Masturbation + Mormonism + Guilt = Suicide

A new acquaintance asked me for this story. He is a Clinical Sexologist in Ogden, UT. If you need his name, e-mail me and I'll forward your e-mail to him.

Below is my e-mail to him.

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Dear Mark,

You asked me to tell my story, the story about how Mormon-instilled taboos about masturbation led me to the point of attempted suicide. That I failed at killing myself is a good thing to truly understate the obvious!

Here's my story, as best as I can remember it. As I started to write it, it really brought back a flood of memories and it fleshed out with more detail than I originally thought it might. Feel free to use it any way you wish, and when you do, sign me or credit me as . . .

--Wag--

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As an 18- or 19-year old Mormon man, I was getting ready to go on a mission. I was engaged in the regular and frequent practice of masturbation and felt guilty about it all the time. I had gotten started early at the age of seven. Of course, in Mormonism, masturbation is considered a major sin, major enough to keep people out of the temples and certainly off of a mission. In any case, while getting ready for my mission, I had confessed it to my bishop and he made the decision to keep me off my mission for a while until I could stop masturbating for a sufficient length of time.

At some point in there, I got truly despondent and took about three quarters of an economy-sized bottle of Tylenol, believing whole-heartedly that I would be dead within a couple of hours. Little did I know that it would have no effect on me and that it could have easily wiped out my kidneys. I didn't find that out until later that there are probably NO OTC meds which are potent enough to kill an adult human. I'm lucky in the sense of being alive and more lucky I didn't roast my internal organs in the process. I never told a soul about it at the time. I still genuinely believe that my intent in the attempt was two-sided. One, I was tired of life but Two, and more importantly to me at the time, was I wanted to cause pain to my parents. I really thought it would be highly embarrassing to them to have their oldest son commit suicide. I even thought that a couple of my siblings might follow in my footsteps and that pleased me even more. At some base mental level, I even thought my parents were depressive enough to follow my lead, too.

Bear in mind, however, that as I had grown up, I had been infused with a very low self-esteem and felt I was not worth the clothes on my back. I was never good enough, I was always guilty of something and never had I done something which deserved a compliment from anyone, particularly my parents from whom I should have had the most support in doing good things. I was ruled by fear and guilt levied thick upon me by my parents primarily, followed closely by the church and its representatives. Furthermore, as I was the oldest of ten children, I was supposed to be the example to the rest of my siblings and lo and behold, frequently, I was accused of being the cause of various of their delinquencies as well. A more complete mantle of guilt couldn't possibly have been conceived or executed.

There were many things which occurred during my life to destroy any sense of self-worth I might have had. Positive things were ignored at best, pushed down at worst The talent and potential I had was never recognized by my parents and therefore left unrealized. For example, when I was seven years old, I was in the third grade. My reading and comprehension was tested at a second-year university level and I was naturally reading at 1200 wpm. I'm not even sure I can still do that now! But I was never recognized for it and I never got any additional training to focus me on a path which would take advantage of those skills.

Another example is that when I was eight years old, my parents started me with piano lessons. For a while I enjoyed it, but soon I didn't want to practice any more, probably 'cause my buddies were teasing me about it. My parents forced me to continue because the piano teacher I had insisted I had talent. Actually, I just had brains and piano was not difficult to figure out. So, for about four or five years, I was forced to take piano lessons and threatened with whippings if I didn't perform well. Lo and behold, I started to get pretty good. Much to my surprise, I started to enjoy it. Then, my teacher moved and my parents ran me through a couple of other teachers but very soon, the became unavailable for some reason. I was content for a while to not have to practice any more.

But I surprised myself by actually beginning to enjoy playing, especially since I could play what I wanted to play. After a couple of years of guiding myself at the piano, I asked my parents for lessons again and they refused. That was the time when I could have really used lessons, too. I didn't make a big issue out of it and continued to play on my own and progressed to some degree. Very little, in retrospect but at the time, ignorance was bliss. I tell that as an example of how I was not given the support of my parents for the good things I was able to do and wasn't recognized for doing well. Years later, I took lessons from a concert pianist at my own initiative and made light years of progress in a very short time.

As a child, I generally got nearly perfect grades. That was because of the fear of getting my ass whipped by my old man. I was a smart kid, but it was because I didn't dare be otherwise. Indeed, as a near straigt-A student all through Junior High and High School, I can't remember once ever being told by either of my parents that I had done a great job. I do remember, however, a couple of times where I just screwed around in class and got a "D" or an "F" as a H.S. Freshman and all hell broke loose. I had gotten bored with how easy school was and it was no challenge for me, there was no motivation for me to do well. I had forgotten, however, the wrath of my old man.

That was the way it was for me as a child in my household. Keep your nose clean and never step outside the realm of perfection that my parents establish with the Mormon Church as their guide to it all. We were to be good little Mormon kids, never embarrass our parents and do everything right. Our opinions didn't matter and we were not allowed to speak outside the religious dogma that was thrust upon us. To do so was to risk the wrath of my parents, most especially my father.

My mother was a master of manipulating me through guilt me. I remember one particular occasion just after my father had lost his butt big time in his first business venture. I was about 15 and hadn't played the piano for quite a long time. My mother came to me one day and said, "Louis, your father finds a great deal of comfort when you play the piano and would very much like it if you would play once in a while." Hmmmmmm. I was a little taken aback and I said, "Okay," and moved on. However, my initial reaction inside, which I didn't dare show, was one of feeling empowered. I could finally pay back my old man! I had power, all of a sudden to cause him grief in return for the grief I had lived with all my short life. Internally, I refused to play. But in a matter of a few weeks, the drive to be accepted by my old man AND my mother, for that matter, and starving for compliments, I gave in and started playing again. And the guilt? Very much a part of my decision to play again. Never heard much more about it, though. Once in a while, I recall my father saying he liked a particular song but it was more about him controlling what I played than about giving me a compliment. He never did say that I played well.

I remember only two compliments I got from my father. There may have been more, but I don't remember them at all. Which means they were likely never given, quite frankly. One compliment was the only compliment I ever got on my grades. I had pulled straight A's on one report card and he patted me on the back and said, "Good job." That was it. The other time "I" got a "compliment" from my father was on a Monday night at Family Home Evening. He stood in front of all of us kids and said, with tears of happiness in his eyes, "Your mother and I really appreciate that you kids are well-behaved and you don't cause us any problems. We get complimented all the time by other people about how well you all behave when you're not at home." At the time, we were bubbling over about it and we felt the warm fuzzies etc. etc. Now, it just turns my stomach. My parents were saying that to them it was more important for us to keep from embarrassing them than anything else.

There are plenty of other stories to be told but I think the picture is rather clear, thus far. To automatically link the first of my suicide attempts directly to masturbation might be a little bit of a stretch. However, there can be no doubt that since the age of 12 when a bishop first asked me if I masturbated and told me it was a bad thing to do, it has been a factor. My father lectured me on it soon after that and told me it was a bad thing to do. When I was 17 or 18, my grandfather even told me it was a bad thing to do. I was 13 or 14 and was in attendance via satellite at the LDS Priesthood session when Mormon Apostle, Boyd K. Packer first delivered his infamous "Little Factory" speech. It was later printed in a little pamphlet called, "For Young Men Only." That way, I could carry the guilt around with me at all times, if I so desired. Even my younger brother once accused me of committing "adultery" though it was apparent he really didn't know what the term meant. *I* knew what he meant, however. In our home, all seven of us boys shared one bedroom and I suppose I wasn't quite as quiet as I had always thought.

So, adding the onslaught of all the masturbation guilt with a daily suppression of any positive reinforcement to my sense of self worth, I naturally became very depressed about life, felt very "unworthy" as defined by Mormonism, and as my mission approached and I battled the masturbation "problem," my depression grew exponentially in that last few months before my mission. I was told by my bishop that it was just Satan working to keep me off my mission. He even told me I should consider breaking up with my girlfriend just to make sure we didn't "do anything" to keep me off my mission.

I was successful at abstaining from masturbation for about seven or eight months before my mission. It was during the second or third month that I attempted suicide with the Tylenol. I wasn't happy in life, even as I started to succeed at suppressing my sexual urges and stopped masturbating. My bishop was pleased and I told him I was happy, just to make him more pleased. He gave me a hug and told me he was proud of me but I felt empty inside. Not because I couldn't masturbate and feel good about it, I don't think, but because I was at the bottom of a whirlpool of despondency.

So, the bishop sent in my papers for a mission and I waited for the call. I actually started to get a little excited about it. I hoped to finally get a testimony and was studying the scriptures obsessively, looking for a testimony in it's pages. I fasted and prayed often, knowing that a testimony from God would be forthcoming soon, possibly even before my mission call arrived. I had hopes of going to a foreign country. I had tested off the charts for language aptitude and I just knew I would be sent to Japan or some place equally challenging. I looked forward to it and genuinely started to get excited. Naturally, given my household environment, I didn't express my desire to go to a foreign country but kept it to myself.

The envelope came. My mother called me at work to tell me it was waiting for me at home and completely ruined the rest of my day. I was virtually useless to my employer up to quitting time. When I got home, it was late at night, my mother had gone to bed and hadn't told me where she had put the letter and I couldn't find it in any of the usual places. I didn't dare wake her up. And I didn't sleep for a very long time, naturally. I just knew I was being sent on a mission to Japan. The next morning, I finally fell asleep and slept past all my siblings leaving for school and my father leaving for work and I didn't wake up until nearly noon that day. I went looking for my mother and couldn't find her and so I started looking in the daylight for the mission call. I saw it right off on the kitchen table where we never kept mail. Oh, well, I was still excited and I opened the letter. I didn't even read it, I just scanned it quickly to see where I was going to go. Arcadia, California. Where the heck is Arcadia, CA? I dug out an atlas and found it on a map next to Pasadena. I was highly disappointed. I took the time to read the letter through and didn't learn anything really important except that I was going to be speaking English on my mission. Double whammy. I wouldn't even be learning another language.

(I should mention, in retrospect, that nearly all of the missionaries I know who went to foreign countries had really lousy experiences so from that standpoint, I'm glad I went stateside. It was bad enough as it was.)

I was somewhat depressed by the "call" and getting more depressed by the moment. My mother came in at some point in there and asked me, rather excited, where I was going to go.

"Arcadia, CA, Mom."

"Where's Arcadia, CA?"

"Right by Pasadena."

"Oh, I know where that is."

She perused my letter for a moment and went about her day without further comment. My dad held a special family home evening that night to gather all the kids around and everyone revered my mission call. I was very disappointed and over the next couple of weeks, I nearly pulled the plug on my mission. To this day, I wish I had done exactly that. Well, utlimately, I did meet my wife on my mission so that was a good thing but still, I should have been true to my self and stayed off my mission. Why did I go then? I was still feeling the pressure, generated from within and founded on years of brainwashing, the pressure of being the oldest son and having a responsibility of setting an example for my siblings. THAT was why I went on a mission in the first place, that was why I didn't pull the plug when I found out I was going on a stateside mission.

I went on my mission and through the MTC, still abstaining from masturbation. I got out into the field and made some new friends and had a rather enjoyable time. A month into my mission, however, I woke up from a wet dream one morning, with a raging erection. I suspected that the least little touch to it would bring me to orgasm. I couldn't even pee so I jumped in the shower and finally managed to pee as the warm water relaxed me just enough to do so, but it did nothing to eliminate the "problem" I had between my legs. Add to that, the fact that the images from my very erotic and hard-core sex dream were still rolling through my mind.

I tried Packer's suggestion and was singing just about every church song I knew, all at once, and rehearsing scripture after scripture in my mind.

Nothing. I still had a raging erection which demanded attention. I continued soaping myself up avoiding my penis for the moment because I knew what was next if I grabbed it to lather it up. I actually felt fear of it, as I recall. But I finished with the rest of me and it was all that was left. Still as hard as iron. I grabbed hold to lather up quickly and at that point, I think my body just took over and I automatically began masturbating. I was a couple of strokes into it before I orgasmed in the shower for the first time in over 8 months. It felt really super good but immediately, the programming of the Mormon Church and the brainwashing of it started to do its job. Guilt set in right away, followed very closely by depression. What I remember now, but didn't notice then, was the extreme relief my body felt at having gotten that out of my system. I should have been relieved and glad but noooo. I was going to have a spiralling depression about it.

I called my mom on the phone that same morning which was a big no-no for missionaries but at the time I didn't care. I was calling to tell her I was coming home because I felt like a complete and utter failure. She didn't understand why I wanted to "quit." (Her word, with all it's implications to my character. Mom was the master of guilt.) I still hadn't told her why at this point but during the course of our conversation over the next few minutes, I told her what was up. It was embarrassing to talk to my mother about my masturbation "problem" though in a "normal" mother-son relationship, I see no reason why it should be. At the time, I was mortified but I was doing things to prove that I had a reason to leave my mission. She didn't know what to say and she was just as embarrassed as I was. Her words of encouragement consisted of telling me to keep fasting and praying and God would help me so I could stay on my mission.

I hung up the phone and plodded through my day. The self-imposed trauma of it all was enough to keep me from masturbating for a couple of weeks and I started to feel confident again, like the fasting and praying was working. I didn't talk to my mission president about it at the time and thought I had the tempation pretty well conquered. I went about another four months without masturbating.

I was in a different area and again, same scenario: Wet dream, shower, masturbation. Only this time I was completely devastated by it, moreso than before, if that's possible. I really thought there was something wrong with me. I really believed I was the only man my age that was masturbating, in or out of the Mormon Church. I genuinely didn't think other guys did it and I was feeling very dirty, very worthless, very useless. I really believed God couldn't possibly love me and I for sure didn't love myself. The next morning, I jumped in the shower with a razor blade and slashed my wrists. I waited. And waited. They bled for a while and stopped. It hurt, so I didn't do it again right away. A couple of days later, I did it again, same result. The day after that, I did it again and again, same result. I couldn't even kill myself right. I found out later I had done it wrong but I won't belabor that here. In hindsight, I'm VERY glad I failed at it.

For whatever reason, in my letter to the mission president that week, I told him about it to some degree. Not in great detail because I never believed he was reading my letters first. I always figured the AP's read everything first if my letter got read at all. Somehow though, he read it and I got a call from his secretary requesting that I come in for an interview. He sent me to a psychologist who didn't have the brains of a mechanical pencil but at least she realized she wasn't adequately equipped to do anything for me. So she sent me to a psychiatrist who was able to prescribe an anti-depressant to me. He was also the first person who I told about the Tylenol attempt on my life and he was the one who told me of the potential damage it could have done to my kidneys.

He explained things really well. He said that sometimes the body gets in the habit of being depressed and the brain gets in the mode of producing "depressive" chemistry too frequently. The brain just doesn't know any better after a while and "forgets" how to make the upbeat chemistry. The anti-depressant drugs are focused on kicking the brain back into gear and into producing normal chemistry again.

I had told him about the masturbation "problem" but he never discussed it with me even though we was a Mormon psychiatrist, paid by the Mormon church. I wonder, sometimes, if he believed the depression was causing masturbation, not the other way around and that if he could cure the depression, he would cure the masturbation "problem" as a result. If so, he never told me that. In any case, about three months later, I was dutifully taking my Merital and was feeling pretty good about life. Wasn't masturbating, few or no wet dreams, nothing I couldn't dismiss in any case. In about the fourth month, the makers of Merital pulled it from the market because it was causing some kind of fatal anemia in some patients and so I didn't have my drug anymore. But I felt fine and I've never looked back, never had to get on another anti-depressant. The psychiatrist and his Merital had done the trick.

A few months later, I started masturbating again, finally, but the guilt I felt about it was very mild. I was no longer seeking a strong testimony and I was content to merely move along through my mission without worrying about it.

Looking back, I have in the past, greatly resented Mormonism and my parents for having imposed that guilt on me so traumatically and so thoroughly. According to Mormonism, the "Natural Man" is an enemy to God and I was that natural man. Somehow, somewhere along the way, I had made the connection and, being unable to overcome that natural man within me, I was an enemy to God and therefore, not worth the ground I walked on.

In retrospect, I can look back without any further anger. I'm making up for lost time now and thanks to a psychiatrist who prescribed a medical solution to a medical problem and didn't blame me for being the cause of the problem, I was able to become exactly what I am: A Natural Man, with natural and good desires and drives. There are no longer any restraints falsely posing as guides, no longer any cages falsely posing as places of serenity. No longer any guilt, no longer any pain. Nothing but freedom remains for me and my loving wife.

The only good thing that ever came out of Mormonism for me was my wife. I met her and her family while I was on my mission and while I never had an interest in her then, a time came after my misison when I went to visit them and fell in love with that same girl. She was an angel then and she is more of an angel now.

And depression? For me, it is a thing of the past. Masturbation? A thing of the present and never again the two shall meet.