I once heard a story of a town built on a floodplain. Periodically the town would be wiped out by rising waters, but it was always rebuilt in the same place. The residents were trapped in a constant cycle of flooding and rebuilding. The cycle wasn’t broken until the town was built on higher ground.
I could not change the family dynamic or the established patterns of behavior. Trying to teach someone how her abuse felt by doing the same thing to her was like rebuilding the town in the same old place. I had to move to higher ground.
I decided I would treat everyone in the family with respect. It was my version of the Golden Rule, except I had few expectations that people would do unto me the way I tried to do unto them. But I did free myself from the vicious cycle of reacting to every crazy thing that was done to me. My privacy in the family was never going to be respected. But by setting my own standards and refusing to engage, I opted out of a lot of the madness. Even though I couldn’t control the others in Merril’s family, I could control the way I reacted, and that was a far more meaningful power.
In his memoir, Man’s Search for Meaning, the psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl wrote about how even in the concentration camp, he understood that he still had choice. While he couldn’t control what happened to him, he could control his response. This gave him a power that the Nazis could not destroy. Even amid the most acute suffering, Frankl was always able to find meaning.
Following Frankl’s inspiring example, I decided that whenever I felt powerless, I would remember that I always had some choice. By controlling my response to my circumstances, I could avoid being their victim, no matter how ghastly they might become.
3. Hold on to Whatever power you do have. I vividly remember the relief I felt when the sixth graders streamed out of my classroom and I was finally alone after my first full day as a schoolteacher. Once again my fate had arrived unexpectedly. I had been substitute-teaching for weeks, but suddenly, with only a day’s notice, I was permanently assigned to the sixth grade because the regular teacher got sick and abruptly quit.
The south wall of my classroom was lined with bookcases that held months of uncorrected work stacked up in piles that were covered with dust. It was a special-needs class with just under thirty children, about a third of whom had learning disabilities. The school year was half over. My head was spinning. How could I possibly get this class caught up and ready for the seventh grade?
It didn’t help that I was twenty-two with two small children of my own, yet constantly mistaken for a sixth grader. Every time another adult walked into my classroom the first question was, “Where’s the teacher?” Still, I reminded myself that it wasn’t the students’ fault that they weren’t being taught.
I tried to sort through the stacks of work, but none of it made sense to me. Clearly, I wasn’t going to be able to pick up the pieces. I reached for the wastebasket and began dumping in pile after pile of papers. We were going to start fresh.
The next day I announced to my students that all of them were starting with an A. The work they would do in the coming weeks would determine whether they kept it as their final grade. We were going to go all out and give the semester our best shot.
While I was tossing all the papers into the trash, I’d come across a pile that looked like more than just busywork. It was a basket filled with student journals. As I read through one journal after another, I discovered that the voices of my students were filled with the wealth of their personalities. Some of them might have had learning challenges, but that did not prevent the power of their personalities from flowing onto the page.
Even though I was a decade older than my students, nearly all of whom were FLDS, I had a lot in common with them. One student wrote about the conflict in her father’s family and the confusion she felt every day. Many wrote about how insecure they felt because their teacher’s illness made him absent so much. In an entry written after I’d substituted in the classroom for a day, one student said that she hoped I would become her teacher because she wanted to learn something. It was poignant to see how much she wanted to learn; I felt an even greater responsibility to her and the rest of the class.
One student had written a poem. I began reading about a perfectly sunny day and a ride in the back of a truck to a picnic. I shuddered. I realized I was reading about the death of my youngest sister, Nurylon, who’d been thrown from the back of a truck and killed four years earlier, when she was two years old. I felt my hand tremble as it gripped the pages. My student had shared the experience of one of the worst days of my life. The poem described the joy of being in the truck with the rush of wind and laughter. Then in an instant, screaming bodies were hurled into the air.
I put the journal down. Flashbacks to that awful day exploded in my mind, and I felt overcome with grief. It wasn’t just the loss of my sister; it was the loss of my dream of becoming a doctor. It was feeling beaten down by having two children in less than three years and being trapped in a marriage based on degradation instead of love. I was grasping for a moment of clarity, something real, something I could physically feel because I was completely numb. I needed someone to trust. For too long, I’d shoved my feelings down and pushed grief away whenever it hit me. I was living in a constant state of grief but simultaneously denying it.
My world was out of control. There was so little in my life that I could control. Every important decision in my life up to that moment had been made by someone else. I had to turn over all the money I earned to Merril and had no say in whether I even wanted to teach this class of unruly, woefully behind sixth graders.
The fact that I had never been allowed to make any important decisions in my life had convinced me I was powerless in every area. But that was untrue. What was true was that I wasn’t taking control over the areas where I did have genuine power.
The fact that I couldn’t become a doctor did not mean that I couldn’t be a superb teacher. No one would hold me accountable for the job I did with my class since many were learning-disabled. I had a built-in excuse to fail. But my students deserved my best. If I didn’t act, every one of them would be going into the seventh grade completely unprepared. There wasn’t much time left in the academic year, but I could still teach them skills to take to seventh grade. I would give them as much as I could. I saw that teaching, like pediatrics, was about protecting the ultimate well-being of a child.
I got my class on a routine and soon had everyone working at a level that was appropriate. Some students were almost up to grade level, and others were way behind. I tried to work out individual plans so students could move at their own pace. Each day that a student mastered a new skill was thrilling. It was a moment of pure power for me.
I had arrived unexpectedly at a core value for myself: I would hold on to the power I did have. Just because I couldn’t control some things—even if those things were huge and important—it didn’t mean I couldn’t control others. Victimhood requires our acquiescence, and I was opting out.
4. Forget about perfection, and do the best you can. Good was never good enough in the FLDS. Life was based on perfection. It didn’t matter how much of the spirit of God a person had, how hard she worked, how much she “kept sweet” and complied, she could always do better. Regardless of how much she accomplished, she needed to do better because the work of God was about being in a constant state of progression.
I soon found that working full time and having a baby every other year put me in a constant state of failure. I was always dropping the ball and felt torn between my teaching career and my children, never able to give enough to either. Then I realized that perfection was one enemy I could conquer. I banished it.
The concept of perfection was so ingrained in our culture and such an integral part of my upbringing that letting go of it made me feel acutely disoriented for a time. I was not alone in this respect. Working with the mothers of my students was eye-opening. Many of them told me how hard it was to find the courage to face each day because of the stagge
ring workload they shouldered in such large families. They were up against impossible expectations and never got credit for the work they did. Every small setback was always their fault: if they only had more faith, God would give them the strength to achieve the necessary level of perfection.
I found myself telling them the same thing I told myself: do the best you can today, and know you can face the rest tomorrow. Take credit for all the good you’re doing and keep your expectations realistic.
I could see in my own life that by aiming for perfection, I accomplished less, not more. Life wasn’t perfect or fair. I faced this reality every day. Why was I supposed to be perfect as a person? Merril and Barbara, who constantly advocated perfection, were about as imperfect as two people could be.
I was reexamining religious values I’d accepted unquestioningly since childhood. To stop striving for perfection was quietly liberating for me. I determined to give a task my all, take my best shot, and then let it go. I wouldn’t win all of the time. But sometimes I would, and whatever happened in between would be just fine.
A member of the FLDS is supposed to strive to become more like God, who is perfect. Embracing your imperfect humanity is thus, in the twisted logic of FLDS dogma, a rejection of God. I realized that to totally accept the FLDS view of perfection, I had to totally reject myself. If I did that, then I’d have nothing left to hold on to. Many women in the FLDS were on antidepressants. I didn’t want to wake up in the morning and swallow a handful of pills just so I could stumble through the day.
I’d already found an enormous power in realizing that if I wanted acceptance, I’d have to get it from myself. I decided I would accept myself just as I am—imperfect, struggling, and very human. This became another weapon in my arsenal of personal power.
Abandoning perfection, of course, can easily be used as an excuse. But I wasn’t letting myself off the hook—I was pushing myself to achieve more. In areas that are not my strong suit, however, I’ve learned to let go and not beat myself up with unrealistic expectations.
5. Do whatever it takes to protect those you love. One night Merril sat in his living-room chair as if it were a throne. His six wives and children were kneeling before him in a wide circle. It was late and our fatigue was apparent.
Merril was making pronouncements:
Our prophet has, in his infinite mercy, given us principles of what it will take to become like him. “Where much is given, much is required.” It is a serious thing for God to reveal one of his principles to his people. He will never reveal something they are not capable of living and he will always grant them enough time to come to an understanding before he will reveal a higher law. What is one of the most recent teachings of our prophet?
Hands shot up in every direction. Merril called on one of his sons, who shouted out, “Perfect obedience produces perfect faith!” Merril smiled approvingly and then got to the heart of the matter:
This morning at Monday meeting I was asked a question by dear old Uncle Fred. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Brother Merril, why is it that our ladies always look so sad and miserable? Why is it that I don’t see smiling, happy women?” How do you think that kind of a question from our bishop made me feel?
The silence was heavy with our collective guilt. We knew this was terrible for Merril. Miserable-looking wives exposed his life for the lie that it was. None of us spoke, so Merril continued:
When a person finds themselves in harmony with their husband and in obedience to his wishes, they also find peace. If my ladies were united with me they would wear an expression that demonstrated that unity. Any woman in my family who wants my will in her life is at peace. If she is at peace with her life she will also be happy and always have a pleasant and sweet smile.
Merril asked for comments. Barbara asked permission to speak first:
Father, we all know the serious effect a mother has on her children. Our prophet, Uncle Roy, has said, “Show me a rebellious child, and I will show you a rebellious mother.” It is critical that all the mothers in this family are in harmony with you for the sake of their children’s eternal salvation. If a woman in your home finds herself in a condition where she is not happy it is a clear condition of selfishness. For we all know that any woman living in harmony with the teachings of the prophet and her husband raises faithful children.
From then on we manufactured plastic smiles whenever we were in public.
In the FLDS, everything that goes wrong is a woman’s fault. If children grow up and leave the work of God, it’s the mother’s fault. A woman whose child has problems must be guilty of something; otherwise God would not be punishing her. When my son Harrison was fifteen months old, he was diagnosed with cancer in his spine. Merril told me it was God’s punishment for my rebellion to my husband. He insisted that Harrison did not need to go to the doctor. According to Merril, if I became more obedient to him, God would heal my son.
My goal was to be invisible. This was the status I craved above all else. Invisibility was my oasis and my reward. If somehow I managed to raise faithful children—and early in my marriage my faith still mattered to me—then in my later years I could be invisible.
My invisibility would be a great gift for my children, especially my daughters, because it meant that nothing I’d ever done could be held against them. (Men see women as a threat if they have a frisky grandmother or rebellious mother.) That dream died the day I came home from school and found my son Arthur standing in a corner of the kitchen, sobbing.
Esther, one of Merril’s daughters, was berating him. “If you get out of that corner, Arthur, I will spank you!”
I was outraged. “Esther, what’s going on?”
She flipped her long braid to the back of her head. In a snotty voice she said, “He’s Father’s child, not yours. I don’t have to answer you when I’m doing what Father wants.”
Fire shot from my eyes. “What did you do to him, and why did you do it?” I yelled. “You’d better tell me right now!”
“You need to get in harmony with your husband,” Esther said, a big smirk on her face. “You know how Father feels about interfering in the discipline of his children.”
Interfering would cost me my invisibility. If I didn’t back down fast, talk of my being a protective mother would roil through the community. Esther did not realize the power she had over me in that moment. But the fear of those consequences ended when I heard one more sob coming from my son. I was never going to be beaten down to the point where I would fail to intervene when someone was hurting my child.
“Esther, Arthur is my son,” I said. “I want to know everything you have done to him. Right now.”
Esther stiffened with defiance. “I will not answer to you,” she said. “You have no right to interfere with my discipline.”
I shook my finger at her. “You will never hurt one of my children again!”
I walked over to the corner, grabbed Arthur, and carried him out of the room. I had crossed a line in the family that I now knew would have explosive and permanent repercussions.
They began immediately. I was instantly branded an interfering mother who would not allow her child to be disciplined to conform to his father’s will. Every time I intervened, I was in conflict with my husband’s wishes. If I faced down people who hurt my children, it could backfire by making them angrier and thus encouraging more abuse. But I also noticed that when I came down hard on them for hurting one of my children, people in the family began to realize that, even though they tattled to Merril, there was no escaping my wrath. I didn’t care if they reported me to Merril. I was not backing down.
No one in the family had ever dealt with this kind of force before. One of the most consistent weapons family members deployed was to say “I’m doing what Father wants and you are not.” I neutralized that weapon. I told my opponent that the issue was between the two of us and had nothing to do with Merril.
I made it so uncomfortable for people who hurt my kids that eventually many re
alized it wasn’t worth it. I couldn’t always protect my children, but I always tried. Fearful of getting pregnant for the eighth time, I’d stopped having sex with Merril. When the word got out that I was in rebellion, the other wives started abusing my children to get at me. So I started sleeping with Merril again just to protect them. But at least it was a strategic choice.
Trying to protect my children put me in constant conflict with Merril. He retaliated by cutting me off financially. When I asked for something, he would tell me that only people who did what he wanted could get the basic necessities they needed. The message was that if I protected our children, he would hurt them in every other area that he could. I ignored him and became determined never again to get myself into a position where I actually depended on him financially.
One effective way I found to counter Merril’s manipulation with money was to create a hidden savings account. When I was teaching, I dutifully turned over every paycheck to Merril. But I didn’t include the stub that itemized my deductions. What he didn’t realize was that I was having a tiny percentage of my salary automatically deducted and deposited directly into an account at the credit union. So when the children needed shoes or clothes that Merril refused to provide, I had a way to take care of them myself.
Merril’s next step was to inform me that others in the family needed to discipline my children because I didn’t do it properly. My inadequacy made it necessary for others to step in and do the job the way Merril wanted it done. It was my fault, as always.
I was so angry with Merril and the rest of the family that I decided that if I had to give up my religion, my culture, and my heritage to protect my children, I would. It made no sense to me that I had to allow my children to be abused in order to become like God. I knew I would never be accepted as a respected member of Merril’s family. At the same time my dream of being an invisible woman was gone.
Triumph: Life After the Cult--A Survivor's Lessons Page 16