Mormon Green

7/31/2019 Mormon Green

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Mormon Green

Peter fell off the bed, face first, his lips and cheeks mashing into the blue carpet, but he landed

lightly. The floor felt surprisingly cozy, prickly soft carpet against his face, the tan comforter wrapped

around him like a serpent. His mind was fuzzy. Peterwouldnt move from the sleepy, tumbling mess.

After waking, lingering sleep pleasured him, this his single joy in a day. All that followed would be grinding

existence. His lucid dreams in the light end gave him joy.

Moments past and Peter eased his eyes open to another lithium-gray, Mormon morning, edged

with guilt. He refused to rise. No one could force him out of his cocoon on the carpet. The lethargy he felt

pulled him down like a malevolent gravity.

Peter had transgressed. His soul bred the sin like a contagion that threatened to consume him and

rendered him contagious, like a plague. He self imposed a quarantine. If only he lived in some other place.

Even Rigby to the south or Saint Anthony to the north would be tolerable. But his roots grounded him in

Rexburg, Idaho, and he was completely incapable of making it on his own elsewhere. Here, returning

home from a Mormon mission in less than the honorable two years ranked near fornicating and drinking

alcohol on the sin scale. He could hide sex or imbibing, but abandoning the calling was like exposing

himself in Smith Park, shameful and unforgettable. He actually dreamt that several times, Peter walking

down the jogging path naked, the park filled with watchers, all shocked, covering the eyes of their children.

In reality, Rexburg could not help but remember that Peters presence back in town was too soon.

The medicine, drugs, made his mind thick, and he shouldnt have needed them. His true problem

was a lack of purity. Though not openly stated, Mormon culture equated mental illness with sin, medicine

and therapy exacerbating a soul sickness. Relying on Xanax or Celexa amounted to giving up on faith,

scriptures, and prayer. Faith consumed Peter, a true believer in the Mormon faith. He always paid tithing,

attended church, studied the scriptures, and prayed. He never let doubt in God, his church, creep in.

Through the lens of the Mormon religion, he viewed and interpreted the world. And, the world was

destined to be overtaken by a tidal wave of missionaries. He perceived himself as weak or perhaps faking


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where the floors were dirt or concrete. He rubbed his pasty, white legs, pimpled from the cool October

morning. His long, skinny bones shivered, and his mind would not unfog. His mission clock read11:30

AM, even though he had set the alarm for seven, with some vague ambition of rising to find a job or

register for school. He cursed himself for sleeping away the day again. But, realistically he knew that, even

if he were awake, he would have accomplished nothing. Just getting out of bed sapped all his energy. His

parents didnt care about his sleeping habits, probably figuring that he just needed time. He was vaguely

aware that perhaps stowing him away in his room would prevent them the embarrassment of exposure to

the outside world.

Stretching out on the bed again, he felt life zooming by, dreams and doldrums his only realities.

The meds usually dulled his dreams too. He hadnt even had a wet dream since returning from the

Dominican Republic. How cruel was that? He slept another dreamless hour, so comfy.

He slept deeply only when the sun was beginning to shine. He wrestled at times with a nightmare

that he was back in the suffocating Dominican sauna heat. He was a vampire in a zombie narrative where

viruses were turning the world into the walking dead. Whose blood could he suck? The walking dead? He

hunted young girls who did not yet have gray faces and bloody eyes. He would wake rolling in his sheets

and sweating thinking he was actually back on the island.

In his bathroom, he winced at his emaciated, acned face that would not mature beyond the zitty

peach fuzz stage. The Dominican sun had not even given him a tan. The lithium and deprakote

antagonized his face, multiplying the acne as if the pills were fertilizer. The Xyprexa, an anti-psychotic, was

supposed to make him put weight on his skinny bones, but nothing could do that. His body was an

embarrassment, like the orange,1963 International pickup he drove in high school. Both were only slightly

better than nothing at all.

His face brought back a memory of Brenda, a tragic girl from high school with double his zits and

a chin with more hair than his own. He had wished that he could have taken a small portion of her weight

which would have done them both good. Though ugly, she had the advantage of being outgoing. She was


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a talker who didnt need a speaking companion. The two went out for a short time. In their brief romance,

he had only spoken a handful of short sentences to her. He once listened to her on the phone for a whole

hour without saying a word. They had never even held hands. She broke up with him his junior year, his

only girlfriend. Not because of another boy. Brenda simply tired of him, found no boyfriend at all was

better than having him.

Screw the meds, he thought. They werent curing him.The drugs kept him flat, like the surface of

water on a windless day at Redfish Lake, minus the beauty. The cures made him tired and groggy, like the

zombies of his dream. He had no aspirations, no hope for anything. The future was lifeless, washed out,

bleak.

His shrink, Dr. Sumpky, probed him in a way that made him feel violated. Raped emotionally.

And, he didnt understand Peter either. All he cared about were the drugs, experimenting until they found

the right combination. Peter knew that he should also see a counselor, but his fairly wealthy family would

not support too much mental health nonsense. Expense was not a problem for the parents. Anyway, the

last thing he wanted to do was talk more about his feelings, and the therapist would probably become

bored. For a psychologist, surely nothing could be worse than talking at a zitty teenager who knew less

about himself than about other people.

On the pot, he had the revelation that no one on the entire planet understood him, how he felt,

and no one seemed to care enough to find out. Oh yes, people believed they understood him, which made

them feel better, as if human beings were easy to label and file away. The home teachers had been over,

doing their duty, checking off one more notch on their list for entrance into the Celestial Kingdom, the

Mormon heaven. Brother Hicks with his Good to have you back, a lie since no elder is welcome home

after just thirty days. Brother clair with his Not all young men can handle a two year mission, not a lie

but a label. The two had pushed fervent prayer, a catchall for sinners and backsliders, who needed to grab

a hold of the iron rod, just like those who stray from the path in Lehis dream, a story from the Book of

Mormon that lay embedded in the primal memories of primary children. In the story hand rail of iron


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Yes, and every minute of the rest of his life would be a disappointment, each waking moment a

reminder that he botched the best two years of his life. This was a unique experience, only one shot, and

he blew it.

His parents, in their big, expensive, house on the Rexburg hill treated him like a foreign object

when he returned. It was almost like he was a different child. They did their best to make him feel alright

about coming home. A real champion in the face of trials. The estrangement was eased by the fact that

Peter felt numb by this point as the doctors in the Dominican Republic had started him on Lithium,

Deprakote, and Xyprexa. He felt empty, no more highs, no more crashes. His personality had disappeared.

A month after starting the meds, he felt near catatonic, a walking corpse who spent most of his time in his

room. He didnt have a TV, and he didnt like to read, so he just lay on his bed most of the time, not really

even thinking.

Most of the people he encountered at home, except his shrink, encouraged him to get off his

meds. He possessed a spiritual illness after all, and he needed more prayer, scripture reading, and fasting.

His parents certainly fit into this group. And Peter agreed, tired of feeling empty. He could not feel the

Holy Ghost on the meds. During one restive night, God told him in a dream that he had bourn enough

and that he should stop taking pills. He spoke of another calling foreordained for Peter.

From that moment, Peter never took medicine for his bipolar disorder again. He felt exhilarated by

his decision. Peter wanted reality and spiritualityor nothing. If he couldnt handle the real world, then he

wasnt meant to live. Next morning, Peter rose from his small, childhood bed, and made his way to the his

connected, private bathroom. As an only child, something rare in a Mormon family, he had the

convenience of a bathroom of his own. For his parents, one child also meant they had no other hope for

a missionary son. Peters presence at home was a constant reminder of that. His parents had tried but

could not reproduce after Peter. Maybe now they would adopt. They seriously considered that option in

the past which had made Peter feel insufficient and excited.


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He looked in the mirror of his medicine cabinet and was disgusted. His face was pale pink and zitty

and he had a severely receding hairline, his hair already thin. At the age of 19, he looked like a morph of a

teenager and a forty year old man. He was unattractive, a fact that he would never come to terms with,

mirrors constantly reopening the wound with the too real reflection. Knowing that he was ugly was to

admit that he was flawed in a society founded on beauty.

He opened the medicine cabinet and began the task of dumping pill bottles. He spared nothing,

not even the Ambien to help him sleep nor the acne medication. He wanted none of it. He replaced the

empty bottles in the cabinet, knowing that his parents would never care enough to check his meds. He

flushed them all together in what made for an oddly beautiful swirl of colorful little pills against the white

background.

Reality now. This was what he wanted. He believed the Lord could heal him, and he would put

him to the test by studying the scriptures, praying, and fasting. In the afternoon, he left his house for one

of the first times since his return, the first time alone. He went down to Broulims, the local grocery store,

thinking he might pick up some favorite junk food that the Dominican Republic didnt have. Number one

on his list was a big tub of Redvines. Maybe the sugar would give him a jolt out of his etherized state.

Of course, he didnt even make it out of his old red Toyota pickup without seeing someone he

knew. In the parking lot, he met the person he would have to call his best friend, Jake Patterson. He

served his mission in Oklahoma, the full two years, successful. But Jake succeeded at everything he tried,

talented in sports and academics. He was a jock, playing some sport every season, but basketball was his

specialty, a natural talent. Handsome like his father, Peters Mom had once said, he stillwas going out with

his high school love, Karen. Peter obviously didnt fit into his click, an ugly weak student who hated

sports. Peter believed that, being as kind as he was, he had taken on Peter as a project, trying to help him

fit in during high school. Mormons were big on projects like that, his own Mom being the champion.

Since his return in January, Jake had picked up his old job at Broulims as a checker, and he was a

fulltime student. He could have taken several junior college scholarships, but he said he liked Rexburg.


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Truth was, he didnt want to be far from Karen. They would be married sometime soon.Jake was

retrieving some shopping carts after finishing up his second break. Peter tried to avoid eye contact, head

and shoulders slumped toward the pavement, but Jake called to him.

Hey, Pete.

Oh, hi there Jake.

Whats up buddy?

Oh, you know, just getting by.

How long you been home now?

About a month.

I meant to stop by you know, butyou know.

Yeah, no problem.I havent left the house much.

You know, Pete, my Dad didnt serve a mission either. No big deal buddy. He slapped him on

the shoulder. Jake spoke to him as if he were an orange going bad in the produce section, one just starting

to form a white patch on the peal. Jake acted as if Peter had not even gone out to the mission field. Not

going on a mission and quitting a mission were different. Apples and oranges.

You gointo head to school, buddy?

Dont know yet. I feel kind of out of place everywhere.

Yeah.

Do you know what I mean?

Yeah, you ought to try out school, man. You never know. Its a lot of fun. I understand how you

feel, though. Take your time.

Jake didnt understand. Peter detected that immediately. Jake was speaking from his point of view

as a normal person. The last torture Peter needed was to jump into school at BYU-I with his Dad the

important physics professor who would expect perfect grades in hard classes. Peter was sure that his

father already felt embarrassed in front of his colleagues each of whom had their own heroic return


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He pushed his thumb into his left palm, the pressure electrifying. He empathized with teenage cutters, the

thrill filling the emptiness at the core of the soul with unique sensations.

Peter left his room only a couple of times in his four days of wakefulness. He had no need except

to use the bathroom which was really part of his bedroom. He denied the meals his hardworking Mother

cooked each night and brought up to him, or he tossed it out the window, lying to his mother about how

tasty the meatloaf was. Ruff, their large black lab, loved it. The further into the cause he went, the more

important fasting became. The empty stomach made him feel weak at first, but then tingly and a little light

headed. The fast made him more holy, his body feeling weightless, his stomach registering a longing

throughout his body. His Church promoted monthly fasting, and the benefits were obvious.

Technically, this was not a true fast because of the junk food, but he believed this necessary and

acceptable to God. The fast facilitated his communication with the heavenly realm, sensing a separation of

soul and body somehow. His soul freed itself from the weight of the body. He spoke with Moses,

Abraham, and Peter, prophets long dead encouraging him. He was surprised to find that Moses was far

more eloquent than he gave himself credit.

On the morning of the fifth day, the sun rose on Peter, kneeling and weeping in prayer. He had

massaged his palms through the night when he felt tired. They were just bloody wounds in his palms now,

no shape. The spirit pulsed through him, and he was motivated to testify to someone, to preach. He

pushed away all doubt and fear fled during the night, and he felt an immediacy to act. Peter could move

heaven and earth, and his past missionary failure was fully secluded in a different side of the universe. He

suppressed all negativity.

Peter had not spoken of his new mission to his parents. Now, they would only doubt, but they

soon would be surprised and finally proud. They were already off this morning. He heard them both leave

about the same time with slamming doors. His mother always seemed busier than his father, though her

work was of a different kind. His father left to his office and physics classes at 7:00 and returned shortly

after 5:00 every day, but his mothers labors had no fixed routine or boundaries. Shewas rarely home


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had an inkling of how he must look. But part of his high was like a narcotic, dulling the pain, eliminating

fear about his condition.

You look like you need medical attention. Yourea wreck.

Oh, its nothing. Ill fix it up when were done. Im ready. Can we get on with it?

Hang on a minute. I have to chat with my producer real quick.

As she walked back towards the van, he called lamely to her Im fine Miss Perez. Near the van,

she whipped out her iPhone, punched buttons, made the call. Peter was still struck by here face, so

perfect. He felt conspicuous standing there with the people staring at him, asking him questions. At least

twenty people had gathered, the cameraman in front of Peter, setting up his tripod with quick habitual

movements. Miss Perez paced back and forth, phone to her ear. Peter worked his thumb in the palm of his

left hand. Fresh blood wet his hand. He tried to ignore the people. Are you in trouble, dude?Whats

going on? Were you hit by a car? Those crazy students go too darn fast through here.

Miss Perez returned to Peters relief.

Look Peter, my producer said we could shoot the piece if you will agree to let us take you to a

hospital right afterwe are done.

Hospital? Why? Theres no need for that. Ill probably be dead anyway.

You freak me out Peter with that kind of talk.You arent going to die.Thats how it has to go

down orwere not doing it.

OK, whatever. Lets do it.

Peter had no choice but to take their deal, but the hospital worried him. Death would be better

than ending up in an institution. He couldnt end up in an asylum. It scared him more than hell, Satan.

Miss Perez and the cameraman were in action preparing to shoot the footage.

Ready the cameraman said. Miss Perez moved towards Peter and positioned him. We want the

crowd and the temple in the frame. Jim are we in frame here with the temple? She positioned Peter like a

doll, and he tried to follow her instructions. The cameraman looked through the lens and stuck his thumb


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up. He was ready to roll. Miss Perez positioned the microphone, smoothed her hand through her hair.

Am I OK Jim? Thumbs up again. She put her arm around Peter, lightly touching his back. The human

warmth felt nice. He was shaking with nervous energy, the adrenaline constantly pushing back the

downward spiral. Into his ear, Youll be just fine, Peter.

The cameraman stuck up three fingers and counted down to the cue, a smirk on his face.

This is Lucy Perez in front of the beautiful LDS temple in Rexburg. Im with a resident here,

Peter Shaw, who has an unusual church project that you will be interested to learn about. Some might

think it is crazy, and frankly I am uncertain myself. But I will leave it to you to decide. He is a nineteen year

old Mormon recently returned from a mission in the Dominican Republic. He is not here to bash the

church. He is not a disaffected member. Peter,why dont you fill us in.

Peters cue, but it took Peter a moment before he could process this. There was an awkward

silence as Miss Perez positioned the microphone in front of him. Finally, the spirit urged him to open his

mouth. The pause would be edited out.

We Mormons have some beliefs that outsiders find peculiar. For example, we believe that our

prophet, President Monson, speaks with God. I am here to explain another unique belief we have and my

mission connected with it. In our Book of Mormon, the truest book of God on earth, we learn that a

person who asks God for a sign as proof that he exists is punished. People want empirical evidence that he

is out there. They dont want to believe. They want to know. But God says that we must have faith. God

strikes down the seeker of signs.

So asking for proof from God brings a curse?

Yes.

It seems a bit strange to be speaking of this now as news. Whats your point?

Well, I am here today asking for a sign from God. I want God to show me through a miracle that

he exists.

Why would you do this if it is forbidden by your book?


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Because the world will see God strike me down, and they will believe. Thats what happens in

scripture. The people who witness the seeker being struck return to God. I will help bring them back to

Christs fold. I will do this for the world, to better humanity.

You are tempting God?

Yes. But I am sacrificing myself as well.

And for our viewers, Peter, could you explain once more your purpose and how you expect to be

struck?

I am a missionary. I will sacrifice myself so that the world will believe in God. The Lord usually

strikes people dumb or dead.

So, now you expect God to maim or kill you. Right now, Peter?

Peter stretched his arms out wide toward the bright sun with the white temple in the background

and spoke melodramatically God I demand from you a sign, a miracle provingthat you exist. The

crowd began to mumble behind him, putting their hands over their mouths, eyes wide open in shock. Miss

Perez was struck with a look of astonishment, and with that dramatic scene, Miss Perez made the cut sign

across her throat to the cameraman, who quickly stopped, dismantled the camera, collapsed the tripod, and

made his way back toward the van.

Thats it?

Yeah, we got all we need to make the story. I can do the rest in overlay during editing.

Cant you wait for me to be stricken?

Miss Perez smiled for the first time at Peter and then chuckled, laughed. No, we have all we need.

We can come back if needed when you are struck by lightning or whatever. Hop in the van and well get

you to the hospital.Something was odd about Miss Perezs laugh, but Peter couldnt read through it.

She put her arm around him and gently pushed him in the direction of the van. He had a hard time

walking and needed her arm for support. She was unstable herself in the disked farm ground. As he got in

the van, eerie, dark sensations percolated, and he slumped into his seat. Peter felt a sense of fulfillment but


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Mormon Green