The first few months of my mission were extremely happy ones. I made lasting friendships, felt I was making a difference for people, and deepened my conversion to Jesus Christ. My every intent was to serve a successful and happy 18 month mission. I loved being a missionary.
About five months into my mission, things took a dramatic turn for the worse. After being transferred and asked to open a new area, my new companion and I found ourselves in a situation which caused us to be stuck in our flat all day, every day, for weeks.
At this point, I had no idea that I had been battling several mental illnesses my entire life. All I knew was that I was restless and anxious. I wanted to be out doing missionary work and I felt like I wasn't fulfilling my purpose. I quickly became depressed, and spent every day pacing around the house, thinking about all the things we weren't getting done. I felt that God was disappointed in me and that if I had more faith, things would've gotten better by now. Now I understand that being stuck with nothing to do but THINK was the absolute worst thing that could have happened to me. I desperately tried to figure out what I had done wrong to make my missionary work come to an abrupt halt. I replayed my entire mission up to that point in my mind over and over again, searching for flaws in myself. Then I started to do the same thing with my entire life. I analyzed my faithfulness and worthiness until I was absolutely convinced I was doomed to hell.
I remember the exact moment when this "realization" dawned on me. It was the middle of the night. My anxiety had made me unable to sleep for nights on end. When the thought came to me that I was going to hell, my body reacted violently. I started sweating and I had to get out of bed to throw up.
Then I woke up my companion and told her, "I don't think I can do this."
"Do what?"
"Be a missionary. I need to go home."
In the morning, my companion called my mission president's wife. I could hear her in the next room: "She thinks she's going to hell." That night, my companion rushed me to the mission home. I was shaking when I went into my mission president's office. I told him, "I realized last night that I'm not worthy to be here. It was the darkest moment of my life. There's no way for me to get to heaven."
I had the kindest, wisest, most gentle mission president. Ever. He looked at me and said, "Sister Webb. You are worthy. You're an incredible missionary. I think you have depression."
No one had ever told me I had depression before. President Maxwell told me that he'd had two children go home early from missions due to mental illness, and he suggested that I talk to a doctor over the phone. I thought I'd tricked him into thinking I was a good person. I knew that I just wasn't worthy - I didn't have depression.
During the next few weeks, my mind became completely consumed with the idea that I was going to hell. When I was eating, I wondered if I'd be able to eat in hell. When it was cold, I wondered how cold it would be in hell. When I was walking outside, I wondered if I'd ever be able to see the sun in hell. I could experience faith only as personal condemnation. This made everything about being a missionary completely terrifying. Studying the scriptures and praying made me feel anxious. Church meetings made me feel anxious. Eventually, I was throwing up because of anxiety about three times a day, and I wasn't sleeping at all.
A quick lesson about OCD: obsessions cause tremendous anxiety. A compulsion is anything the person with OCD does to reduce that anxiety. Because the anxiety is momentarily reduced, the compulsion is reinforced, causing a vicious cycle.
My obsessions had become religious, so my compulsions became religious as well. I couldn't stop thinking of things I needed to confess to my mission president. I began to confess to him constantly. Each time he would assure me that I was worthy, which would reduce my anxiety for only about an hour before I would think of more sins I had committed. I repeatedly asked for priesthood blessings, seeking for reassurance of my worthiness.
I'll give just one example of how my mind was working during this phase. Because I'd been moved around a lot and my brain was no where near functioning, I'd misplaced a lot of my personal belongings. I immediately linked this to a scripture in the Book of Mormon about a wicked group of people whose riches became "slippery." I was sure that because I was such an awful sinner, my things had become slippery too. My well-meaning mission president offered to let me go to the temple. Being in the temple, I experienced more anxiety than I had ever experienced in my life. It was in the temple that I would absolutely certain that I was nothing more than a son (daughter?) of Perdition.
Soon, my mind became so consumed with anxiety that I could focus on nothing else. I was exhausted from lack of sleep and overthinking. I was paired with a new companion, Sister Anderson, who took me back to the mission home after only a few days. The two of us stayed there together for a couple of weeks. I will always think of Sister Anderson as one of my guardian angels. She understood depression and was so sympathetic. She stayed up with me at night during my panic attacks, and during the day she played with my hair, encouraged me to sing with her, and told me over and over again that I was being so Christlike, something I could not see in myself at all. It was at this point that I stopped crying and resigned myself to hopelessness. I finally decided to just stop eating, determined that I would wait to die in Australia. I found out when I got home that being unable to cry is the last phase of deep clinical depression.
During my time at the mission home, my mission president could see that I was absolutely not okay. Finally, he called me and said, "We need to get you home. We're buying you a plane ticket for tomorrow morning." I said, "Can't I wait a few days? To say goodbye to everyone and try to gather up my missing things?" He told me that he felt I should get home right away. I was allowed to talk to my parents on the phone that night. My dad was crying (one of the only times I've ever heard him cry) when he said, "It's okay. You can come home." I didn't tell them that I wasn't sure I'd be able to make it home.
The wife of the mission psychologist had to come on the plane with me to keep me from ending my life. I threw up the entire way home, a 22 hour flight.
When my family saw me in the airport, their faces fell. I'd lost weight from all the throwing up, and I hadn't slept more than two hours in one night for months. I looked like death itself. When I saw my family, I was finally able to cry. Then I slept for days. I woke up disoriented and unable to focus. My brain was so crowded by fear that I had forgotten a lot of important things about my life. I could hear myself repeating over and over again that my sister Abbie was in Ohio because I didn't want to forget that too. I couldn't focus enough to finish my sentences. I called my closest friends and scared them to death by frantically trying to explain to them in scattered fragments what had happened to me.
My terrified parents took me to a therapy clinic where happened to be working the only doctor who understood exactly what had happened to me. He had just started working there two weeks before I came home. I didn't know then that he would save my life.
I told him that I knew I was going to hell, that there was nothing I or anyone else could do about it, that everything that was happening to me, from my inability to remember things, to my lack of sleep, was a direct result of my sins.
He said, "You have a disease called Scrupulosity. It's a religious form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. That tells me two things about you that are unquestionable: You have an extremely high IQ. And you are an incredibly good person. Also, there is absolutely no other thing that could've happened to you on your mission that would have made it harder than this. I am so sorry."
At the time, this made no sense to me. I thought I had tricked him too. No one was listening to me! I was SURE I was as good as damned, and no one would believe me.
The next few months were confusing, to say the least. My parents kept saying to me, "It's time to move on." And I kept telling them, "Move on to what? There is NOTHING for me." My life felt completely empty and meaningless. I knew that I had no future.
Most people were kind to me, but some asked hurtful questions, like, "So did they figure out what's wrong with you?" The most painful thing for me was when I'd open up to someone and say, "I'm home because I'm working through some anxiety disorders," and they'd say, "Oh. I'm SO glad it's just that!" Excuse me? I would've rather lost a limb!
Sometimes I felt like I was always awake, and sometimes I felt like I was always asleep. I cried every single day. I woke up to hopelessness and despair every morning, and fell into a restless sleep to it at night. I felt physically sick and exhausted constantly. Every second of every day, I had these mantras running through my mind: "It doesn't matter, I'll be dead." and "I don't have to worry about that, I won't be here." I learned that a lot of people with scrupulosity had succumbed to suicide because of the pain, and I started planning for my death.
I filled the walls of my room with post-it notes with the names of people I loved on them. I was going to write a letter to all 65 of them before I died, so that they knew I loved them. I decided who to leave my money and important possessions to. I finally felt calm - I knew this would be better for everyone.
If you have lost a loved one to suicide, I have to tell you something.
Your loved one did not want to leave you. They love you deeply and would never want to hurt you. They did not want to die. They were trying to end their pain, not their lives. Most people who contemplate or resort to suicide are incredibly sensitive, tender-hearted people who would never mean to hurt anyone. Sometimes a suicidal person convinces themselves that it's better for their loved ones if they die. Mental illness completely distorts your thinking and judgment.
I kept putting off my suicide because of my care for other people. I kept thinking, "If I do it now, it will ruin Lauren's birthday," or, "If I do it now, Rachel will think I didn't care about hearing her mission call." Obviously, a healthy person could see that there was never going to be a convenient time for me to end my life. But when you are that sick, your thinking is warped. There were several times where I was in my bedroom, holding something with which I was going to end my life, and I stopped myself because of my sister Abbie, who is still serving a mission. I so badly wanted to see her, and I willed myself to wait just a little longer, until she came home.
My doctor told me to stop reading the scriptures and attending the temple because of the anxiety it was causing me. I was confused, because everything that was supposed to help people through trials was making it worse for me. I couldn't pray, because I felt God was angry with me. I wanted so badly to pray for my sisters, especially Abbie, but I felt that God would say to me, "You want me to help Abbie? When you're about to do something that will scar her forever? Yeah, right!" I didn't pray at all for a couple of months. I had no idea where to turn for relief or peace.
Finally, in March of this year, I attempted suicide. When I failed, I felt even more angry and worthless. I was ashamed that I had even failed in that, that I couldn't even do THAT right. But it was also a turning point for me. I saw a glimpse of what my parents would have felt if I had succeeded, and I couldn't bear it. I resolved to do everything I could to get well.
My doctor eventually diagnosed me with scrupulosity, OCD, severe anxiety, and ADHD. He told me I'd have to be patient while we figured out which medicines worked best for me, but he also told me that I'd always have difficulty being patient with ANYTHING because I had ADHD.
I fought hard to get well. It was painful and exhausting, but once I was medicated, things finally started to go right for me. I was given volunteer and service opportunities, I was offered several jobs, I figured out how I could still graduate with my teaching degree and with my service learning scholars certification, and I fell head over heels in love.
I cannot talk about my battle with mental illness without talking about my Savior Jesus Christ. When I was at my lowest point, I imagined what God would say to me if we could sit down and talk. I thought He'd say, "What is wrong with you? Don't you want the life I gave you? Why are you being so selfish and fearful?" But now I think what He was trying to say to me is this: "My heart is breaking with yours. I am so sorry it feels like there is no way out of this. But there is another way. Please, let me show you." Jesus Christ is the great physician and healer. There is no one beyond His reach. He understands mental illness. He understands hopelessness. He understands suicide attempts.
If you know someone who is coming home early from a mission:
This missionary has been through a traumatic experience, whether they are coming home due to rule infractions, physical illness, or mental illness. Above all, be kind and nonjudgmental. If going to church causes this missionary anxiety and discomfort, don't push them to go. But keep inviting them to have experiences where they will feel the spirit. Help them feel safe. They are worried about what friends and family will think of them and they feel confused about their future. Be their reassuring, safe place. Do NOT ask, "So what's wrong with you?" and don't ask them when they are going back on their mission. Let them choose when to talk about their health and their mission and they will.
If you know someone who has lost a loved one to suicide:
Again, be kind. Let the person know that you understand that their loved one died of an illness. Because that's what depression is: a physical disease. There should be no more shame in losing a family member to suicide than there is in losing a family member to cancer. Say the same things you would say to someone who lost a family member in any other way. Help them remember the best times with their loved one, and assure them that those good times are not over. The person may feel guilt and wonder if there was anything they could've done to help the suicide victim. Let them know that they are not to blame, that their family member was taken from them by an illness that we're all still trying to understand. Never refer to someone's suicide as selfish, cowardly or sinful. A healthy person is completely unable to commit suicide. When I came home, I was told that my frontal lobe was flooded. That meant that I was unable to make clear judgments and wise choices. In my opinion, suicide cannot be a sin because suicide cannot be committed by someone who is thinking clearly and rationally. Just don't judge. Period.
If you know someone battling depression:
I cannot say it enough. Be kind. Never act as if any symptoms of depression are a person's choice. Don't tell a depressed person to just get out of bed or snap out of it. Invite your loved one to do things with you outside, especially physical activity. Encourage your loved one to seek help and offer to go with them their first time. Let them know that there should be no stigma attached to seeking psychological help. Compare their illness to any other physical illness that they would be expected to see a doctor for. Be patient. Even after the person gets help, they will relapse. Don't give up on them.
Life is worth it. I'm so glad I was given a second chance to live mine.
