. A few times I have overslept, but not on days when I had to be anywhere (thank goodness), and I was gentler with my feelings after waking and actively encouraged myself to let it go, and do better next time. And the next time I had a day off, I did do better. I’ve been keeping appointments; I’ve been attending my classes and going to my work shifts, and I’ve enjoyed tremendously spending time with my closest friends and my family more regularly.

I guess I could say that I’ve finally put that emotional firearm away; I’m becoming less skilled in building solid walls around myself, and getting better at destroying them if I do. And like “our Captain of Old,” the Lord Jesus Christ ("Ye Elders of Israel," LDS Hymns, #319), I have accepted my life and mission on the oceans of mortality, have magnified my abilities and talents, and become an active contributor to my own destiny and future. “For it became Him,” said Paul to the Hebrews, “for Whom are all things, and by Whom are all things, in bringing many sons [and daughters] unto glory, to make the Captain of their salvation perfect through sufferings” (Hebrews 2:10).

I intend to carry on and fulfill my purpose on the earth, and to do it honorably; to inspire and help others along the way, and look forward to that glorious homecoming when I reach my final berth—even though I know the journey will not always be smooth sailing.

"I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning to sail my ship."
~ Louisa May Alcott, American Novelist & Poet (1832 - 1888) ~
(From the 1868 classic "Little Women")