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

by Carolyn Jessop

  But that dream was less appealing than it once had been anyway. It had slowly begun to dawn on me that an invisible woman is one who lives in the shadows among the living dead. In place of that dream, another was being born—that of a woman who had self-worth and values she was willing to die for. I had no guarantee of success, but the cost of doing nothing was too high. I wanted my children to know that they had a mother who would always fight to protect them. This became my most important core value—albeit one that put me in constant conflict with my husband, my faith, and my community. Merril repeatedly told me that if I continued to insist on protecting my children, it could cost me my salvation. Yet he was making my life on earth such hell that spending eternity with him in heaven held absolutely no appeal. This tension was never reconciled until I fled the FLDS on April 21, 2003.

  Over time, finding and sticking to my core values transformed my life, giving me the ability to understand and cope with bullying, stay out of vicious power games, and advocate for myself and my children. By changing the way I reacted to my environment, my values provided structure in a chaotic world. Each of them shifted my attitude to the world around me, not the world itself. But each tiny internal shift in my reactions—a percent here, a percent there—kept accumulating and compounding until my life was headed in a completely new direction. If you hold fast to your core values, whatever they are, I guarantee your life will improve. In my case, they ultimately gained all of us our freedom.

  A Place for Peace

  I may have been speechless, but the 120 names carved into the granite memorial spoke loudly and clearly to me. They were of the men, women, and children known as the Fancher party who were butchered by Mormons as they crossed Utah by wagon train in 1857.

  Growing up, I’d been steeped in the lore of the Mountain Meadows massacre and listened to romanticized stories of John D. Lee, one of the masterminds of the slaughter, which was taught to children as a heroic tale. The massacre was always spun as a mandate from God carried out by the Mormon faithful. As children we were told that the Arkansas migrants who were headed to California were poisoning our well water to kill our livestock. According to the story, after settling in California the Arkansans planned to return and kill all the Mormons. This was why God gave the prophet, Brigham Young, a revelation to destroy all whose intent was to sabotage the work of God.

  The names of the women and children screamed at me. By now I had three children under five. They were the sole source of love in my life, and the thought of their coming to harm was unbearable.

  Merril had taken me on one of his business trips and made a detour so we could visit the massacre memorial and learn more about our Mormon heritage. He could never have known what a radicalizing effect this brief stopover would have on me.

  How could children be killed in the name of God? Struggling to regain my composure, I turned to Merril and said, “I can’t believe there are so many names of young children. Why were they killed?” It was unsettling to confront what had actually happened instead of what we’d been taught to believe.

  Merril was matter of fact. “They were all over the age of eight, the age where they are accountable in the eyes of God. They were helping their parents poison wells. They would have all grown up to be the people who came back to Utah to destroy the Mormons.”

  I was incredulous. “How can such evil be of God?”

  “You’re taking this too seriously,” Merril said, looking puzzled. “Don’t trouble yourself with something if you can’t understand it. Put it in God’s hands, and when you have become close enough to Him and His will, then and only then can He give you the answer.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted an answer from a God who could do something like this. There was no excuse for murdering so many people. None of those massacred in the five-day attack had been proven guilty of any crimes. How could John D. Lee know what lay in the hearts of the people he murdered? The story I’d grown up on was a childish fairy tale compared to the gruesome reality I read about at the memorial. Mormons disguised as Indians first attacked the wagon train. Then a second group of Mormons came to their rescue, telling the terrified survivors they’d negotiated a ceasefire on their behalf with the Indians.

  Believing they were being led to safety, the survivors of the initial attack, many of them gravely injured, gave up their weapons, wagons, and cattle and began a thirty-five-mile trek back to Cedar City, Utah. The most seriously injured rode along with the youngest children in two wagons. Everyone else walked. When the command was given, “Halt! Do your duty!” each of the armed escorts turned and shot the man walking by his side. A second order went out, and the women and children, who were farther along up the hill, were slaughtered.

  Nancy Huff, one of the seventeen survivors (spared because they were under eight), was four years old at the time and later wrote about what she remembered: “I saw my mother shot in the forehead and fall dead. The women and children screamed and clung together. Some of the young women begged the assassins after they ran out on us not to kill them, but they had no mercy on them, clubbing [them with] their guns and beating out their brains.”

  The 120 bodies were left on the ground and never buried. The vultures and the elements soon stripped their rotting corpses to bare bones that were bleached by the scorching sun.

  Growing up, I’d always heard stories about why the Mountain Meadows massacre was necessary. The tale of John D. Lee was larger than life. He was the only man tried for the attack and sentenced to death. But the firing squad shot blanks, and he pretended to fall over as if he were hit. He was carted away and disappeared into hiding, never to be seen again. The Hollywood ending has never been confirmed by historians, but we children swallowed it hook, line, and sinker.

  The FLDS believes that a man doing God’s will would never have had to pay with his life. God had inspired a godly man to do what was necessary. Lee massacred a wagon train full of people, not because he was bloodthirsty. No, he went with a humble heart to do what God needed him to do. That, at least, was the version we were taught.

  Historical debate rages about whether Brigham Young actually ordered the massacre. But to most of the faithful, it didn’t really matter. The members of the Fancher party were evil; if God didn’t want the massacre to happen, he would have stopped it. The flawless way the massacre was carried out was proof that it had been divinely sanctioned.

  The names told a different story. I was blindsided by a rush of emotion that day. The seventeen children who survived were raised by foster families. I was reeling at the thought of all the trauma those small children endured.

  Were the heroic stories of my youth only heroic lies? How much else of what I’d been told contained partial truth and outright fabrications? A belief system governed every waking moment of my day. I was not supposed to think, only obey. But I was thinking now, and my religion did not feel safe. What if I was told to do something I couldn’t live with? I was starting to have serious concerns about blind obedience “in the name of God.”

  I’d been raised to believe that if God gave me a commandment I couldn’t understand, like marrying Merril Jessop, I should shelve all my doubts and do what I was told. But my overloaded shelf was ready to collapse. I was going to have to find some serious support, or it would come tumbling down.

  I had two identities, my FLDS cult identity and my authentic self. No matter how domineering the mind control of a group or cult is, the authentic self can only be suppressed, never totally erased. And suppress it I did. There was no way that a person’s authentic self could surface and survive in the FLDS. It was dangerous to let any aspect of one’s true self be visible.

  So I wasn’t really prepared for the truth that rushed out at me when I faced that granite wall of names. At the core of our faith was the belief that God’s judgment on the last day would kill all the wicked and that only the righteous would be protected and saved. It was impossible for me to stare at those 120 names on the Mountain Meadows Massacre Memorial and think
of them as evil. A shift was beginning to take place in me that was deeper than I could possibly understand at the time: much of what I had been taught about my history and my faith was a lie.

  Merril and I arrived home as the sun was setting on El Cap, the mountain plateau that shadows Colorado City. The sun’s disappearing rays sprayed the red sandstone with a brilliant blaze of color. The cliffs burned like a bonfire. But I couldn’t enjoy the beauty. My heart was drowning in the evil I’d witnessed that day.

  As I put my three children to bed that night, even my complete love for them wasn’t enough to overcome my sense of loss and futility. My life felt as if it had no purpose. My sister Annette had recently remarked that others were noticing my sadness. “Carolyn, what’s happening to you? One of your old classmates went over to your house to talk to Merril about something and couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw you again. He said you looked like a shell of who you used to be.” I couldn’t tell her how miserable I was. She’d never understand.

  Was the bottomless emptiness I felt on the inside visible on the outside? My terror was that the emptiness would be all-consuming. Beliefs that had once grounded my life were gone. I was facing another night of tossing and turning over too many things that felt evil and wrong. If living the will of God’s laws was so great, then why did my life feel so meaningless? I was lost.

  A few weeks later, after fixing dinner and mopping the kitchen floor, I noticed the setting sun as I was dumping out the dirty water. I went outside and stood on the deck searching for answers. Why, when this was just another dismal day, did the sun set in celebration? For me, there was nothing to celebrate on that day or any other. I feared that the harshness and brutality of life would eventually consume me. I would become as evil and ugly as all the things I hated. My fight not to surrender, not to be consumed, was constant and exhausting. I was holding on to the edge of a cliff with no sign of anyone coming to pull me to safety.

  The sunset was brilliant, but I couldn’t appreciate it. I was buried in grief for my life. I couldn’t relate to beauty at any level. It was impossible for me even to imagine seeing the wonder in each day. It was spring, and the world was shedding the bitter brown of winter for the green of new life. The alfalfa field near our house was a brilliant emerald and alive with new leaves. Sprays of water from the sprinklers were splashing in the light of the sunset and casting off mini-rainbows. The field was calling to me, and for once, I wanted to answer.

  I quickly left the breathtaking scene and found my three children. I got them ready for bed, and after giving them several books to look at, I told them to stay put—I’d be back soon.

  I left the house and fled to the field. It was getting dark, so I knew I was safe and no one would see me. Everything I did was watched, critiqued, and reported. I was desperate for a moment of freedom from my oppressive life. All the grief and unpleasant moments were over for that day, and I wanted to release them by running through the alfalfa.

  I made my way to the field. The sprinklers were turned off, and the only sound was the quiet whoosh of the willows blowing in the breeze. I sat on the soft sandy earth and removed my shoes, which kept filling with sand. I wanted to run completely unencumbered.

  I took a few fast steps. My feet felt as light as the tender new alfalfa leaves felt soft. The sand sifting between my toes was pure pleasure. The heat of the day was gone, the air crisp. Each deep breath of air filled my lungs and centered my soul like a spiritual CPR, breathing life back into an empty heart.

  I ran the length of the field several times. Alone after the sun had fully set, I began to come alive. My anguish and despair were released for the day. I’d face them again tomorrow. I felt at peace. I felt like me.

  This was my first run in the alfalfa field but far from my last. Whenever I felt like I was drowning in a day, I waited for sunset, then returned to my alfalfa field. There were no rules in the soft sand, and in the evening twilight no one was waiting to trap me or to catch me in a crime. With every breath of fresh night air I connected with my authentic self. It was the only way I knew to feel centered and grounded. Waiting until it was dark enough to run in the field became my secret rendezvous. It was like going to meet my lover amid the splendor of the natural world.

  As the summer heat hit, the alfalfa grew tall and was ready for cutting. The first time I ran after it was cut, the field was a sea of sharp shoots. The harsh stubble stung the heels of my feet the way my inner conflict sliced at my soul. There seemed no way for me to reconcile my own self with a faith that condoned murdering those who were perceived as a threat. My children were my life’s only purpose. I could not continue to live in a way that obliterated all hope.

  As I was sitting alone after my run, nursing the scratches on my feet and listening to a choir of crickets, a new thought came to me. Maybe it was my resistance to the difficulties in my life that was destroying me. Maybe it wasn’t the pain of being injured, or the shock of the next method of torture. Maybe I was being consumed by my constant searching for a way around the reality that I faced.

  What if I accepted that my circumstances were not likely to change? Maybe I needed to let go of the idea that there was a better way and concentrate on finding a path through the systematic abuse in the family. I knew that each time I was emotionally smashed into the ground, I hated myself that much more. I hated my weakness. I hated the fact that I was powerless to protect myself. I hated the fact that I felt broken inside.

  But maybe I was wounded and suffering but not broken. Maybe I was more than trash that should be discarded. For me, the fear of being hurt is often worse than actually enduring the injury. I walked back toward my shoes, and the sharpness of the field merely pricked my feet. Maybe running in the field had conditioned them to be less sensitive. I picked up my shoes and decided to walk the field that evening. It was cool and clear. Maybe my reality would be less harsh if I could accept it for what it was and, like walking on the stubble, learn to deal with it.

  I’d spent so much time cleaning the kitchen, hoping somehow it would lead to more. If I polished one more counter, if I mopped the floor more often, if, if, if, I might be rewarded with some personal power for doing something religiously acceptable. I kept trying. Every night I’d get into bed, exhausted and beaten. But I had no personal power. I realized now that no matter what I did or how well I did it, I’d never get any.

  At that point I was still years from even thinking of escape. My three children were too young. I desperately wanted a voice, some form of personal expression, but that too was unthinkable for a woman in the FLDS. What would happen if I put my effort into what I believed in my heart was right instead of reacting to and recoiling from the continual abuse and cruelty in Merril’s family? I would reclaim some small sense of decision making in my own life.

  Constantly trying to avoid the next attack in Merril’s family kept me in a defensive posture and took me out of the moment. If I paid close enough attention, I thought, I could ward off an attack before it happened. But I was so focused on what might happen down the line that I wasn’t as able to protect myself in the actual day-to-day. I was always on guard, controlled by my fear, and mortgaged to the future. My strategy was to outmaneuver Barbara and Merril by figuring out what would come next. As a result, I was missing the possibilities in the present. I was surrendering my power in the now.

  I decided I was going to seize the moment. No matter what it took, I would confront every humiliation, abuse, injury, and hurt that came my way. Maybe I would have more power if I successfully faced down everything I detested. It was a terrifying prospect in a terrifying world. What if I wasn’t strong enough? What if I succumbed? I would find out who I truly was, and that made me vulnerable.

  The alfalfa field became my place of solace. The best time for running was a few days after the field had been cut, so that the shoots would be covered by tender new leaves. Running in bare feet made me feel like I was breaking every taboo. I could dare to disobey. I felt more alive than I h
ad in years. If I could feel, I could stay alive.

  The Kindness of a Stranger

  Growing up in the FLDS, I was indoctrinated with a variety of religious beliefs. One I heard again and again was from the prophet Leroy Johnson, who talked about the importance of “religious education.” He would say, “Those early teachings and trainings that we give our children stay with them throughout their entire lives. It’s no wonder that the Lord said that we should raise our children as calves in the stall.”

  I’d been raised in a stall all right, and I was aching to break out of it. I was caged in by a strict set of beliefs that dictated who I was and what I could become. The principle at work was mind control, pure and simple.

  I started studying mind control after I escaped. I truly had had no idea that I’d been in a dangerous cult. I’d seen the FLDS referred to online as “the largest polygamous cult” in the United States and dismissed that as ridiculous. But as I read and studied more, I realized that’s exactly what I was born into.

  One of the books I encountered early on was Robert Jay Lifton’s Thought Reform and the Psychology of Totalitarianism: A Study of Brainwashing in China. It was a revelation. Lifton articulated the most common criteria of mind control. When I considered them in the context of the FLDS, I knew all of them applied. Just as in a totalitarian system, the FLDS took steps to control our environment, demand purity, claim scientific and moral truth for the cult dogma, destroy personal boundaries, require confession, and insist on the supremacy of group belief over individual thought. Language was manipulated to keep everything in black and white. We were to follow the teachings of our leader and no one else—least of all women, whose submission was essential for polygamy to thrive.

  Arbitrary limits are the horizons beyond which we cannot see. Sometimes they are self-imposed, but in my life the FLDS controlled everything. For years I accepted these limits and assumptions without question.