My sister wife Beverly was out of town visiting her parents in Colonia LeBaron at the time. Her vacant house was just a block away. I locked myself in, determined to hide from my distressed children. I prayed for answers, but none came as I spiraled into greater and greater hopelessness. Then insomnia stole the few remaining shreds of peace I knew. I fought my longings for death, but I was losing.
I’d never drunk liquor before, but I sent Donna to my friend Yolanda’s in Guerrero for alcohol. Even in my jarred state of mind, I found momentary solace in Proverbs 31:6–7: “Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy heart. Let him drink, and forget his poverty, and remember his misery no more.” Every verse pertained to me. Emotionally, I was perishing. My mind was filled with anguish. Oh, how I wanted to forget my poverty. My life was full of misery. So, with the Bible’s permission, I eased myself into drunken oblivion.
For over a month, Donna supplied the liquor, sneaking it over to me so no one would discover my whereabouts, especially my children. I couldn’t get off my emotional seesaw. First would come the urges to commit suicide; then I drank to knock myself out and keep me from doing it. When I awoke, I wanted to do it all the more, and on and on and on. I hated the stranger in my mirror for constantly tempting me to kill myself. I couldn’t go into the kitchen at all. Each time I tried, she’d tell me to grab the butcher knife. I’d have to run out immediately before the woman took my life.
Verlan returned to find me plastered. “Satan has really taken you downhill,” he pronounced.
I cried out in the best way I could think of. “I can’t survive another minute! Suicide is the only way out. I’m in too much mental pain to live another agonizing day!”
“You ought to count your blessings,” he said. “You have the gospel, and you should find joy in it. You should forget about everything except raising your kids. I want you to go back to your own house and ask God to give you strength to do your duty.”
“All I need is your love,” I answered. “How can I possibly go on without it? Please,” I begged, “don’t go away and leave me like this.” He turned to go. “I promise I’ll kill myself! You’ll be sorry!” I threatened. I needed an anchor for my soul. I was willing to settle for the love of this man. What I couldn’t take was his disdain. Clinging to him, I sobbed, “Help me, Verlan. I can’t go on alone!”
He did not pull away, though I could see it was clearly beneath him to hold such a weak and sinful woman. “Please get a hold of yourself, Irene. If you don’t, your children will never want to live the gospel. If they refuse because of your actions, God will surely hold you accountable.”
In complete frustration, I screamed out, “I hate you! You’ve ruined my life. When I’m dead, you’ll be sorry.” I cried such pitiful sobs that he decided he better spend the night with me.
He walked me back to my own home, preaching all the way, trying to console me in his own fashion. Before getting into my bed, he placed his loaded pistol on the dresser. Since Joel’s death, it became Verlan’s custom to have one handy for his protection.
He patted me wearily. “Well, good night, Irene.” And he rolled over. I got no touch; no warm, comforting embrace; and certainly no sex. I’d have been grateful if he’d just talked to me, tried to understand me. His steady breathing from under the sheets was my only consolation.
While on my drinking binge, I lost all sense of time. I didn’t know the date or month. My head was in a vice being tightened a little more every day, causing excruciating mental pain. I couldn’t take another minute of it, thinking my brain was literally going to rupture. Images flashed across my warped mind, revealing the horrific crimes I’d committed, even some I hadn’t. They deceived me into thinking I killed my first baby. They showed me that at times I’d hated my sister wives. What’s more, Verlan was right. I had been lustful. I was oversexed. I committed adultery with my own husband. Trapped in this tortuous mental maze, I saw that Verlan knew best. I did deserve punishment.
It was in this state of mind that I made the dreadful decision. Quietly in the dark, I eased myself out of bed. Feeling for Verlan’s pistol, I raised it with resolve, knowing that if I hurried, I’d be able to do it. Determined, yet frozen with fear, I held it in my trembling hands. I didn’t really want to do it, but I knew I had to. There was nothing left for me in life.
I saw flashes of my casket, with Verlan weeping at its side. In my crazed mind, I was gleeful with a sick satisfaction. I thought if I could not have him, then he wasn’t going to have me. I would finally get even with him. I’d lost him somewhere in life’s shuffle. Now he could just lose me. He deserved it.
I held the gun to my pulsating temple, placing my finger on the trigger, ready to administer the punishment both Verlan and I deserved. Then, gathering courage, I silently prayed, God, receive my unworthy soul.
In that instant, two-month-old Lothair cried out to be fed. For the first time in months, I felt someone needed me. Still shaking, I cautiously placed the pistol back in its place as Verlan stirred a bit in response to the baby’s cries, but then went right on sleeping.
Realizing my baby needed me and yearning to raise my children, I vowed to fight through my agonizing nightmare. Not for religion, not for a man, but for the love of my children.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I now wanted to get better, but I had no idea how to accomplish it. On my own, I couldn’t quiet the voices within. Once again, I left my eleven neglected children with Donna. My oldest son, André, now fifteen, was already out of the house, working in San Diego as a drywall finisher to help support the family. I decided I would go there, too. I knew Verlan would be disappointed with me because I was once again taking a significant step without his permission, but I was too distraught to care. I caught a bus in Los Molinos, intending to hide for a few days at my friend Judy’s (a church member who moved to San Diego to tap into the California welfare system). I didn’t want anyone else to see me in such an unstable condition.
At Judy’s, I spent the night praying, begging God to grant me a little sleep so I could rest from my mind’s frenetic whipping back and forth from one self-accusation to another, from this lie or half-truth to the next. The mental suffering was excruciating. I longed for somebody, anybody, to help me out of my hellish maze. At 7 A.M., I heard Judy in the bathroom. My heart started beating so fast, it literally felt like it would race out of my chest. The thumping pain took my breath away. Judy heard my frantic cries and rushed me downtown to University Hospital.
After examining me, the doctor informed Judy and me that I was having panic attacks. A psychiatrist came in and asked me probing questions. “Are you married? Where is your husband? Do you have children?” I kept silent. No matter how much agony I was in, I couldn’t put Verlan in danger by revealing that information.
As the psychiatrist continued to press me for a response, all the old tapes played faithfully. “No matter what, never, ever betray the brethren!” they told me.
The concerned psychiatrist then gave me a list of words, instructing me to check the ones that applied to me. I marked them off one at a time: despair, fear, hopelessness, tired . . . The doctor scanned the page after I finished. He asked me if I knew what day of the week it was. “No,” I replied.
“What month is it?” he asked. How did he expect me to know these answers? I was just trying to survive from one moment to the next. I was more a zombie than a person.
Only after I signed a bunch of papers did they permit me to leave the hospital. I agreed to attend a class in the mental health wing for one hour per day, Monday through Friday. Whatever. At the time, the pronounced and painful beating in my chest interested me much more. I prayed that God would give me a heart attack and let me die. Then I wouldn’t have to depend on sleep for relief.
On our return home, Judy made a few calls and located Verlan. He came to her house that night after dark, and she explained to him what the doctor said. She gave Verlan the paper that would
admit me to the mental health classes at the hospital.
Without pausing to consider it, he said, “Irene will not go to any classes or see a psychiatrist.” Then he turned to face me. “You’re going to disrupt my whole family! In the first place, they will put you on welfare. They will make you bring your kids out into this wicked world. I may end up in prison when they discover I have all these wives. Look at you, you look terrible. Get a hold of yourself before you end up completely crazy, like my sister Lucinda!”
With that, my last hope for help vanished. Before he left, Verlan demanded I return home to Los Molinos and get back to raising the children.
I had hoped this man loved me enough to care just a little bit about my desperation. But his refusal to let me accept the help offered made me realize I had to take matters entirely into my own hands. As I mulled it all over, the idea formed in my fragmented mind to seek out my sister Becky, who now lived in Las Vegas. She and her husband were monogamous. At her first “hello,” I cried out, “Becky! Help me . . . I’m losing my mind!” André, who lived near Judy, was concerned enough about my condition to pay for my bus fare to Vegas.
WHEN BECKY SAW the shape I was in, she tried to persuade me to see a doctor. I explained I couldn’t seek that kind of help. I had enough burdens and guilt; I didn’t want to add Verlan’s being sent to jail or his family’s being destroyed to the long list of things I already had to answer for. If I did, God might send me to a worse Hell than I was already experiencing. So I just stayed at Becky’s house and tried to sort out my thoughts, hoping to remember why I was in this quandary in the first place.
I knew that in the late nineteenth century, Brigham Young taught the principle of blood atonement: “There are sins that men commit for which they cannot receive forgiveness [by the blood of Christ, so] they would be perfectly willing to have their blood spilt upon the ground, that the smoke thereof might ascend to Heaven as an offering for their sins; and the smoking incense would atone for their sins. . . . [These sinners] would beg of their brethren to shed their blood . . .” (Journal of Discourses, Vol. 4:51; Deseret News, 1856, p. 235). In our group, Brigham Young was always quoted as the ultimate authority. I knew I didn’t deserve to continue living, but I couldn’t remember which of my sins made me such a stench.
Oh, yes. I’d tied my tubes, depriving several unborn spirits of their opportunities to obtain bodies, to come to Earth and work out their salvation. And now I needed to atone for my despicable crime. A price had to be paid, and Jesus hadn’t paid it—not for such a weighty sin as this. I made the decision to submit myself to the church’s blood atonement ritual in order to rid myself of guilt for this sin. Verlan had just left for Nicaragua to prepare for the Church of the Firstborn’s probable relocation there. I hoped to get my problem taken care of before he returned. I did not want him interfering.
A young church member allowed me to ride with him from Las Vegas to Colonia LeBaron. In the foggy prison of my mind, I grieved for myself as we traveled those fifteen sleepless hours. I would be a martyr; it was my only hope.
When we arrived at Colonia LeBaron, my young friend informed me it was Saturday night. I felt this confirmed that I was acting in accordance with God’s divine plan. Most of the men were only home on weekends. The next day, they would leave the colony, and their wives, to return to their jobs in the States. If I was going to find any brethren in the colony, it would have to be tonight, late as it was.
By the urgency in my voice and appearance, I was able to persuade two brothers—Bruce and Earl—to give me an audience. I respected their positions just under Verlan in the church. I swore both men to secrecy. Then I confessed my crimes before them. Both were shocked, especially when I went on to say I knew Verlan loved me too much to see me carry out my plans. I begged them to do me the favor of slitting my throat so I might thereby redeem myself from my damnable deeds.
Seeing both my agony and my sincerity, Bruce interrupted. “Irene, blood atonement isn’t being practiced by our group. We wouldn’t think of doing that to you! It makes me angry that Verlan isn’t here when you’re suffering so much emotionally. Does he know how you feel?”
“He knows,” I answered. “When I revealed to him that I wanted to commit suicide, he said he recognized the demons that possessed me. They should have fled when he laid his hands on my head and rebuked them in the name of God.”
Earl realized I’d gone over the edge. He assured me he’d be responsible for me, and he promised Bruce he would stay and counsel me. I’d known Earl for twelve years. He moved to Colonia LeBaron after being convinced by Joel that the United States was about to be annihilated, that fire and brimstone would soon wipe it off the map, and that our group alone would be spared by fleeing to Mexico for safety. I thought I knew Earl well. I respected his priesthood. But the solution he offered to my problem seemed very foreign to me.
This supposed man of God confessed that he’d been trained in the latest techniques of hypnosis. I cringed. How could a man possessing such godly powers suggest I resort to using the Devil’s tactics? But Earl promised me that through hypnosis, he could remove all my fears and imagined sins. Only because I had nowhere else to turn and I knew I would perish if I wasn’t rescued immediately did I give in to Earl’s suggestion. I confessed to Earl my fear that hypnosis was from the Devil. I asked him if he thought I’d lose my salvation if I let him do it. He said, “Trust me. I promise that you’ll be okay. Now, sit in this recliner and relax. I’ll count to ten, and when I get there, just quietly listen to my voice. Close your eyes.”
I tried to calm my restless mind, hoping the Devil wouldn’t completely overtake me. I focused on the sound of Earl’s monotone voice. “One, you’re getting sleepy. . . . Two, you’re getting a little more drowsy. . . . Three, be calm, just relax. . . . Four, that’s it, let your body relax more. . . .” By the time Earl counted to ten, I was completely under. Then he told me that tying my tubes spared my life and would help me to take better care of the thirteen children I had. He told me I would sleep like a baby that night. He assured me I was not an unredeemed sinner. “You will not grieve over your operation anymore,” he said. “You are a beautiful woman. You need to listen to yourself.” Then he paused. “I do not need to put you under next time. When you see me raise my index finger, you’ll automatically go under.” Then Earl started counting from ten back to one. “Now open your eyes,” he instructed.
When I opened them, I felt as though I’d been asleep for hours. I was surprised to see my dear friend Rhonita, one of Earl’s five wives, in the room. She smiled. “I hope you don’t object to me having come in without your permission,” she said. I had opened my mouth to answer her when Earl held up his index finger. Immediately, I flopped into that soft chair like a rag doll. I was under again. He then repeated the previous injunctions, making sure I understood I was a good person and had done nothing wrong. His voice soothed my heart. Counting from ten to one again, he gently ordered me to open my eyes.
“You should feel better now that I’ve taken you under twice,” he said. “Come back tomorrow so we can reinforce your mind again.” He smiled as I rose to my feet. “I’m available twenty-four hours a day, Irene. Come anytime you need me.”
That night I passed out from sheer exhaustion and slept for thirteen hours without a hint of insomnia. In each subsequent session with Earl, my twisted mind unraveled some. My new friend helped erase many of my deepest fears. Most of all, he opened my mind to a promising new sense of myself—a self that not only wanted life and love but who wasn’t evil for wanting it. I’d come to the colony seeking death, but there of all places I rediscovered the will to live. And as the rigid religious constructs in my mind began to crumble, I felt myself emerging from the darkness. Before me was something I hadn’t seen in a long, long time. I saw hope.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The day finally came when Verlan decided to move me to our place of refuge in the wilderness of Nicaragua, in Central America. We spent almost two unf
orgettable years there, fighting for survival against malaria, diarrhea, intestinal worms, mosquitoes, and especially loneliness.
Our journey down there, like most all of our journeys, was a waking nightmare. Verlan drove us in his pickup with the camper on the back, all thirteen of us packed in with whatever clothes, dishes, pots, pans, and other minimal necessities we could fit. From Colonia Le-Baron, we went south for seven days, stopping to recuperate just long enough at night to hold out through the following fourteen-hour day. We camped on the side of the road under trees or near gas stations. One night we stayed in a cheap motel and all took baths. While we traveled, those fortunate enough to get car sick were allowed to sit in the front of the truck. The rest of us fought our claustrophobia in the broiling camper. With everyone in the truck bickering and crying over the miserable conditions, we barely noticed the beautiful scenery throughout Mexico and Central America. It was a relief to finally set foot in our newest “promised land.”
Verlan purchased a small property in a jungle paradise about thirty-three miles outside the small town of Jinotega. Then, planning to build a city for God, he bought a nine-hundred-acre ranch with others in our church who were preparing to flee from Ervil’s murderous rampage against our Mexico colonies. It was to be the final destination for additional saints Verlan was sure would arrive in the near future.
When I first saw the rolling hills covered with vegetation, I thought Nicaragua didn’t seem too bad. We passed lush foliage, trees, and hillside plantations of coffee plants, bananas, oranges, and grapefruits. I thought our living conditions and diet might actually be better here than in places we’d lived in the past. But the small plantation onto which we moved was overgrown with weeds. The soil had never even been tilled. The boys spent hours with machetes, cutting down small trees, tall grass, and shrubs just to make room for a vegetable garden. As soon as possible, we planted an acre of cabbage, hoping it would grow into a cash crop to supply us with a few meager necessities. All the older kids worked each day pulling weeds to make sure the plants survived.
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