Page 3 of Choosing a Forever
So instead, I smile when I need to. Nod when necessary. I scribble notes in my notebook thatshouldbe about what’s being discussed, but it’s actually just my grocery list and random doodles.
In my ward, I’ve been assigned as the ward mission leader. My duty is to coordinate meals for the missionaries and make sure they’re following all of the church’s arbitrary rules. Like if two missionaries want to go teach an unwed woman, another male member has to go with them. The rule doesn't make any sense because why would they not trust two men with a woman, but they’ll trustthree?
Most things don’t make sense to me anymore, now that I don’t have tunnel vision.
I hate my calling now.
Which is crazy; less than a year ago, I never would have said those words. I would have taken the title with honor and served happily without complaint. I would have come to this stupid ward council meeting and taken notes and enthusiastically offered my help and my perspective.
Now? I see these meetings for what they are: an opportunity to gossip and talk crap about members of the ward who are “struggling.”
Little do they know,I’mone of the people “struggling.”
When I moved back to Utah two years ago after spending some time in California, I couldn’t help but feel like something was… off. I went to my ward in California when I could, but I didn’t feel as much…pressureto go as I did when I was living in Utah.
I never realized how much the church was shoved down my throat until I came back to Utah and could see seven different temples in a thirty-minute drive and church buildings littering every street. Where there’s abillboard bragging about the number of scripture copies sold each month.
When Grandpa Monson passed away four months ago, my cousins—Elli, Emma, Izzy, and Hannah—bluntly told me their personal issues with the church the night before the funeral. They had all left the church, and they seemed happier than ever. I wanted to know how they did it, if they wereactuallyhappy or if it was an act.
Emma’s story about her rapist made me sick to my stomach. I have two younger sisters, and if they were treated the way Emma had been after such a horrible thing… I don’t think I’d be seen as such a nice guy anymore.
I knew there were flaws in the church, obviously, but I don’t think I wanted to believe what I knew deep down.
The church is a whole lot of bad wrapped in a whole bunch of money, pretending to be good.
I’ve asked myself over and over again why I don’t just…leave. The only answer I seem to come up with is the church is familiar. It’s what I know—allI know. For twenty-eight years, I’ve been neck deep in this organization. I haven’t been given a chance to choose what I believe.
But the overwhelming question keeping me here is: what if I leave and I’m no longer happy?
But it also begs the question: am I truly happynow?
The short answer is yes. I’m happy.
The long answer is I feel like I’m moving through life on auto-pilot and something is… missing. I don’t want to say it’s a relationship, but sometimes it feels like my heart isn’t complete without the romance love stories and poems are written about.
Icouldbe married or in a relationship right now, but nothing ever seems to last.
Other relationships haven’t worked out for various reasons, but the biggest common denominator isme. I want that once-in-a-lifetime love. The kind that feels like your soul is intertwined completely with hers. I want a love to consume me and the woman I’m with. To feel like my heart is being pulled out of my chest if I’m away from her for too long.
I want a fairytale ending. My happily-ever-after.
But I’m twenty-eight, and so far, I haven’t had much luck with finding someone who makes my blood sing or my heart race. I haven’t found the woman who makes me look forward to getting off of a shift instead of wishing I could work longer hours so I can socialize with actual humans instead of only having Siren to talk to.
I remember the excitement of my first crush as a teenager, and I remember the rush of knowing my crush liked me back. I remember the immediate smile that came to my face when I saw her. The way I’d find any reason to be close to her.
I guess maybe it’s different as a teenager, but I want something like that. Something simple and sweet.
Somethingreal.
Something like what I had with…
No.Best not to think about her. Besides, we were teenagers. Logically, how real could our feelings have been?
She’s probably married to someone completely devoted to her. They probably have a hoard of emerald-eyed kids to do family movie nights with and go to the farmer’s market on Saturdays before spending Sundays together playing board games.
And she deserves that. She deserves a happily-ever-after.
Even if sometimes I regret I wasn’t the one to give it to her.
