Escape

by Carolyn Jessop

  My brother, Arthur, paid the insurance on my van and for my cell phone. I wore donated used clothing, and the Rotary Club spent $100 to buy clothes for my grade-school children. I was still waiting for my Section 8 voucher to come through to pay for housing; I was told that could take up to six months.

  Christmas was coming, and we had never celebrated as a family before. I remembered how my mother had once had a renegade Christmas that my father came home and ruined. I hadn’t planned on doing anything special until one of Dan’s daughters-in-law, Tammy, said she wanted to help me with our first Christmas.

  The whole idea of spending money to decorate a tree struck me as a little weird, but I was certainly willing to give it a try. Several of the people Tammy knew who were going to help provide presents came over to get a list of my children’s names, ages, sizes, and ideas for gifts they’d like to have.

  I know it sounds strange, but I was at a complete loss when they asked me what my kids wanted. My children rarely ever asked for anything. In Colorado City, I wasn’t allowed to give them anything beyond absolute necessities. The women were surprised that I was so clueless about what my own children wanted. They helped me come up with some ideas.

  A few weeks before Christmas vacation, my children went to Colorado City for three days. When they came home, I knew instantly that something was different. They seemed more agitated and upset. There was a lot of anger and fighting among them, which is always a sign that something’s wrong. Betty was acting smug and self-righteous. Merrilee finally blurted out, “Mother, we were not allowed to eat anything the entire time we were at Father’s.”

  I froze. “Why?” I asked.

  “We had to fast and pray for three days. We want you to die so we can go back to Father.” Merrilee and Andrew were allowed to eat a few crackers and one apple during the three-day fast, but the older children were allowed only water.

  My outrage knew no bounds. I called my attorney and made another complaint. Merril’s attorney denied that my children were being made to fast and pray for my death.

  At the time, none of the other kids would talk about praying for my death, but they did later on and now speak openly about it. Back then, however, they accused Merrilee of lying. Poor Merrilee told me that she was scared because she knew Betty would get her in trouble with Merril. Betty and I had a big fight over that.

  I called Child Protective Services and reported Merril’s abuse. A caseworker came over to our house and questioned the children about their visitation. I was not present. They were all willing to talk except Merrilee, who was afraid of the caseworker. But no one told him the truth. Betty insisted that I was beating all of them, not their father. She claimed they were only safe with their father and that he would never starve them.

  The caseworker sat down with me afterward. He told me he was sure I was telling the truth and that my children had been deprived of food, but they were too frightened to admit it. The caseworker did not believe I was abusing them. The catch was that he was allowed to write his reports based only on what he heard and saw, not on what he believed. So he felt that under the circumstances, it was in my best interest if he wrote nothing about the interviews. He said that if the children had shown signs of starvation it would be a different matter, but they all looked healthy and well fed, so there was nothing he could do.

  My children had left for another visitation when I went into the pantry to get something to feed Harrison. When I opened the small walk-in closet that served as a pantry, I found it was empty. It had been well stocked with snacks and donated canned food. All of the snack food—crackers, pretzels, and chips—was gone. It all had left the house in my children’s suitcases.

  I sank to the floor in sobs. Anguish rolled out of me in waves. I pounded the tiles of the floor with my fist. I had no way to protect my children. Merril could take them, starve them, and hurt them. I had taken huge risks to win our freedom, and yet my children were still at the mercy of a monster. This was the lowest moment of my life. I had no way of making it financially. I had left friends and family who would never speak to me again. I felt like I had nothing to show for all that I’d endured. I felt absolutely powerless. It was one thing to be subjected to Merril’s reign of terror when there was no access to outside help. But now I had legal representation. I’d been to court, and yet I was still powerless to protect the children I loved beyond life. They were all I had and all that mattered to me. Despite everything I had done, Merril could still ruin their lives, confidence, and promise. My outrage reached the stratosphere.

  When my children came home right before Christmas Merrilee told me they were forced to fast again. None of the food they’d taken came back in their suitcases. It was all gone. I called my attorney, but she said there was nothing she could do if the children insisted it hadn’t happened when the court-appointed guardian asked them about it.

  The kids had just been back for a few hours when the family who was doing our Christmas called. When could they bring presents and put them under the tree? My children were so tense, I thought the presents might provide a happy focus, so we did it right away. In the FLDS, we never celebrated Christmas, so this would be a happy first for them.

  When the doorbell rang, Santa Claus entered in full regalia with one of his elves. He walked into our small living room with his bells jingling. “Ho, ho, ho,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you children for all these years, and I’ve finally found you!”

  My eight children were mesmerized. Even Harrison seemed transfixed. Betty was off to one side, but she was clearly taking in everything. The little ones were wide-eyed and beaming.

  Santa had more to say. “You have all been such good children, so I had to be sure I brought plenty of gifts to make up for all the gifts I didn’t bring you when I couldn’t find you!”

  Santa invited the younger children to sit in his lap and tell him what they wanted for Christmas. They didn’t have any idea of what to say. None of us had ever been part of a world where wishes were acknowledged and sometimes dreams came true. Being cherished or feeling special was not something we’d experienced.

  Santa explained that he had brought so many presents that he only had room to bring along one elf and Mrs. Claus to help him. And the reindeer had had to stay back at the barn because he needed to come to our house in two cars instead of just his sleigh.

  Mrs. Claus began bringing in bags of presents from the car. Santa told my children they could help put the gifts under the tree. Merrilee’s eyes looked like they were about to cartwheel out of her head with excitement. Patrick and Andrew were fascinated and incredulous. Even Betty began to get interested in the presents when she saw how many were arriving. She started to help Santa make extra space for them. When Patrick thought no one was looking, he grabbed a big plate of sugar cookies that Santa had brought and wolfed them down. I noticed that Patrick kept his eyes on Betty, wary that she might catch him eating. Merril had instructed the children to fast until the next day. But Betty stayed engaged with Santa, and Patrick finished the cookies.

  As soon as Santa left, my children began clamoring to open their presents. I told them Santa had come early to our house because he had so many packages for us, but that we were going to wait for three more days until Christmas before opening them. My strategy was simple: I wanted to extend their excitement and anticipation as long as I could to help counter the trauma of their visitations.

  Betty was outraged about our Christmas tree. We never would have had such a thing in Colorado City. Every time she came into the room, she turned off the lights on it. “Christmas is a lie. You just planned this to make us want to be with you and not our father.” Then she told her brothers and sisters that I was trying to buy their loyalty and that they should go ahead and open their presents.

  I was very firm. Any present that was opened was going back to Santa. I didn’t argue with Betty, I just laid down the rules. I knew that unless I stood up to her, she would continue to sabotage me the way Merril ha
d. It got easier with time, and Christmas was a help because the other children were so eager and excited about their presents. That undercut Betty’s power.

  That night I put eight very happy and excited children to bed. Although she never would have admitted it, Betty was as excited about getting Christmas presents as everyone else. There were piles of presents beneath the tree waiting to be opened. Our house felt festive and warm.

  The three days before Christmas were full of anticipation. My children spent every moment sitting around the tree, looking at presents, shaking them, and imagining what might be inside. “Just one gift, can’t we open just one?” I smiled but remained resolute. No presents until Christmas morning.

  On December 25, at 6 A.M., we unwrapped the first present. But that sounds more orderly than it was. Christmas morning was the happiest chaos of our lives. When I went into the living room, the kids were ripping into their presents. I didn’t know so much happiness could exist. Our little family had never shared such boundless joy. There were smiles and shrieks and laughter and exclamations—“Oh, wow, look at this!”

  Betty was very excited about her presents and shocked that she had received so many. Merrilee got more princess-related gifts and was ecstatic. There were a lot of presents for Harrison, which he couldn’t open by himself, so each child took a turn helping him open something.

  It was miraculous. Hope was alive again inside me and triumphed over the despair I’d felt when I broke down in sobs and pounded on the floor, wondering if we were ever going to be better off than we had been before.

  Yes, we were. I had risked all our lives for freedom. My gift that morning was the knowledge that it had not been a mistake.

  Last Custody Case

  Before Christmas vacation was over and my kids were back in school, I got sick. It felt like the flu on top of all the morning sickness I had ever had. I was so weak and disoriented that I could barely walk across the room. I was vomiting and running fevers.

  It was almost impossible to marshal enough energy to cook for my family.

  Betty decreed that her brothers and sisters could not help me. She insisted that since I’d taken them away from their father, I was responsible for all the work. My sickness was proof to her that God was answering Merril’s prayers. I think that her strategy was to make things so difficult for me that I would have no choice but to cave in and return to Merril.

  I was sick for a month. There was no way I could keep up with the laundry. I still cooked simple things for Harrison but came to rely on prepared foods for everyone else. Taking my children to six different counseling appointments each week in addition to Harrison’s doctor and therapy visits kept me on the run. It was also becoming a full-time job staying on top of the paperwork required to keep our welfare checks coming.

  I was sinking fast. Life on the outside was so hard.

  I had started seeing a therapist myself after leaving the shelter: Larry Bill, who worked with domestic violence victims. We talked for a while about my history. I told him that everything would be a lot better if I could just shake this flu.

  Larry looked at me. “Carolyn, you don’t have the flu. You have post-traumatic stress disorder.” I had never heard of PTSD before. He told me what it was. Physical and mental symptoms can develop that last for years. It’s common in combat veterans, survivors of sexual trauma and domestic violence, and anyone who has endured relentless stress or been through a natural catastrophe such as a hurricane, earthquake, or floods.

  Larry asked me if I was having nightmares. I said they’d started the third day after I escaped and never stopped. They were often about Merril or Barbara or someone in the family attacking my children. Other times the focus was on my being forced to do something in the cult I didn’t want to do. Nightmares are a classic component of PTSD. Larry said it was a chronic condition that could be managed and treated but would never completely go away.

  I felt blindsided. PTSD on top of everything else? How could I take care of everyone if I was sick? I asked him how I was supposed to cope.

  He told me to stay as functional as possible. He couldn’t tell me when I would get better because every case was different. But he stressed that the more I surrendered to PTSD, the worse it would get. I had to fight this and it wouldn’t be easy, but he made it clear to me that he’d be by my side.

  For six weeks I had been crawling to the bathroom to vomit. What kept me going was the thought that in a few more days I’d be better. Now I was being told I had a long-term condition with no end in sight.

  My head was spinning as I walked to the parking lot. I tried to put the key in the ignition and was shaking so badly the keys dropped to the floor. I was coming undone. My biggest fear was that if Merril learned I had a mental disorder I would lose custody of my children.

  I had barely been making it when I was well. Now this. Without my health I could lose everything. If I lost my children there would be no reason to remain on earth.

  Then an image came back to me. I remembered being in the accident on Black Ridge, feeling frozen and close to death. I remembered being claimed by a fatigue so deep that I wanted to lie down in a snowdrift and sleep forever. What had kept me going then was that I knew if I did, I would never see Arthur again.

  If I could find the strength then, I could find it again. Beneath everything, I still wanted to live.

  I had to get hold of myself. I would do it five minutes at a time, fewer if necessary. The big picture was too scary. Minutes were not as bad.

  I vowed to tell no one about the PTSD. No one. Everything I said to another person found its way back to Merril. I couldn’t risk him finding out I had PTSD.

  A plan formed. I would get my children to school and ferry them to their appointments. If we all showed up for everything, no one would get suspicious. I could cook and clean in five-minute intervals, then rest.

  I picked up my car key from the floor and turned on the ignition. It took several tries. I took a few more breaths and started the car.

  As soon as I got home I started my five-minute plan. Cook for five minutes. Rest. Clean for five minutes. Stop. It was slow going, but when I went to bed that night I felt I had at least tried.

  PTSD was a reality I could face five minutes at a time. But another reality slammed into me hard and fast: I was out of money. I learned that the Section 8 vouchers I needed for housing costs were now on an eighteen-month hold because of limited funding. I was out of cash. The money I had saved while I was living at Dan’s was gone. I knew if I went to him he would help me, but I hated asking him for everything I needed, and I didn’t want to run to him every month. I was determined to do everything possible before going to him. But I could not pay my utility bills and didn’t know what to do.

  One morning after I dropped my children at school, Patrick and Andrew came right back out and said there was something for me in the office. The boys stayed with Harrison while I went in. Patty, a woman in the office who always gave Merrilee lots of hugs, handed me a card and said the children’s teachers wanted to do something special for me. I thanked her and asked her to thank the teachers. I walked to the van, card in hand.

  Inside the card was close to two hundred dollars with a note from the teachers saying that they all admired my courage. Shaking with joy, I went right to the post office to mail my utility bill. The next hurdle was a notice from the welfare office that my case would be closed the next day unless I returned several forms to them within twenty-four hours. All the forms had to be signed and dated by someone at each of my children’s schools—all five of them.

  A storm had moved into the valley and it was starting to snow on top of the few feet of snow we already had. I called the welfare office and said I had a handicapped child and a toddler and I couldn’t do this in twenty-four hours by myself. I asked for an extension. I was told there was no way. If I didn’t make the deadline, my case would be closed. Then I would have to reapply. I figured it would take months to get my benefits again.

>   The next day I cancelled every appointment I had and headed out into the snowstorm with Bryson, Harrison, and Harrison’s wheelchair to make my rounds. I was still struggling with PTSD. My five-minute plan wasn’t much help on a day like this.

  Harrison’s immune system was compromised from his hormone therapy. I worried that he would get sick. It was blindingly cold. At each school I had to take the wheelchair out, set it up, settle Harrison into it and bundle him up, and then get Bryson from his car seat.

  When I got to my brother’s to fax in the paperwork, I was shivering so much my teeth would not stop chattering. When I woke up the next morning I had a hard time breathing. I had a fever and knew I had pneumonia. I couldn’t get out of bed. LuAnne started taking care of Harrison once she realized how seriously sick I was. Betty even started making meals and doing some dishes.

  For the first time, my kids were worried. By Monday morning, I was still burning up with fever. I was too sick to call anyone and too afraid that if I did, someone might find out about my PTSD. Merril was already accusing me of being mentally ill. I knew that some women who tried to flee polygamy ended up locked into mental institutions and had their children taken away from them. I would risk anything to avoid that fate.

  I told my children I was too sick to take them to school. I didn’t even have the strength to call and cancel my appointments. Amazingly, Betty and LuAnne started bringing me tea. I was able to sip the tea, but I couldn’t eat.

  Tuesday morning was no different. But Betty didn’t want to miss any more school. She was worried about keeping her grades up and called Mitzi, the PTA president who had taken Merrilee, Patrick, and Andrew under her wing.

  Mitzi took the children to school and said she’d do so as long as I needed help. Then she made me a big batch of chicken soup. I tried to sip some every two hours. Mitzi also bought me some over-the-counter medicine and a vaporizer, all of which helped. By the time the weekend was over I knew I was strong enough to take my children back to school.