Triumph: Life After the Cult--A Survivor's Lessons

by Carolyn Jessop

  Satan stepped up to the plate. He said he would save everyone by taking away their free will. No one could possibly make a choice that would compromise their salvation so everyone would automatically go to heaven after dying. The only thing Satan wanted in return was credit for what he had done.

  Jesus Christ also offered himself to God as a savior. Growing up, I was taught that Jesus promised to teach correct principles and that all who chose to follow his teachings would be saved. Jesus wanted no credit; all the glory would go to God.

  Satan’s offer was rejected. Jesus wanted individuals to retain free will; he was offering a power that aligned with God’s plan. This was how I knew what Merril was doing was wrong. I’d been taught that power, sanctioned by God, involved free will. God did not want robots as followers; he wanted people who chose to serve him.

  This conflict provoked a war in heaven. Satan was cast out and chose to come to earth. By now I truly believed that someone like Merril, who used the power of force, was aligned with the dark power of Satan. Within days of my marriage I realized I no longer had the right to choose; total obedience was expected. Yet I knew this was wrong. Not everyone was like this, even in the FLDS. Six generations in my family had been polygamists; I had strong feelings about my faith. My father had had two wives while I was growing up. He eventually gained a third and had thirty-six children. He was strict, but not a dictator. His wives did not fear and compete with each other, nor did he want family members spying on each other. There was relative harmony in our family—unlike Merril’s, where only the most cunning, cruel, and manipulative thrived. I had been raised to believe in the power of Jesus Christ and not Satan, so the power I wanted in my life was based on free will. As the months passed, I learned that, for me, finding the source of real power is something as simple as honoring a principle and staying true to what you believe.

  After my first child, Arthur, was born, I knew that I needed power over my own life in order to empower my son. Refusing to be subjugated to the abusive powers in the family would place me among the least powerful in Merril’s family. Even so, this course seemed less destructive than the complete surrender that Tammy and Cathleen had embraced. I might become a target or a threat because I was challenging the established way. But if I could find the strength not to bow to an evil system, I could at least hold on to my self-respect.

  There were many times in the years ahead when I would have to defer to Merril’s power. But by the time I gave birth to Arthur, I understood what I was up against. Even today I apply the same rule of thumb I learned back then when I’m backed into a corner: I ask myself, what’s the worst thing that could happen if I resist? If resisting Merril was too dangerous, I gave in. But, importantly, the decision had been mine. I might not have wanted to make the choice I did, but I still had the power to decide whether to resist or comply. This limited Merril’s power over me. If you understand what you’re doing and why, an abuser can never wholly control you.

  Besides, those who rule by fear and abusive power have less control than it might appear. Those under their control rarely respect them. Yes, Tammy and Cathleen caved in completely to Merril and Barbara, but I believe they harbored enormous hostility toward them. If Merril’s status in the FLDS were ever compromised or diminished, I wouldn’t be surprised if his influence collapses. (That’s one of the reasons, among many, that I am so hopeful his trial in Texas in October 2010 will result in a conviction.) Merril has a lot of enemies among FLDS men.

  Within that first year of my marriage, the family saw me as an out-of-control member because I refused to submit totally to its power elite. While this was often an uncomfortable position, I possessed something no one else in the family had: the real power that flows from self-respect.

  Staying True to My Bedrock Beliefs

  I struggled to make sense of a world that made no sense. When I married Merril, I had little to hold on to because rules in the family changed on his whim. What was true one day might be false the next. I never knew what to believe, and that was unsettling.

  Compounding my confusion was the way Merril reversed values that I’d been taught to hold dear. My father had insisted on equality in our family; it was the principle that governed our family. Dad divided his time equally between his two wives, made sure each had the same number of trips with him, and practiced fairness in small matters as well as large. Money and privileges were always equitably distributed. Dad also made a point of generosity. Hunger was prevalent in many FLDS families, and some kids would show up at our house at dinnertime because they wanted to be fed. They always were.

  Merril was his polar opposite. He used inequality and favoritism to engineer instability in his family. He discarded the values that I had grown up with in my own family and faith. I could not question his behavior because he was the God of his family and, as God, overruled us all. If Merril said day was night and night day, I was supposed to believe him.

  This was madness. I was cut adrift from my moorings at a time when I needed and wanted to put down anchors in my life. In time I realized that even if my world did not make sense, I could make sense of it. I began to articulate (to myself, of course) the values that would define and support me. My core values became my guiding principles. What made sense for me might not work for someone else, but figuring out what works for you is what’s important. Core values can be like the GPS system in an automobile that guides you to where you are going. When my journey was rough, knowing who I was and what I stood for became essential.

  Here are the five values that are most important to me:

  1. Claim the power of no. When I first joined Merril’s family, filth and chaos reigned. By seven o’clock every night, the smallest children were famished and whining. No one was even making dinner. Dishes were piled high in the sink, the cupboards were stained with food, and the countertops were coated with grimy residue. I was disgusted by the mess. Little did I realize that attacking it and getting a meal on the table for the children in our family every night at six would teach me something invaluable about life: the enormous power that comes from saying no.

  One night after I’d been married a couple of years, I asked one of Merril’s daughters who was in the kitchen, “Monica, who is supposed to be fixing dinner?”

  “I don’t know,” she said sullenly.

  “Let’s look at the job chart,” I said. “We’ll figure it out.”

  “The job chart has changed, and the new assignments aren’t up yet.” She had no interest in helping me sort out the situation.

  I was sick of the daughters’ put-downs and hostility. It was also revolting to live in such squalor. When I spoke again, it was with determination. “It’s too bad you don’t know who’s in charge tonight,” I said. “We’ll just have to do it together.”

  “I can’t. I have to do Mother’s laundry,” she replied.

  I wasn’t about to let Monica skate out of the room with an excuse. I guided her toward the kitchen sink, removed the dirty dishes, and filled the sink with hot water. Monica looked hostile, but she knew I was serious and started washing dishes.

  I began peeling potatoes and making my game plan. Once I got dinner under way, I would clean. Monica made some excuse and slipped out of the kitchen after a few minutes. I was furious. She and her sisters rarely kept their commitments, nor were they ever accountable for anything. Merril’s daughters would sing to their father on weekends as part of a family tradition. When they serenaded him, they acted like hardworking saints, but I knew they were anything but.

  As I scrubbed dishes while potatoes boiled and corn cooked, I fantasized about a concert by Merril’s daughters singing songs about who they really were:

  We are slobs, great big slobs

  Never expect us to greet you

  We only understand how to mistreat you,

  If you don’t like being corrected, realize you have been rejected

  And stay out of OUR way!

  I did not want my son to grow up in such a
disgusting environment. I was in no mood for extending any compassion. I barked at the first child who wandered into the kitchen: “Go tell everyone to get into the kitchen right now! We should have eaten hours ago!”

  The smiling bright eyes of this famished little boy touched me. He was thrilled to see the table piled high with a simple meal of potatoes, gravy, corn, salad, and bread. Running out of the kitchen, he began yelling excitedly, “Mother Carolyn has made dinner! Come and see!”

  Within two minutes a flood of children surrounded the table. I began pouring milk for the smallest ones as some of Merril’s daughters bounced into the kitchen. They were all smiles and very hungry. “This looks so good!” “I love it when Mother Carolyn fixes a meal!” Even the belligerent daughters were grateful to be fed. I felt some pangs of compassion toward them. Maybe I would tone down my slob song—a bit.

  After the meal several of the daughters stayed behind and helped me clean up. I did not quit until everything was shining. It was eleven o’clock, and I was exhausted from a grueling second pregnancy, caring for Arthur, and finishing my final quarter of college. But I was proud of what I’d just accomplished.

  Tammy couldn’t sleep and came into the kitchen just after I finished. “How do you live with this every night?” I asked her. “It’s worse than living in a zoo.”

  Tammy shrugged. “If you find the evenings repulsive, they’re nothing compared to the mornings,” she said. “Each daughter is supposed to get one child up and ready for school. Two others are supposed to get breakfast on the table. But no one ever does what she’s supposed to do. Breakfast is never organized. Ruth makes a last-minute dash to do something before the kids head out the door. They’re late for school every morning. At lunchtime someone tries to throw something together, but the kitchen is a total heap from breakfast. When the kids come home from school, they make some kind of snack, but it just adds to the mess from breakfast and lunch.”

  I was suddenly thankful that my school schedule had me out of the house on weekday mornings. “I won’t raise my children in conditions like this,” I said.

  “Then do what you did tonight,” Tammy said. “Do everything yourself. The daughters will promise to do almost anything, but they never follow through.”

  I knew Tammy was right. “Do you think the reason they can’t keep commitments is because no one ever has?” I asked.

  Merril was a prime example. He was never on time for anything. He constantly broke promises. He told people what they wanted to hear, then did whatever he felt like doing. Barbara just barked orders. She never promised anything, so there were no commitments to keep. But Tammy, Cathleen, and I had all been either working or in school before marrying Merril and so were used to discipline and structure. I had an idea.

  “Tammy,” I said, “there’s no way we can keep up with everything that needs to get done. But we could tackle the things that make us craziest and make a commitment to do those every day. If we really follow through, there would be at least two examples in the family of what keeping a commitment means.”

  Tammy was quiet for a moment, then said, “Since I don’t sleep well, I’m always up early. I could wake up the kids and make breakfast even though I hate to cook.”

  I was surprised by her generous offer. My back hurt from all the bending and cleaning. The last thing I wanted to do was spend the rest of this pregnancy doing what I had just done. But I couldn’t stand the thought of my children growing up in such a slovenly household. I took a few deep breaths. If I made this commitment, I had to keep it.

  “All right, Tammy,” I said. “As soon as I graduate, I will fix dinner every night. If I’m not up to cleaning, I’ll at least mop the floor.” We had a plan.

  Tammy made an announcement to the family that she would be waking the kids and making breakfast. It sent shock waves throughout the household. After I graduated a month later, I started making dinner, as promised. It soon became an issue. Merril was angry because his sons were working for his construction company, and he wanted them on the job until after dark.

  I knew the boys needed to eat before then and kept putting dinner on the table at six o’clock. They started sneaking home to eat. I thought they would probably work more efficiently if they weren’t starved. It was also cruel to expect the littlest children to wait until after dark to eat. The tension escalated. Merril was not happy with me: people acting under their own power were a threat. I saw how much power there was in something as simple as keeping a commitment. I vowed never again to back down once I gave my word to do something. I often agreed to things because I was forced into a corner. This new vow meant I’d be saying no a lot more often.

  Most of us fear rejection and, as a result, continually seek approval and find it hard to say no. It seems selfish. We give in to our fears of what might happen if we stand up for ourselves. But it’s impossible to say yes to everything. When I made that pledge always to keep my word, I found the power in saying no.

  And ultimately I discovered that exercising this power gave me real protection. I kept doing what I believed was right and served dinner every night at six o’clock. I would not back down and said no to every attempt by Merril and Barbara to force me to change. I had accidentally hit upon a new way to maneuver in the oppressive and claustrophobic world I was trapped in. Barbara and Merril were bullies. But their control depended on the rest of us ceding our own power to them.

  2. Set your own standards. We were taught that everything in the family belonged to Merril. He worked as God’s project manager and made sure we did God’s will daily. Not owning things ourselves generated another level of chaos. We lived under very cramped conditions. I now had two small children, with whom I shared a room with a queen-size bed. Five of Merril’s teenage daughters lived in a room next to mine that wasn’t much bigger and that was ready to explode with their mess. No one was responsible for anything: if a daughter couldn’t find a clean dress to wear, she took one of her sister’s. Since no one owned anything, you had no right to protest when someone took something of yours.

  Tammy and I did the family shopping. There was barely enough money for food and no extra money for personal items. We all had to buy our own. I scrimped to be able to buy shampoo, deodorant, and toothpaste. I kept them in a basket in my room, but items would disappear even when I tried to hide them, and often I couldn’t afford to replace them. Betty was a newborn, and Arthur a toddler. I had more responsibilities, and less money, than ever before. I hated that my room was being searched and my privacy invaded.

  One day I was walking by Ruth’s room and noticed a bottle of shampoo that looked like the one that had disappeared from my room that morning. I decided to take it back and confront her. As I turned to leave, I noticed several other items of mine. In the end I left the shampoo on the sink. Ruth could keep her stolen loot, but not without getting a piece of my mind. I found her in the kitchen fixing lunch.

  “Ruth, I find it interesting that most of the personal items I’ve asked you about lately are in your bathroom,” I said. “Do you have any idea how they got there?”

  Ruth turned away from her work. “Everything in our home belongs to Father,” she said unapologetically. “Nothing belongs to anyone. I answered truthfully when I said I hadn’t seen your shampoo. I haven’t seen any shampoo that belongs to you because nothing belongs to you.”

  “You took the shampoo from the place where I’d hidden it,” I said, scarcely able to believe what I was hearing. “This isn’t a quarrel over whether the shampoo belongs to Father. Why is treating someone like that all right?”

  “The bedroom I sleep in doesn’t belong to me, and where you sleep doesn’t belong to you,” she said. “I have no problem if you need something and take it from the bedroom I sleep in. We all belong to Father, and if you were in harmony with him, you would be ‘keeping sweet,’ and we wouldn’t be talking to each other like this.”

  “Keeping sweet” was just another club used to beat us into submission. I was having none
of it. “Ruth,” I persisted, “have I ever invaded your bedroom, searched every square inch of it, and taken what I wanted?”

  Ruth did not stray off message. In a pious voice she said, “My room is always open. Everything I have belongs to Father, and you are welcome to anything you need. I don’t begrudge any members of Father’s family from using something they need.”

  “Did you ever consider that perhaps Father in his infinite mercy allows me to use and keep personal items in the area I sleep in for his benefit?” I stared straight at Ruth. “Maybe he’d prefer that I not smell like a stinking pig. Perhaps he allows me to buy shampoo so that the odor of unwashed hair will not offend his nose.”

  Ruth looked caught off guard by my assertiveness, but she kept repeating the same excuses over and over. She was incapable of responding in any meaningful way.

  “I am not begrudging you something you need,” I said finally. “I am asking you to consider my feelings and ask before you take something.”

  But it was pointless. My personal items kept disappearing. As more and more of them went missing, it became obvious that my strong reactions invited more abuse. The more I reacted, the worse it became. The angrier I got, the more the saintly Ruth tried to “keep sweet” while stealing me blind. By “keeping sweet,” she could think of herself as doing the will of God, while I was selfish and out of control.

  My attempt to establish standards had failed miserably. I was tempted to take Ruth up on her offer of swiping things from her room. I wanted to strike back at her. It felt fair. But if I did, Ruth would flip. When I had time to really think it through, I saw that there was nothing to be gained by stooping to her level. Why should I demean myself? Ruth was trying to provoke me into a confrontation, but I decided I wasn’t going to play her nasty little games. I’d do what I could to protect myself and never leave my bedroom door unlocked.