50 Years in Polygamy: Big Secrets and Little White Lies Read online

  But after doing that for way too long, I couldn’t deny and hold onto my grievances any longer, no matter the consequences. Things got so tough between Mark and me, I felt like I would suffocate if I didn’t do something different. Even without Michelle in our lives, all we did was fight, whether he was home for a weekend or for several weeks. The issues were the same: money, plural marriage, religion, lack of religion, time, needs, his absence, his anger at me, verbal abuses to our kids, and my inconsistency when it came to disciplining them.

  When I was a child and teen, I swore my children would never have to go through the distress of hearing or watching their parents fight. Yet our discord became so thunderous and unresolved, one of us would finally storm away, and I would cry until my eyes swelled nearly shut.

  CHAPTER 32

  Demoted to Nothingness

  1988

  Through my many years of service in The Group, I heard Mary, our Relief Society president, and those women who served with her, brag about my abilities to quickly and efficiently accomplish anything that needed to be done. The problem was my identity and value, were based on my service and the recognition I received because of it. I was thirty-seven years old, with an identity crisis wedged between my ego and my soul; neither of which were fully alive or real.

  A few weeks before Thanksgiving, Mary asked me to prepare a meal for a needy family the next Friday. “Of course,” I told her.

  After our phone conversation I tried to figure out how I would get the food for this offering. It would’ve been a miracle if Mark could have sent enough money to pay all of our bills, let alone for us to be able to buy food for our Thanksgiving dinner. Soon it would be Christmas, and once again I’d have to swallow my pride and sign up for “Toys for Tots” or accept some other kind of charity. But I was too proud to shirk my responsibilities by letting Mary know how destitute we were.

  Around 6:30 the next Friday evening, Mary’s call woke me up. She wanted to know why the meal I was to take to the needy family wasn’t there yet.

  My horrible depression had gotten the best of me. I had forgotten all about the meal. I gave Mary an excuse. In my temporary insanity, I believed I was still a semi-capable person, and I told her I’d get some food to the family right away.

  Dressed in the slippers and pajamas I’d worn all day, I wandered into the kitchen and opened our refrigerator and cupboards. I saw a few pieces of bread left in the bag, a quarter-gallon of milk, and some leftover macaroni. I knew there was no money in my wallet or in the bank. There wasn’t even enough food for my own kids! I started to sob until I was wailing uncontrollably. Feeling only half conscious, I wandered back down the hall, climbed back into my bed, and covered my head with the blankets.

  Mary called again around 8:30 or 9:00. When she heard my drowsy, melancholy voice, she said angrily, “Sophia, you sound like you don’t care one bit about this! What about those hungry kids?”

  When I couldn’t say one word, she continued her rant. “How could you be so selfish and irresponsible? If you weren’t going to make sure they got their meal, you should have called me or asked someone else to take care of them! I really can’t believe you did this, Sophia. What on earth has gotten into you to be so undependable, so callous? How will we be able to trust or count on you ever again?”

  Tears leaked from my already red eyes. I didn’t even try to defend myself. Mary’s words plagued me over and over. It was exactly as I thought. If they’d known I had no value and no worth, they wouldn’t have trusted me in the first place. The tiny significance I dared think or hope I possessed, Mary had just assured me was a lie. In one day, I was demoted to nothingness.

  I changed eighteen-month-old Keith, brought him to bed with me, and fell asleep. Other than for my children’s sake, I never wanted to wake up again.

  On one of those dismal and lonely evenings near the end of November 1988, everything in my life felt completely hopeless. All the kids were staying with friends or asleep. I crashed downstairs on the couch in front of the television with a huge bag of Peanut M&Ms to sedate my body and mind into oblivion. I popped one after another of those addictive morsels into my mouth, devouring them as if I’d never get another bite to eat.

  Irritating voices blasted across the television, but I didn’t want to get up to change the channel or adjust the sound. I studied the unpainted, filthy, dented drywall that had suffered nine years of wild living conditions with Francine’s, Diane’s, and now my kids. I gaped at the matted carpet square that barely covered the concrete floor, as I cried and kept eating the chocolate.

  Soon, the bag was nearly empty. I had a terrible stomachache, and more tears rolled down my fat cheeks and drenched the front of my size 22 blouse. I hadn’t left my house for nearly two months. I was afraid of what might happen if I left, and yet I honestly had no idea why leaving scared me so much. I hated my run-down house. I despised my huge body and myself; but I couldn’t make myself stop eating. I was surely a failure as a mother, wife, sister-wife, and servant. I believed I was a piece of rubbish in every single way. I was going to puke, and yet I watched my hand reach into the bag of M&Ms and pump them into my mouth—one, two, three—as if they were drugs and I was an addict.

  “God!” I screamed. “Look at me! Look what a horrible, revolting person I am! I am out of control in every way. I’ve begged you a million times to make me stop overeating. I’ve begged you to help ease my grief, my loneliness, depression, flaws, and unholy feelings!”

  Even while praying, I grazed on a few more chunks of chocolate. “You’ve got to do something, God, before I kill myself, with food or without it!”

  Finally, I lugged my pathetic body off the couch, turned off the irritating television, and slowly climbed up the long flight of stairs. Completely out of breath at the top, I cursed at my physical, mental, and spiritual noxious self. I got in bed, and as I lay there, my heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears. My bloated stomach castigated me. I knew I wanted out of my misery. Slowly but surely I was going to die.

  Three or four weeks passed. I rejected phone calls from Mark, friends, and family. My older kids took care of my younger ones. Alan or Jake somehow found food, or money to buy it. They fed and dressed the little ones and played and fought with them. The only time nearly two-year-old Keith or any of the kids got hugs or kisses from me was when they’d climb on my bed, where I stayed day and night. I believed my kids and others would be better off without such a depraved, worthless drudge holding them back. If I stayed in bed long enough without eating, I could die without the shame of actually putting a gun to my head or taking an overdose of sleeping pills. In between tears, sorrow, and pain, I slept all day and all night, and then slept some more.

  Then Michelle called. The kids told her I was sleeping again and still wasn’t taking calls. She called again and again. When she told them to get me on the phone, they repeated to her exactly what I’d told them to say to everyone: “Mom can’t come to the phone. She’s resting and doesn’t want to be bothered right now.” They knew the routine. I’d gotten after them when they attempted to get me to talk to anyone. Michelle’s demands and persistence became so annoying, I told Sky to take the phone clear off the wall.

  Michelle showed up at the door and nudged her way past my children, whom I had ordered not to open the door for anyone.

  “Sophia, wake up,” I heard her soft, deep voice say. I hoped the voice I heard was an angel who was finally going to walk with me to hell and drop me off there. “Sophia, come on—wake up!”

  When she saw my eyes she asked, “What is going on, my precious friend? I’ve been calling you for a week. Every time I call, no one answers or your kids tell me you’re sleeping and they’re not supposed to wake you up.”

  I was pretty foggy and didn’t want to talk. Michelle refused to leave until I would tell her what was going on. After some coaxing, I felt obligated to give in. There wasn’t anything she hadn’t already heard before. The only difference this time was I had no more
hope left that I could change anything. Every physical, personal, private, spiritual, religious, or emotional problem felt insurmountable.

  “So why haven’t you killed yourself by now, Sophia? You know how to do it. There are a million ways to take yourself off this planet, you know!” Michelle charged.

  “Because it’s against God’s laws!” I snapped at her.

  She laughed. “So you think starving and sleeping yourself to death is any different?”

  Before long, the buckets of tears I still hadn’t spilled fell like a downpour of rain. Between my headache from crying and deep breaths of air, I told Michelle, “I’m even a failure at this. I can’t even die! I may be the shittiest mother on earth; but I do know that NO one on this earth will ever love my kids as much as I do! I’m sure that’s why I couldn’t will myself to die. I held on for them.”

  Michelle lay down next to me. She held me tight until I quit weeping and dozed off again. When I awoke hours later, there was a note on my nightstand.

  Dearest Sophia,

  I’ve taken your kids to my house to bathe and feed them. We’ll all be back in the morning, so be ready to go with me to breakfast. I love you my sweetest, dearest, most precious friend!

  Hugs and kisses,

  Michelle

  When Michelle got to my house in the morning, I told her I’d get up, but I wouldn’t go with her anywhere.

  “You’ve got to get out of your dark, gloomy house and get some sunshine, Sophia! If you won’t go with me, I’ll get Jake and Allen to help me haul you out of here. You can get dressed and walk out of here on your own, or we’ll carry you out in your pajamas.”

  I knew Michelle well enough to believe that’s exactly what she’d do, so I grudgingly complied.

  When I was dressed and we walked outside, she opened her car door on the driver’s side. I apprehensively squeezed my fat body under the steering wheel and slid next to the passenger door that had been smashed shut. The sun was going to instantly burn me up or the sky would cave in on top of us—one or the other. Anything and everything around me felt oppressive. While we drove up State Street, she said she was going to take her time so we could talk and then she’d take me to lunch.

  “No, Michelle, just take me home now! I want to go back now,” I shouted at her. “I didn’t want to go anywhere in the first place!”

  I wanted to escape and run back home; but she had me caged between her wrecked car door and her large, overweight body sitting behind the steering wheel.

  Just then she pulled down a driveway next to a huge office building and parked in the back. “This doesn’t look like a restaurant,” I said.

  “This is where Big Bear, my therapist’s, office is. I’ve got to fill out some papers and ask him a few questions. If he’s in another appointment, it might take me twenty minutes or so. Then we can go eat. Come in with me where you’ll be warm.

  Knowing the depths of my anxiety, Michelle walked close to me all the way inside the building. In the foyer, I sat next to her and watched people come and go. I stared at the walls while Michelle stood at the receptionist’s desk filling out forms. As I waited and waited—I got more and more angry.

  The receptionist took the brown clipboard from Michelle and told her, “Thank you. It will only be a few minutes.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “What are we waiting for now? You said all you had to do was fill out some papers. Let’s get out of here. I feel sick!” Again I was fighting tears and heart palpitations. “Give me your keys and I’ll wait in the car.”

  “Just hang in here with me, Sophia. I need you to go in there with me. I’m sure it won’t take very long. Breathe in some deep and slowly. It will help mellow you out a little.”

  I was up and ready to leave when a large, dark-haired woman with deep brown eyes stepped into the waiting room. “Michelle? Big Bear is with another client. He asked me to help you with your questions.”

  Turning toward the door, I told Michelle again I’d wait outside for her, but she grabbed my hand tightly. “Please come in with me, Sophia. I promise we won’t be long.”

  I followed.

  “Hello Sophia, I’m Linda,” the woman said as Michelle and I sat down in a small room that made me feel claustrophobic. Michelle slid closer to me and smiled.

  “So tell me what’s going on, Sophia. Your dear friend here says you want to die and you’ve been feeling suicidal for a very long time.”

  I didn’t answer her. My whole body was on fire, and I was ticked as hell at Michelle. I charged for the door, but Michelle jumped in front of me.

  “Please, Sophia, please talk to her. If you won’t talk to Linda for you, then at least talk to her for your kids’ sake. Just tell Linda how you’re feeling and what you’re thinking. That’s all you have to say.” Obviously, Michelle knew exactly how to make me comply.

  Linda asked what was going on in my life. She had way too many snoopy questions, and they felt way too personal. In my head, I knew this was not the place for me. Many people in The Group thought psychologists or therapists were the epitome of evil influences. We were sure they would talk you into leaving your religion, your God, and your family. Therapists would purposely “tell you one-hundred truths to get you to believe the one lie,” that would ruin your life, as well as others.

  Don’t trust her! She’ll talk you into leaving your husband and your family, I worried. But I couldn’t help myself. Once I got started, I spilled my guts. I rambled on about how terribly unhappy I was and how I couldn’t function any longer.

  “Tell me, Sophia, what will make you happy?” Linda questioned.

  “Well, that one is easy,” I said. My heart had settled down. I was still nervous, but my soul felt surprisingly comfortable.

  “Go ahead. Tell me.”

  I told her all of the things I could think of, that would make me happy: “If Mark was home more and always nice when he was. If Diane and I . . .” I stopped. I couldn’t let her know we were polygamists. “Uh, and if my kids would only . . . If we had money for . . . If they didn’t . . . If only I were . . . or wasn’t such a . . .”

  Linda interrupted. “Sophia, all of those things are about everyone else. What about you? What will make you, Sophia, happy?”

  What did I just tell her? Is she dumb or something? I wondered. I just blathered out a list a mile long. Doesn’t she get it?

  “I just told you,” I said, trying not to sound as grouchy and frustrated as I felt.

  “Listen, let’s just start with you and stay with you,” Linda said calmly. Speak about only you—not if he, she, or they would or wouldn’t, but what is it Sophia can or can’t do to make Sophia happy?”

  I couldn’t think of one single thing to say. I had no idea what would make Sophia happy. That question was not religiously kosher.

  When we finally left, I was so frustrated and angry I wanted to scream at everyone and everything. I was also afraid. It sounded as if a witch had entered my body; I certainly hadn’t behaved like the normal, civilized Sophia everyone thought they knew. In all of my life, I couldn’t ever recall feeling as angry or being as rude and mouthy to a friend as I had been to Michelle or to Linda.

  Linda wrote my assignment on a piece of paper and asked me to bring it back to her in a few days.

  CHAPTER 33

  Courage to Heal or Die

  1989

  Since Michelle rescued me, I’d gone against Dad’s and Mark’s counsel. She helped me catch up on months of cleaning that my children had tried to handle, while I was depressed and at rock bottom. With her support and love, I started to feel alive and regain some sense of hope.

  “Loving my children will keep me alive and going until I can learn to love myself,” I told Michelle.

  She kissed my forehead. “It’s already working! Thank God for your children!”

  I sat at the kitchen table and glared at the blank lines on my yellow, legal-size piece of paper—the homework I hadn’t been able to complete. My therapist had writte
n in print across the top, “Ten Things I Love about Sophia.” I reread the directions Linda noted: “You may not use the words ‘he,’ ‘she,’ ‘they,’ ‘them,’ or ‘others.’”

  This is impossible! I fumed inside at the time and energy I’d already wasted, and I still hadn’t written a single word on the paper. Anything good about me was because of him, her, they, them, or others. After fifteen minutes I finally came up with three things I loved about me that didn’t use one of the non-allowed words.

  1. I love Sophia because she helps everyone.

  2. I love Sophia because she is kind to people.

  3. I love Sophia because she tries to please God.

  When I finished, I crammed the folded paper into my purse and started washing the dishes.

  A few days later, Michelle picked me up to make sure I would keep another appointment.

  “This is just the point I’m trying to make, Sophia,” Linda said impatiently. “You don’t even know who Sophia is outside of everyone else, do you? If you were all alone in this world, what would you like and love about yourself? Try it again. You can come up with at least five things for me now—before you leave.”

  “I already tried! This is just ridiculous!” I said.

  “Okay, we’ll do it together. I’ll coach you.”

  Together we determined two solid outcomes that felt genuine to me. “I love Sophia because she is talented,” Linda made me write, “and I love her because she is a good person.”

  It was important, Linda told me, to repeat those two reasons out loud over and over again with a conscious effort to believe them. After several times, my eyes filled with tears of comfort and relief. For the rest of the day I smiled. Not my previous public display—perpetual smiles exuding my “righteous” servitude and codependence—but smiles of true joy. There were at least two first-rate things about me I could at last believe in. For most people, I imagined, finding something to love about oneself would be effortless. For me it had always been a forbidden assessment. My inauguration into a whole new life derived from those two ostensibly simple statements.