50 Years in Polygamy: Big Secrets and Little White Lies Page 31

  *****

  In January, Alan—with Jake’s brotherly support—asked me how I’d feel about being a grandma. I figured differently, I wanted his question to be just curiosity, so I passed his implication off as a joke.

  “I’d absolutely love to be a grandmother, Alan, when IT IS THE RIGHT TIME!”

  He laughed nervously. “Well, it must be the right time.”

  I was silent while I stared out the big kitchen window into our still-unfinished back yard. Before I knew it, my emotions kicked in, and tears streamed down my cheeks.

  “Mom.” Alan put his arm around me. “Are you okay?”

  I turned to him. “I’m way too young to be a grandma! Your baby brother isn’t quite two, and I’m only thirty-seven. Good grief, Alan, you and Allie are only sixteen! You’re way too young to be parents. Don’t you know I already feel like a crazy woman? What if your baby turns out to be a lunatic like its grandmother?”

  Nervous, angry, and worried, I paced around the kitchen. I was barely holding myself together after all these years. How could these teens possibly stay sane and be responsible for a new baby?

  “What in the world were you thinking, Alan?” I finally yelled at him. “I told you a million times to keep that thing in your pants!”

  “Yeah, I know you did, Mom. You taught me right from wrong. I promise it’s not your fault.”

  The reality was there was nothing I could do about it. I began to laugh. I jumped up and down and screamed. “I’m going to be a grandma! Me—wild, crazy me—a grandma!” I gently backhanded Jake in the stomach. “Can you believe it? I’m going to be a grandma.”

  “Yeah, I can believe it!” Jake said snidely. “Alan hasn’t kept that thing in his pants ever since he discovered it!”

  *****

  At the beginning of my six-week crash recovery course, paid for by Medicaid, Linda and I set some goals to help me build a personal foundation. She promised me I would discover who Sophia was outside of the belief system I subsisted in.

  Linda also suggested I start attending Overeaters Anonymous (OA) classes at least once a week. In a large room, fifteen women and one man took turns speaking. They were forthright about their years and years of binging, stealing food, shame, self-loathing, hiding, purging, fad diets, starvation diets, bulimia, and anorexia. All of the participants spoke with a level of candor I’d never heard before.

  I’d always understood this kind of blatant, shocking, truth would only be revealed if we ever met the Lord. At that point, we’d be asked to review our whole entire life with the utmost frankness. Only then would we dare divulge any deep, dark secrets and flaws. Then after God’s judgment, we’d be guided to hell or to heaven. But here on this earth, in that OA meeting, I heard confessions about matters I thought were reserved for God, on that Judgment Day.

  Not only had members admitted to their mistakes in this life, but also to the foul treatment they had inflicted on their bodies. I learned about wooden spoon handles—how well they worked to cause gagging—and how laxatives helped keep the weight down. Well, that would obviously force you to stay near the “throne” and keep you from grocery shopping. I smiled.

  At my first OA meeting I heard of more desperate things to do and to try than I ever imagined; and I thought I’d done it all. When it was my turn to speak, I was nervous and somewhat shy. The leader said I had to say something, even if it was, “I pass.”

  To end the deafening silence, someone prompted, “Just a few honest words.”

  I finally found courage enough to say a couple of sincere words. “Hi, my name is Sophia. I am a compulsive overeater. Hmm . . . Honest words . . . well, frankly all I can say is, even though you are strangers to me, I feel like you know me better than anyone else on earth. It sounds to me like you understand my pain, my heartache, my plight, and my desires, more than anyone in my family [and in our religion, I was thinking]. I believe all of you know me more than God does. Now let’s get out of here so we can go home and eat!”

  Everyone laughed while they clapped for another newcomer.

  *****

  Michelle and I decided to experience some marijuana she’d somehow obtained. “We just want to see what it is like, and we need to see why our kids enjoy it so much. Then we’ll know what we’re up against,” we justified.

  The springtime rapids swirled and pounded against the massive boulder the two of us sat on, before the river split on either side and crashed on down the mountain. The pot ignited every sensual aspect of our beings. We thought the poetry and songs we created in our state of mind were amazing. Our laughter galloped in all directions before it bounced against the mountainsides and echoed back at us.

  On the drive down Little Cottonwood Canyon, Michelle abruptly pulled off the side of the road. “Sophia,” she said slowly and seriously. Whenever she sounded, it scared me. “You know already Big Bear, my therapist, and I have been working together for months.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “He said I can’t hold back any information from you any longer. I am going to come out of the closet. You know what I mean, don’t you, Sophia? You’re the first person I am telling this to, even before my husband. I’ve tried with every fiber of my being to deny myself these feelings, but I’ve felt attracted to girls and women all of my life, for as long as I can remember.”

  Of course I understood what she was saying! Still, I was sick and disheartened. “Why didn’t you admit to this a long time ago?” I grumbled. “I feel betrayed and embarrassed! For nearly four years you and I told Mark you are not a lesbian. I told him you are not attracted to women of the same sex because you are married and have a good sex life with your husband. You have five kids together! Now what, Michelle? What about the kids? What about our religion and our friendship?”

  She didn’t say another word. Her silence always felt like a punishment. After a long time, Michelle slid next to me and took my hand in hers. “You know the worse part of it, Sophia? I’m in love with you. I’ve been in total denial about it all along.” Then Michelle leaned in and kissed me on the lips.

  I wanted to tell her I didn’t like it at all, that it made my skin crawl, but I didn’t want to break her heart. I’ll just keep my distance, I told myself, to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

  “Sophia, talk to me. You are really mad, aren’t you?” Michelle asked when I pulled away from her.

  “I don’t know what to say, Michelle. Guess I’m in shock and afraid. You know I don’t feel the same way, and it’s going to be a kick in the, you-know-what having to tell Mark about this.”

  *****

  For the next few months, therapy came in mega doses at my OA meetings, but without my therapist, Linda. I’d completely taken chocolate out of my diet as an alcoholic does with drinking. The forty-five pounds of fat that was melting away was nothing in comparison to the emotional sludge being ripped from my guts and slowly but surely dissipating. On the outside, away from the oppressive “be good or else” community I’d grown up and lived in, I felt more love and true friendship than I knew existed. Best of all, contrary to my mother’s belief that it was not okay to love yourself, I was learning it was absolutely mandatory to genuine happiness.

  However, the more I was learning, and the better I felt about myself, the worse things got between Mark and me. He’d never known a Sophia who stood up for herself much, especially one who was learning to like the person she saw in the mirror. Even worse for Mark, Michelle and I were on the road of progress together. She helped save my life. She cared when no one else even noticed my years of decline into hellish darkness.

  While attending regular OA meetings, I also started going to Codependent Anonymous meetings and an extremely intense course based on the book, The Courage to Heal. Our discussion group was for me and four other women who had been molested when we were children. But none of us knew the importance of having a professional facilitator to guide our progress. We wanted healing, and we felt we’d courageously walk through the traumas cr
eated by our perpetrators. All of us realized how much the abuse continued to adversely impact our lives and prevent us from reaching our potential.

  With other loving and understanding victims, we could purge. During recall and re-experiencing the trauma, we wrapped our arms around each other, feeling each other’s sorrow and remorse. We allowed ourselves to let go of the racking agony and shame we'd carried for too many years.

  Some women fell into a fetal position or convulsed or thrashed as they wept uncontrollably. Some of us screamed, rocked back and forth, and trembled. Some pounded on things with their fists while they sobbed and wailed. Some recollections played out in vivid, bloody detail, while some couldn’t and never would be spoken out loud.

  We wanted to recover from those abuses, no matter what it took. We wanted to become confident, emotionally secure women. And we knew until we got past the actions of our perpetrators, as well as any unwarranted feeling of responsibility we carried, our healing would be restricted.

  The classes permitted me insight into my newlywed traumas. I began to understand all the negative feelings about bodily fluids, which was everything about sex. My subconscious anger of being exploited when I was a child, along with guilt from the belief sex was wicked unless used for procreation, often interfered with Mark’s and my pleasures and new discoveries. I was sad about the fights that occurred because of our naivety and misunderstandings. Neither Mark nor I had any idea we were dealing with the repercussions of sexual trauma.

  My convictions that I was ignorant, stupid, and inferior were also exacerbated because of the many episodes of abuse in my life. The fact that I wasn’t mentally there to participate in thousands of elementary school lessons was beginning to make sense as well. I remembered I could hear my teachers’ voices but couldn’t understand what they were saying. My mind was outside of me, flying in the sky, running down the road, or hiding in cornfields so no one could find me. I was busy; it just didn’t look like it. I was actively preoccupied with survival. To avoid my constant fears—of the world coming to an end, of our family being ripped apart, of the devil coming to get me, of the emotional and physical cruelty from peers at school and in our neighborhood, and from the sexual abuse—I became skilled at disappearing while my body stayed to meet the blows of life.

  When I returned from those “safety flights,” I felt a loss of being, memory, and orientation. I also experienced time lapses. No wonder all of that intensified my feeling of stupidity, which my peers readily accused me of. No wonder I missed so much of everything going on all around me. A simple, natural teenage kiss or touch would be grotesque rather than pleasurable and would often cause me to rage inside.

  During my search for awareness, it hit me how risky such behaviors were. I had subconsciously tried to claim power and control over situations I’d been too small to deal with as a child.

  We had been warned by professionals not to attempt to evoke the pain and raw emotion without someone trained to walk us through it. But we were broke, self-reliant troopers who felt we had all the love and support we would need from each other.

  Before I knew it, I was falling into a deep depression again. My sad realizations about my past sucked me backwards at an alarming rate. Abandoned, unkempt, chunky, snot-nosed little Sophia was at the bottom of the abyss, sinking in muck and darkness. She could no longer fly off to her subconscious state of well-being. The terror was in plain sight.

  With Mark still gone all the time, I was overwhelmed again. I had another new, self-imposed responsibility: a damaged little Sophia to deal with. She was screaming and begging for help and healing, and I felt completely incapable of caring for her. I barely had enough skills to care for my kids and myself, let alone an insecure, abused, neglected child inside me. She was angry and relentless. “If you won’t take care of me, who will?” she would challenge.

  It had never been about having an affair or about promiscuity or adultery. I was clear about that. When a man, old or young, wanted to take me to his car or take me home after dancing and one too many drinks, I was mortified and disgusted he’d even ask. On the other hand, maybe, just maybe, he’d “adult-nap” me and knock me clear out of my wretched melancholy—out of polygamy and out of Sophia’s painful memories. I fluttered dangerously, like a moth too close to a flame. Poof! We’d be gone—taking the easy way out.

  My descent into hell ripped at Mark’s guts while he was too far away to comfort or stop me. My misbehaving little girl, full of self-destruction, was raring to create some chaos before all the sadness sucked the life out of her. When I would check myself and try to stop us from annihilation, we remained even more defeated.

  The first night of Mark’s weekend home after another seven weeks of absence, he stood by the bathroom door, looking heartbroken. He watched me pile some of my long blond hair on my head, put a little too much makeup on, and put on some gaudy-looking earrings.

  When I tried to leave the bathroom, he stepped in front of me. “I know you’re going bar-hopping again tonight, all dressed up in those tight jeans and sexy blouse, and you keep telling me you’re not going out to get picked up! You might as well wear a sign that says, ‘Come and fuck me!’”

  I tried hard not to pay any attention to Mark’s chest as it rose and fell with his breaking heart. Nor did I want to hear his gasping breaths or see the tears forming in his eyes. I didn’t want to hurt him, and I didn’t have a clue what to tell him anyway.

  Trying to force myself back to numb just wasn’t working anymore. Loving him, and sharing him hurt way too much. His short visits from California felt like torture. I didn’t want to leave him, and I didn't want to stay living with him in polygamy. The only way I knew how to get out was destructive to all of us.

  For a few seconds Mark wouldn’t budge from the doorway. Then he stepped aside. “Just go ahead then, Sophia! You might as well reach in and rip my heart out of my chest and stomp on it. I can’t stand the thought of you in another man’s arms!”

  From years of hearing and knowing of his sexual encounters with Diane, I already knew far more pain than he could ever comprehend. But his light blue eyes glistened with tears and began to draw me in. None of my behaviors were aimed at hurting him. I wanted to stop what I was doing, undress for him from head to toe, melt in his arms, and stay there with him forever. But I couldn’t. He would be sleeping with Diane that night. It was her turn again.

  “At least I won’t be fucking any of them!” I yelled. Tears poured down my face and as I finished the blow. “While you’re out there screwing Diane, I’ll be dancing with whomever I damn well please!”

  *****

  My mother should have been there for me! Where was she when I was molested over and over again, when I was alone and hurting? I could hear her angry screams at Dad, and then her lonely sobbing into her pillow. Her absence tangled and twisted in my guts. As a child and teen I watched her act like a martyr. I heard her calling out to Dad, Aunt Eleanor, and anyone else who would be happy to take advantage of her. “Here I am, all of you precious, more-deserving-than-I-am folks! I’m ready for you to come on over and crap on me and my kids while I keep on kissing your __.” But no! My mother wouldn’t dare say that word!

  My mother’s demeanor followed the “perfect” code of ethics for women in our religion. The most “qualified” women were those like her—those who were full of humility and who practiced constant servitude and sweetness to their husbands and to others.

  Mom didn’t seem to give a wing-ding about her kids going without a room, clothing, meals, their father’s time, her time, money, Christmas, and birthdays. Mom was too busy worrying about pleasing Owen, Eleanor, and God! She was busy doing the work of the Lord—as if the Lord was needy. She sacrificed everything so others could have, and was so busy people-pleasing we children too often went without and were abandoned.

  I visited Mom only a few times, compared to nearly every week. On those occasions I took her grocery shopping, watched The Price Is Right with her, and cleaned he
r house. If I had to talk or listen to her, I felt more frustration and resentment toward her.

  For just over three months, those black clouds lingered. It seemed they’d never leave. Like my mother’s fight with the devil’s imps so long ago, they obviously hadn’t passed me by either. As a young girl and woman, all my desires were to be the mother I never had. I was going to be a perfect mom and a perfect person. Yet all of Mom’s infirmities were epitomized in me. Like her, I had even become a perfect saint in public, but a self-loathing nothing in private.

  Early late evening, after another dangerous episode of my “self-will run riot,” I woke up with my old suffocating chest pain. It felt like someone had grabbed my heart and squeezed it so hard it couldn’t beat. I was sure I would die physically, spiritually, and emotionally if I stayed in so much grief.

  Mark could hear my anguish. On the other end of the phone, I could hear him cry with me. He wanted to be there holding me again. He begged me to stay, even though he too knew the umpteen reasons for living polygamy were making less and less sense to both of us.

  But he told me, “I can’t ever leave Diane. We made commitments to her we shouldn’t break.”

  “I know, Mark. I’d never ask you to leave her. I never will! I know you can’t let go of your duties, but I’m not sure how to survive if I stay.”

  Like a maniac, I fixed dinner, did the dishes, got the kids ready for bed, put a VHS movie on for noise, and dropped into my big bed next to Keith. For days I couldn’t stop crying, even though I felt emotionless.