Chapter 34

You see, something more happened that day.

It was in artashat, a dusty town in souther Armenia, in the shadow of Mount Ararat. That purple, looming figure, defining a history. Ararat is the exact shape of Armenian pride.

I was only there for a few days. I went there on a tuesday morning.

I had been in Gyumri, the crumbled Monarch of the North. And that monday, we had to go down to Yerevan, to get our visas renewed. It was supposed to be a joyous occasion, when all 5 of us that had gone through the Missionary Training Center together would reunite for the first time. We would take photos, and recount memories, and have our share our new experiences. Get a new sticker in our passport in the squiggly language of the forgotten land we were in. I had dreamt of that moment, when we all saw each other. We would forget past hurt, and be genuinely happy to see each other. I would still be the best speaker of the bunch. Thoughts of that reunion had kept me awake at night, distracted me from the silent insanity of living with Sister Smith.

Instead, I woke up that morning, sick. Double over in pain. By that point, we had switched apartments with the elders. We went to our old home, with 2 bedrooms and a bonus room bigger than the homes most families owned. I could barely stand. I layed on my old bed. The one furthest from the window – when you opened the door to the wardrobe, you could almost forget there was another bed in the room. I tried to every night, when I was companions with Sister Smith.

The bed used to be Annas. She couldn't sleep by the window. She told me why, after a few weeks.

They had told us that the transfer van would come at 8. So we spent the last few moments we had together, her stuffing every last memory into her suitcases, me sitting on my bed, crying. Before she moved her things into the hall, I had claimed the bed. “Looks like you're really going to miss me,” she said bitterly. If only she knew.

Those bastards showed up at 7:15. Knocked on the door. Anna panicked. They're not supposed to come yet! I'm not letting them come yet! She opened the door, let them in, and then, my favorite words that have ever left her lips came.

You said 8. Im not leaving till 8.

And she didn't. We sang our songs, and laughed, and took our time. You can't hurry eternity. I think Sister Smith recognized that she had to let this one be. They already had so much history. Something I wouldn't realize until later.

Finally, we sang the last song.

There can be miracles,when you believe

when hope is frail, it's hard to kill

who knows what miracles you can achieve

when you believe, somehow you will

now you will

you will when you believe.

After 2 months, I couldn't stand it anymore. Couldn't stand her anymore. When I finally felt useful, she'd cry. Tell me she felt like she wasn't doing good missionary work. I remember one morning, after a particularly brutal fight the night before, she sobbed in the shower. She felt alone. I hated her then.

She didn't care that I was sick. And so that morning, even though I shouldn't have gone, we went. And we stopped along the way, twice. Once to refuel. Once so I could be sick in a 3 walled outhouse on the side of the road.

And when we got to Yerevan? I was crying. Barely able to breathe. The reunion that had illuminated the growing darkness of my sickness was ruined, as I raced from the taxi, into the mission office, and into the bathroom.

I was in there for 30 minutes. And after that? I was convulsing in pain for another hour. No one was talking, or laughing, or reminiscing. They were all silent. At least they felt reverence for my pain.

In president's office, we faught. I told her that I hated her. That she didn't care.

That day, I didn't go home with her.

I found myself the unwitting companion of one of the calmest women I have ever met. My insides rushed with anger, and shame, and revulsion and pain, as she picked out fruit juices and bread at the local market. That day was one of the slowest of my life. Maybe her calmness should have calmed me. Helped me settle down. Instead, it incited a new wave of frustration.

The next morning, I found myself in Artashat. In one of the worst – smelling, dirties apartments in the mission. Where spiders hid in your suitcases, and cockroaches huddled under furniture. Where the ancient icebox was so encrusted with freezer burn that you could barely fit your hand it. It was greasy and dark and wooden. We lived like real armenians there.

In artashat, I saw a drunk man passed out in a thorn bush. I wanted to take a picture. Get a few close ups of where the thorns had caught and ripped his skin. He had drunk so much, he had slept through the pain.

She showed me where the old women sold spices. Where she had seen someone die. She showed me the playground. We walked streets cloudy with saffron dust. I laughed when I got to walk next to a cow. She's from the city, she explained. The man was confused why the animal that fed and provided for his family was funny. We walked those streets, talking to people, looking for anyone to teach. We found no one.

In armenian, there is a verb. Man Gal. It means to wander aimlessly. That's all we did in Artashat.

There was one woman. She only had a few teeth left. We met with her twice that short week. After I left she still prayed for me.

A man on the street told me I looked like the Mona Lisa. He made me pose for him.

And one morning, I woke up. And I knew it had to be different.

I had spent the night before as I spent so many in armenia, back and forth between the sorry excuse for a toilet and the sorry excuse for a bed. Moaning, praying for it to end. For Him to end me.

Just a little while longer, He told me that night.

I wrote down what happened that morning a long time ago.

March 21, 2008

We woke up, Sister Pew and I, and she took a shower first. She got out, and I had no towel because I had gone on a head scarf cleaning rampage for a few hours the day before, and our lack of dish towels had necessitated my using an actual towel – my actual towel – as a cleaning agent. I'm pretty sure Pew thought I was insane… I just raged back and forth, back and forth, carrying assorted random containers of hot or cold water. My favorite was the fact that I was wearing: 1) Gray sweatpants, 2) a slip, and 3) and undershirt over the slip. And then there was the green headscarf. Tied like a 50's housewife, all gathered on both sides. But anyway, long tangent for why I had no towel. So I got out of our shower, which has creepy dolphins on the shower curtain, and I put on my sweatpants and sweatshirt. And I was still sopping wet. But we got ready, I think we were listening to some bizarre banjo hymns. Sister Pew straightened her hair. Then we started studying. I was wearing my black crinkly skirt and my Geography T-shirt. I read in 3 nephi. Nothing sunk in. Then I read for our investigators. Nothing seemed to be entering my brain. I think it was already full. So I wrote the following:

"Do you think it would be poignant to note the end of the fight?

After years and years of open rebellion- sticking it to the man over and over again, the fight is gone.

Jump, Leah.

How high.

Sit, Leah.

Where.

Study, Leah.

Okay.

Are missions supposed to break your spirit? If so, then I've already learned my lesson.

So can I go home now?

Like the disobedient schoolgirl, who, after the extra hour of doing lines, goes home with a mind still set on mischief, I went out everyday, determined to do missionary work with my name attached to it.

But now I don't really even feel like my name belongs to me any more. Leah was a fiery, flirty teenager.

Sister Pettit doesn't even seem to fit anymore.

So if those don't fit, then who am I?

I've learned my lesson.

So do I continue for another year, like a horse whipped into submission? Carrying the burden of the very whip?

I suppose that this is what one would call a gradual emotional breakdown. And I'm pretty sure it's not over. But "no one should have to deal with this", right, mom?

You're right.

No one should have to deal with this.

So I won't make them.

After all, I am ridiculous, right?

Let's count the lashes.

President Bird – ever word out of that man's mouth stung.

The wounds never closed.

Sister Pettit, you are ridiculous.

I suppose alcohol cleans them, right?

My companionship with sister smith.

That was like burdens placed over the still- open sores.

Ilness. That's when the other horses, bridled though they may be, saw how much more my master hates me.

"Did you just come here so other missionaries would think you're special?"

So what if I did?

No one ever thought I was before. It'd be nice, for once.

I have no dignity.

I'm a joke.

People who don't even know me, think they do."

After I wrote that, I prayed. Prayed so hard. And I felt nothing. And I know God didn't leave me. I just also know that he needed me to make the choice of what to do next.

But what's funny is, I don't really feel like I did.

We talked about it in companionship study. Pew was lonely. Because I wasn't there. But when I was there, people made fun of me. I suppose I just didn't think it was worth it, anymore. I don't know. She got real quiet. Started getting pensive and such. She cried a little bit. And Pew doesn't cry. But then she wrote something. And I just felt like I was killing her. Like there was nothing I could do, but that my mere existence was making the pain I was feeling hers too.

And I couldn't handle that.

I just remember laying on the bed, and my hands went numb. Next my feet. I knew exactly what was happening; it's happened before. It's called a panic attack. Pulse rate at this point? 104. I checked. And Pew called president. I couldn't get myself to say anything to him. Then I got up and put on my jeans. Why?

Because I am ridiculous to everyone I meet. Because after only 3 months, I felt like it wasn't worth the comments anymore. Because I had taken the only person that I loved and trusted in the mission, and I had made her hurt. Hurt bad enough to cry. Why would I want to continue when all I do is make other people miserable?

At this point, I just know I tried to hug her. And she wouldn't. She had locked the door. I tried the balcony. Nothing was going to stop me from putting distance between me and her. NOTHING. Because I had hurt her enough. She got scared. Called the elders. Elders Schultz and Robinson. They came and waited outside the door. They heard her call President. They heard me beg. On my knees. With no dignity left. I begged for the keys. Every moment was torture. Because I know every moment I was there was just torture for her. They heard me try the balcony again. They heard me in my most pitiful, desperate state.

I wonder if God was crying with me. Or if he was looking at me in anger. Sick of me. Sick of having me do exactly what Satan wanted.

She said we were going. Called a taxi. 5 minutes. And then I lost control. I was shaking. I was not angry. I think I was shaking because I was in fight or flight. And for once- for once I picked flight. And I needed to flee. Because the desperation was killing me.

Pew was scared. I think she thought I was going to hurt her. I never would have. You couldn't force me to. Then I became more disgusted with myself. Because she was afraid. She was crying so desperately on the phone to President. He told her to let me out. Her eyes get brighter when she cries. She said "Oh my God."

I left. But then I realized I was leaving her alone. And I didn't want her to break the rules. So she let me call president. We made arrangements. We walked out together. I got in the taxi. I said I'm sorry so many times. She said she thought it was her fault. And then I couldn't forgive myself. I really couldn't. I don't think I ever will. Because I made Pew feel so awful.

She told me in a letter that she wrote the day she left Gyumri, that she knew I needed to keep trying. Keep fighting. That she didn't know why.

I remember looking out the back window of the taxi at her. I started crying. She looked so small. Little did she know that at that point, she was the only reason in the world.

I'm going home. Shameless and blameless, in the eyes of most.

And then there are those that know.

President Dunn.

Sister Dunn.

Elder Schultz.

Elder Robinson.

Sister Pew.

Me.

We know what really happened.

That I'm "sick".

And I am. I crap all the time, and my stomach feels like burning.

But that's not "sick". I'm sick, but them I'm "sick".

The kind of sick that they used to sterilize people for. I don't know. So they wouldn't pass it on.

So did I void my priesthood blessing from Elder Harrison? Can I not finish here now because of what I did yesterday morning? Did I give in? Did Satan win? Is it over? And if it is, then why does it still hurt so much?

I'm not what God wanted me to be. And on top of that, I'm going to have to pay for how much pain I caused Sister Pew.

It just seemed so much more poignant, the last time around. We cried, she left, but we were still decent people.

Now Sister Pew has a story to tell. And if she was like everyone else I know, she would. And that would be the end of me. But she's not. And it's our secret. And someday, maybe, I can call her on the phone, and say that I know I hurt her. But that it's okay then. But as for right now, I can't even be alone with myself for two minutes. Because I made someone hurt. I can't handle it.

As for right now, my bags are packed. My last outfit picked out. Never would have thought I would wear that my last day in Armenia.

And I'm just dramatic. Maybe I'll be back in a few weeks. A few months. But it will never be the same. Because even though Pew is still on my side, I doubt she'll ever want to serve with me again.

Or live with me.

Or see me.

Except at Disneyland. Because that's the happiest place on earth.

So maybe the whole "thinking we were meant to be friends" thing was just wishful thinking on my part. Because if I was her I would get myself as far away from her as possible.

Or maybe, just maybe, she feels the same way about me as I feel about Stooph.

And if that's the case, then I know what she feels. I would die for stooph. I thank God for every second we were together. I want nothing more than to spend my life finding reasons to serve her. And I don't know, maybe the fact that Pew suffered so much for me means she feels a little of what Christ feels.

Maybe it was a good thing.

Half the time I'm fine with it.

And then there are the times that my blood feels like pulsing acid. That I just hurt so bad because I know I hurt her so bad.

I suppose I'm trying to be all poignant and stuff. But I'm just a spaz. Take it or leave it.”