Mental Health (2016: Post Mission Edition)
I have never written down this experience before but I feel like it is time for me to accept the facts so I can move on.
In 2014 I was called to serve a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I was assigned to labor in the Nevada Las Vegas Mission for a period of 18 months. I was asked to learn Spanish in 6 weeks through an intensive training course in Mexico City. At first I thought it was funny. I had literally prayed the week before that I could go somewhere cold because I was tired of the Houston heat. When filling out the preferences with my Bishop I clearly put that I was not interested in learning a language. I had just failed college Spanish and I knew that there was no way I would be able to learn a new language. So God put me in one of the hottest states and asked me to learn a language that I thought was damn near impossible to learn. As a naturally positive person, I thought about all the people I could help and I accepted the call.
I spend 6 long weeks starting in June 2014 in the CCM (missionary training center). I got food poisoning almost everyday but I worked through it. It rained everyday I was there, so every pair of shoes I owned got soaked. At one point I had to start wearing the wet shoes because I didn't have anything else to wear, this caused horrible and painful blisters on my feet. I was in pain physically, I couldn't keep my food down, and I was assigned to work with a companion that I was convinced was the devil incarnate. This was my first experience with co-teaching, which is funny considering my career path, but whatever. If these things were not enough to break my spirit, the Spanish study sure was. I begged Heavenly Father every single night to take the pain away, to help me overcome my challenges, to either help me learn Spanish or change my assignment to English. I would wake up early and read the Book of Mormon in English or read through lunch, because I was technically only allowed to read it in Spanish. That little book was so marked up, I kept finding little messages from God in the scriptures every time I read. I watched as others picked up Spanish quickly. My companion constantly corrected my Spanish, and drove me to the point of not wanting to speak to her in Spanish because I was self-conscious. It was miserable. I wrote happy emails back to my family each week, I complained about my companion at times (I am NOT proud of that). The leaders at the CCM drilled the quote "your mission is not about you" into my head. If I was having a hard time, I just needed to power through. My relationship with Jesus Christ became strong during this time. He was the only person I could rely on. I remember sitting in the infirmary for a day after getting the flu, and I told God that something had to change. I could not keep drinking watered-down blue Gatorade, I could not keep listening to my companion talk about how good she was at Spanish, and if I had one more person judge me for looking Latina but not speaking Spanish I was going to go crazy.
I knew that God had not abandoned me but that knowledge did not stop me from feeling alone.
I ended up with a few companions on my mission who did not want to work. It was hard for me to learn how to stand up for what I knew was right, and I started to feel like I was a failure. I told my mission president about some of my difficult companions, especially the one who was super disobedient to missionary rules. One time he told me, "Hermana Cordova, the reason why your companion acts that way is because you don't love her enough". Every fucking thing was my fault. I had my first suicidal ideations of my mission. I felt overwhelmed and guilty. I literally thought that I could "love" or "pray" my way through these shitty experiences with my companions. Guess what, that didn't work. Love that for me.
In 2014 I was called to serve a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I was assigned to labor in the Nevada Las Vegas Mission for a period of 18 months. I was asked to learn Spanish in 6 weeks through an intensive training course in Mexico City. At first I thought it was funny. I had literally prayed the week before that I could go somewhere cold because I was tired of the Houston heat. When filling out the preferences with my Bishop I clearly put that I was not interested in learning a language. I had just failed college Spanish and I knew that there was no way I would be able to learn a new language. So God put me in one of the hottest states and asked me to learn a language that I thought was damn near impossible to learn. As a naturally positive person, I thought about all the people I could help and I accepted the call.
I spend 6 long weeks starting in June 2014 in the CCM (missionary training center). I got food poisoning almost everyday but I worked through it. It rained everyday I was there, so every pair of shoes I owned got soaked. At one point I had to start wearing the wet shoes because I didn't have anything else to wear, this caused horrible and painful blisters on my feet. I was in pain physically, I couldn't keep my food down, and I was assigned to work with a companion that I was convinced was the devil incarnate. This was my first experience with co-teaching, which is funny considering my career path, but whatever. If these things were not enough to break my spirit, the Spanish study sure was. I begged Heavenly Father every single night to take the pain away, to help me overcome my challenges, to either help me learn Spanish or change my assignment to English. I would wake up early and read the Book of Mormon in English or read through lunch, because I was technically only allowed to read it in Spanish. That little book was so marked up, I kept finding little messages from God in the scriptures every time I read. I watched as others picked up Spanish quickly. My companion constantly corrected my Spanish, and drove me to the point of not wanting to speak to her in Spanish because I was self-conscious. It was miserable. I wrote happy emails back to my family each week, I complained about my companion at times (I am NOT proud of that). The leaders at the CCM drilled the quote "your mission is not about you" into my head. If I was having a hard time, I just needed to power through. My relationship with Jesus Christ became strong during this time. He was the only person I could rely on. I remember sitting in the infirmary for a day after getting the flu, and I told God that something had to change. I could not keep drinking watered-down blue Gatorade, I could not keep listening to my companion talk about how good she was at Spanish, and if I had one more person judge me for looking Latina but not speaking Spanish I was going to go crazy.
I knew that God had not abandoned me but that knowledge did not stop me from feeling alone.
I ended up with a few companions on my mission who did not want to work. It was hard for me to learn how to stand up for what I knew was right, and I started to feel like I was a failure. I told my mission president about some of my difficult companions, especially the one who was super disobedient to missionary rules. One time he told me, "Hermana Cordova, the reason why your companion acts that way is because you don't love her enough". Every fucking thing was my fault. I had my first suicidal ideations of my mission. I felt overwhelmed and guilty. I literally thought that I could "love" or "pray" my way through these shitty experiences with my companions. Guess what, that didn't work. Love that for me.
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