Beyond Belief (20 page)

The two large, floral women sitting in front of me gasp audibly. Their heads turn toward each other and appear frozen in shock. Within seconds their shock melts, and each individual head slowly bobs in agreement. “Amen” they repeat in unison. I just stare straight ahead. I don’t nod my head.

My throat burns, indignation wells up from deep in my chest. A faded picture flashes across my mind. I see a familiar dingy couch; a slight blonde woman lies on it scowling at a young
girl. The woman on the couch clutches a bottle of pills in her hand. Her mouth moves. She spits threats over the small girl, who cowers on the floor. She is going to take the bottle of pills and kill herself, because no man will ever want a woman with three kids. The girl tells her mother she is sorry, she will try harder to be good. The girl feels her stomach cramp up; she is afraid of what will happen if her mother swallows the pills this time. Her world will break into pieces. Her mother seems to know this. The girl holds down her bitter hatred and begs her mother to stop. She strains to say the right words and holds her breath until her mother is appeased. The girl wonders if her words will work one more time, or if this will be the day she has feared so many times would come. The girl watches in horror as she wrestles the pills from her mother’s hand.

Hot tears sting my eyes and my hand shoots up in the air. I don’t think about what I am going to say. It comes spilling out.

“I’m sorry. I have to disagree with that. I can’t believe that a child would be better off with a mother committing suicide than she would be in day care.”

The shock and horror on a dozen faces slowly begins to reflect my outburst. The instructor breathes in sharply. “Are you saying you would put your child in day care?” the instructor asks me. I feel hot in my seat. My son fusses and I shift him in my lap trying to quiet him.

“I am saying,” my voice quivers, “that no child would prefer to be with a mother who is going to commit suicide over simply going to a day care center. And I think it is ridiculous to compare the two. Of course he would be better, and safer, in day care than with a mother in the home with severe mental illness!” I say it louder than I mean to. Every eye in the room is on me.

The teacher squares her shoulders. Her eyes narrow and harden. “You are wrong. Listen to the words of the prophets. A mother’s place is in the home,” she draws in a deep breath. “Period.” The last word is firm and final. The room is silent. My son slides down my lap onto the floor. I stand. I reach for the diaper bag, my purse, and my son’s small hand. I open the door and walk out of the Relief Society room.

I walk the few short steps to the set of doors at the back of the church. I open the first set of double glass doors to the vestibule in the back of the meetinghouse; my son lets go of my hand and immediately finds a place on the rug to sit. He is gleeful to find such a fantastic place to play. The small vestibule is the perfect playpen; two sets of glass doors gives an excellent vantage point between the familiarity inside and the freedom of the world beyond the glass. He feels safe and he feels free.

I wish I could feel the same safety and freedom. Instead I stand with my hand resting on the handle of the outside door. I stare out at the parking lot. I could leave. I am angry and confused, the words still cutting through me. My heart and mind tell me she is wrong, they are wrong. But I have always been told that when the prophet speaks, the thinking is done.

I close my eyes. I remember my mother on the couch clutching the pill bottle, her thin fingers wrapped tightly around it as I try to pry them free. I think, could that be better for my son than a room full of toys and children his age? But then shame floods over me and I think: How could I have left the meeting?

I could leave more than just the meeting. Right now I could walk out of this church, for good. I picture myself carrying a stack of books, strolling across the lawn of a small college campus. Exhilaration pulses though my arms and legs. For a moment, I
think, I can have it. I could do it. I could walk out the door and take a stand. I have seen other Mormon women do it. Why not me?

I could leave my family sitting in their classes inside the church. What would happen to me then? What would that mean for my children? I look out the doors into the brightness and think of the day I got married. If I left now, that day could become a bitter memory. I don’t know if I would have a marriage if I left my faith behind. Everything is tied up in my faith.

Nausea passes over me. I hold my breath to stop myself from throwing up. Morning sickness lasted for the entire pregnancy the first time around and shows no signs of stopping this time. I don’t know if I want another baby after this one. If I stay, will that be okay? Can I decide that for myself, or will the pressure from family and church leaders be too great? I have no idea how much power I am going to have over my own life.

But outside these doors, I have no idea how much safety I will have. I have no idea what is out there for me or my children. I have no education. What could I do to support my children if my marriage did not survive?

I see my husband’s face and think of the others, our family and friends and all the people who taught me in church classes when I was a child. I think of the way they look at me when they see me holding my adorable son. If I walk through those doors, or even if I go to school after the baby is born, will they still look at me with affection? Or will their looks harden, will their arms withdraw?

My eyes open. I look down at my smiling little boy. I know what I have to do.

I turn back, back to the warm blanket of rigidity and rules and order. I humble myself and head back into the fold. I can’t walk through that outside door. Not yet anyway.

Poisonous Promises

Grace Peterson

I
’m a nervous wreck. While Steve handles the twists and turns on this stretch of highway, I take in the April landscape, swallowing the rising urge to jump out of the car. It’s rare to have alone time with my husband, and if I could mute the steady oration of death-and-doom scenarios clogging my gray matter, this drive might actually be enjoyable. Anxiety has been a faithful companion since childhood, but now, at thirty-three, with the birth of baby number four, the volume has been seriously upped. After several futile rounds of bargaining with God, we’re taking a leap of faith, and traversing the unfamiliar countryside to seek help from a stranger.

The seed for today’s trip was planted years ago, when Steve and I agreed to visit the church of a friend. From all appearances, it was a harmless, even docile congregation, calling themselves
Bible Believers. The sign by the road read
CHRISTIAN CHURCH
, and beneath it was an open invitation to all who wanted to learn more about the Bible. From the pulpit, I remember, the pastor declared that bad thoughts were “the work of the devil.” He said to rebuke those thoughts “in the name of the Lord.” I remember I had to look up
rebuke
in the dictionary. Steve was twenty-one then; I was seventeen, ignorant and impressionable. And I felt helpless over that persistent finger strumming the panic wire in my brain.

The journey from believing my
thoughts
were demonic to believing I was completely demon-possessed took several more twists and turns down the road of indoctrination. Choosing Christianity seemed like a credible solution to a life of ambiguity, where questions piled upon themselves and formed a convoluted tangle of disillusionment—the kind of life that results when parents have more pressing matters than their children to attend to. Embracing the ready-made answers for the obscurities of life, the afterlife, and the end of the world, coupled with regular church attendance, gave two lonely souls a sense of belonging—and a sense of purpose. Unfortunately faith did nothing for my anxiety, forcing me to up the ante in search of the so-called rest for the weary the book of Matthew promises.

Although I was much more determined than Steve, we continued our search for pieces to a nebulous life-puzzle, eventually crossing the threshold from mainstream Christianity into fringe extremism. There was something innately gratifying about being radical, as it played on my longing to be intellectual with the best of them. Looking back, I know I was deluded into believing I had finally achieved enlightenment, and the more I immersed myself in the language of my new, edgy spirituality, the more deluded I
became. In our little circle, we discussed what was wrong with the world and how our version of things was so much better—if only people would stop being so self-absorbed!

I
T’S LATE MORNING WHEN
Steve parks under a large weeping willow. As I watch its lower branches dangle and dance in the slight breeze, I suddenly minimize my troubles and feel extremely foolish for coming here to ask a total stranger for a cure. I’m always so impetuous, jumping without calculating the distance, diving in with little respect for the undercurrents and where they might take me. And here I go again.

A fiftysomething man opens the door to Steve’s reticent knock. Our eyes meet briefly and a rush of icy air grips me as I confirm that this is the man I’ve seen from a distance at church, Brock, the man with haunting blue eyes and a slightly self-aggrandizing stance. He’s even more intimidating up close.

Brock ushers Steve and me to his modest living room. As we situate ourselves on the generous sofa, I’m immediately drawn to the huge picture window on the opposite side of the room. It provides a repeat of the view I memorized from the car window and helps me get my bearings.

As Brock claims the chair beside us, I get a sense that this is his preferred seating arrangement and that Steve and I have unwittingly conquered our first assignment. Although he seems genuinely glad we’re here, I can’t help feeling like we’re intruding.

Brock leans back in his chair, crosses one leg over the other, and with full inflection reveals his gritty frustration with the modern-day church. This immediately appeals to my fringe thinking. Later I’ll learn that this is his way, charging ahead with
his opinions in an effort to either influence people or get them to object and force a debate.

Steve is not a debater. He fidgets a bit with his hands and nods, looking for points of agreement while I study the landscape outside the picture window.

Eventually, either satisfied that he’s gotten everything off his chest or detecting my impatience, Brock leans forward, looks directly at me, and asks, “So, what are you afraid of?”

Stifling a burst of resentment over his brash intrusion, I swallow, take a deep breath, and begin my confession. “Um, well, I’m afraid of everything,” I mumble, looking down at my sweaty hands. “I feel like something bad is going to happen all the time. And sometimes I can actually see it happening in my mind, like the car going off the road or the house crumbling on top of me. Plus I have these really grotesque images of cutting and torturing people.” With that, I quickly glance at him, feeling an infinitesimal sense of release. Like this small admission of a breach in my sanity has in some obscure way begun to heal it.

Another sigh. He shifts, gives me a half smile, and asks about my family history.

“My parents got divorced when I was nine,” I say. “My dad was angry and physically abusive. My mom was distant and uncaring. My parents didn’t like kids. We were all basically ignored.”

“What do you remember about your grandparents?”

“My grandpa died when I was nine, so I don’t remember much about him, just riding in his car. I don’t remember where we went though.”

Unlike professional therapists who, I’ll later learn, often find it imperative to keep their assumptions to themselves, Brock nods, smiles, and states emphatically, “Your grandfather took you places and molested you. Was he a Mason?”

Took me places? Molested me?
His statement is alarming and highly implausible, but I’ve heard about people blocking out memories. I just never felt like I had done that. Then again, how would I know? I feel shaky. With little time to process this bombshell, I feel compelled to say something. “Um, I think so . . . ” I struggle to recall images of my grandparents’ home of so long ago. Then I see it. “I remember his red hat,” I blurt. “I wasn’t supposed to touch it.” It’s the first memory I’ve had of my grandfather in years.