My Story (32 page)

I had my life back. I had a future. Everything that had been stolen had been given back to me.

I thought back, my mind drifting into memories that were powerful and very clear. Waking up that night, right there in that very bed, the same yellow light filtering through the window and a long knife at my neck. Hiking up the mountain. Asking Mitchell that, if he was going to kill me, he do it near the trail where my body could be found. Walking into the high camp and meeting Barzee. Her cold smile. Her hard embrace. The white robes. The first time that he raped me, Barzee sitting passively outside the tent.

All of these memories came flooding into my mind.

But there were other memories that I lived through that night as well.

Memories that gave me hope. Memories that gave me comfort.

The constant feeling that I was not alone. That God had never left me. That He was as close as any prayer.

The assurance that my grandfather had been called back home so that he could walk beside me, my heavenly bodyguard.

The night I had been given a cup of cold water by my pillow.

The night that it rained.

The reassuring voice that I had heard when I was standing in the fountain, the cool water washing over my feet. Wanting the water to wash my soul away, I had resolved again,
Whatever it takes to survive this. Whatever it takes to live.

The young man in San Diego who had brightened up my Christmas by giving me a radio, allowing me to hear some Christmas music, even if only for a while.

The people who volunteered to feed the homeless on a day when they wanted to be home with their families.

All of the people who had searched for me. I was only beginning to understand everything that they had done. They had kept the search alive. They were the key to finding me! Were it not for them, no one would have recognized me once we had returned to Salt Lake City. Were it not for them, I’d be confined up on the mountain instead of lying in my bed.

All of the people who had stopped to give us a ride, or give us food or give us a little water as we hiked back from California.

Yes, I had lived through many miracles. I had experienced tender mercies that literally kept me alive. I had been carried by the love of others, and in many ways I had been blessed.

Rolling over, I pulled the blanket around my chin and thanked God once again that I was home.

November 2010

It had been almost eight years since I had seen Brian David Mitchell. During that time I had finished high school, pursued a degree at BYU in music performance, had a few boyfriends, been to a lifetime of receptions, got a new dog, enjoyed many nights with my family, and made a lot of friends. I’d been skiing and camping and riding on my horse. I had enjoyed picnics and vacations and warm summer nights in my backyard. At the time of the trial, I was living in Paris, where I was serving an eighteen-month volunteer mission for my church. I had been able to come home and spend a few days with my family during the trial, but I looked forward to going back and finishing my service to the wonderful people I had come to love in France.

During the same eight years, Mitchell had been locked up in jail. He had told a thousand lies and sung a thousand songs. He had pretended that he was crazy and manipulated a few doctors into believing that his insanity was real. He had continued to insist that he was a holy prophet and that he spoke to God. He had pretended that he was sick, sometimes dropping into seizures upon the floor. He had been betrayed by his own wife and faced a dozen different prison cell mates, none of whom appreciated what he’d done. He had become a media sensation, his bearded face and narrow eyes making him one of the most recognized criminals in the world.

Now it was time for him to face the law.

*

The Federal Courthouse is a large, tan, neoclassical sandstone building in downtown Salt Lake City. It has a fenced parking lot in the back, but all of the entrances are visible to the public. A large crowd had gathered outside the courthouse, many of them photographers and television crews who were frantic to get any kind of picture that they could publish in the press. I could hear them shouting as my unmarked van pulled into the court parking lot. Surrounded by my family and a few key supporters, including a young woman named Katy Lund who had served with me in France and had become my closest friend, I was escorted into the courthouse through a back door. Ducking out of sight, I tried to ignore the press.

We were taken into a private room to avoid the boisterous crowd that had assembled in the courtroom. Finally, and at the very last moment before the judge was to get the trial started for the day, I was taken into the courtroom. It was everything that you’d expect. A raised box for the jury. High ceilings. A beautiful wood dais for the judge. The courtroom was absolutely packed. I was led to a seat behind the prosecuting attorneys and their staff.

A few minutes later, a large door to the right of the witness stand was pulled open. Everyone waited, but no one appeared. Then I heard him singing. It was not a beautiful sound. It was sick and scratchy and the song was nearly unrecognizable. It seemed to take a long time, but he finally walked into the room.

And there he was in all his glory: Brian David Mitchell. Immanuel David Isaiah. The Holy Prophet of his God.

His eyes were almost closed and his head was tilted upward just a little bit. He was thin, his cheekbones sunken underneath his hollow eyes. He wore the same beard but it was fuller now and he had the same long hair. His hands were cuffed in front of him and another chain ran around his back, holding his arms to his sides. The chains around his ankles made it difficult for him to walk, so he waddled into the courtroom, the sound of his chains clinking through the quiet room. He wore a simple pale shirt and loose-fitting pants. He was completely surrounded by security guards but he seemed to ignore them. Walking into the courtroom, he kept on singing, an awkward and lonely sound. His guards escorted him to his seat at the table with his defense attorneys. The guards helped him to sit down, but with all of the chains around his hands and feet he seemed to fall into his chair.

And there he sat, his eyes closed, his head back, his voice filling the courtroom as he sang.

I didn’t take my eyes off of him. I
wanted
him to look at me. But he didn’t. He kept on singing, his eyes closed. But I knew that he knew that I was there.

I was anxious, mainly because I didn’t know what to expect. Not on any level. I was walking into the dark. What was he going to do? What was he going to say? How was he going to react when he finally looked at me?

I thought he might stand up and shake his fist, telling me to repent. I thought he might scream out that I was an unfaithful wife who had betrayed the Lord’s servant. I thought he might tell me that I had failed my earthly mission. I could imagine him doing any number of crazy things

But as I sat there, I realized I really didn’t care.

Nine years had passed since he had snuck into my room to kidnap me. My life had gone on. And I had been able to do what my mother had told me.
Don’t you let him steal one more second of your life. Not one more second! You be happy. You move on.

He was a nightmare, but it was over. I had woken up and I was safe now. I’d never let him hurt me or steal another moment of my life away. Soon the trial would be over, then I’d never have to see him or hear his voice or think about him again. This chapter in my life would be closed forever. I would go on with my life. Mitchell would go back to jail. I would be happy while he’d be … what?

I didn’t care.

*

The trial was long. It seemed that some of the testimonies sounded more like personal résumés of lawyers trying to impress the audience than anything designed to prove guilt or innocence. Some of the testimony made me mad. Some made me happy. Some of it bored me almost to tears. But there were parts of the trial that, even now, I can remember word for word.

At one point David Backman, one of the prosecuting attorneys, was questioning a defense witness, Dr. Stephen Golding, who was testifying that Brian David Mitchell was incapable of knowing right from wrong. Backman had a pen in his hand and he was walking toward the podium to write down some notes when he must have realized that he didn’t need his notes to make his point. He threw the pen down and began:

“Dr. Golding, is Dr. Welner a psychiatrist?”

“Ah, yes, I think so.”

“Dr. Golding, is Dr. Gardner a psychiatrist?”

“Ah, yes.”

“Dr. Golding, are you a psychiatrist?”

“No, I’m not.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

At that moment, I knew Mitchell wasn’t going to get away with it. He wasn’t going to be able to convince the jury, or the world, that he was crazy. He wasn’t going to convince the jury, or the world, that he didn’t know what he was doing. He wasn’t a prophet. He hadn’t received any visions. He hadn’t talked to God. All he was was a dirty pedophile who liked living on the streets.

And though he never looked at me, or spoke to me, or acknowledged me in any way, there was one time when we did have a final communication between us.

One morning, when things were not going very well for the defendant, Brian David Mitchell suddenly stopped singing, fell down, and started shaking on the floor. He was moaning and frothing and acting as if he were going to die. His attorneys fell beside him, cradling him in their arms. “Immanuel! Immanuel!” one of them cried.

Oh, come on, I thought. This is ridiculous! All of us know this isn’t real.

The paramedics came running into the room and got him positioned on a gurney. It was then that Mitchell rolled his head to look at me. He stopped shaking. He stopped moaning. He looked me straight in the eyes. He seemed to smile an evil grin. It was almost as if I could hear him talking, the look on face was so clear:
See! I have won, Shearjashub! I have won! Even now, when I am chained, I can do exactly what I want to do. If I want to finish this trial, I can make it end for the day. God has protected me. God will always protect me. I am His servant. And you are my wife!

But even as horrible as he was to look at, nothing in that moment scared me or made me flash back. It didn’t make me shrink away. It didn’t make me cower. I wasn’t afraid of the present. I wasn’t afraid of what might come. I knew that I could stand on my own two feet. I knew that Mitchell would never hurt me again.

So I returned his cold stare, never looking away.
No, Brian David Mitchell, I am stronger than you. I’m not afraid of my future. And I’m not afraid of you. Not another second will I give you. I will live and I’ll be happy. That is how this story ends.

We seemed to stare at each other for a long moment and then the paramedics wheeled the gurney away.

When I go around the country and talk to different groups, I always get asked the same questions. “How did you survive?” and “How did you overcome what has happened to you?”

The answer to first question is pretty simple. The main reason I was able to survive is because of my God, my family, and my community.

The answer to the second question is a little harder to explain.

*

I think a few people might look at me and almost not believe what I say. Some of them might think, given the fact that I haven’t received any professional counseling, that something must still be wrong with me, that I’m hiding my wounds or putting on a happy face. Some might think that I’m carrying a bit of baggage, or that there are certain things that I’m not ready yet to face.

But it’s very important to stress that every survivor must create their own pathway to recovery. What works for one might not work for another. Therapy, medicine, and counseling might be the right path for some people, but not for others. The fact that I chose a pathway to recovery that worked for me is not to suggest that it’s the best path, or that it’s the only path. The only thing it suggests is that I found the path that worked for me.

My parents made it very clear that they would do whatever it took to help me. Every option was on the table. Counseling. Therapy. Doctors and medication. Whatever it took to secure a happy future. But while we talked about the possibility of therapy or counseling, I never felt it was the right thing for me.

So how was I able to get past all of the horrible things that happened?

First, I want to remind you of my mother. There are certain pains that only a mother can really feel, exquisite and intense, and my mother endured them all. She endured them day and night. She endured them for nine months. She wondered if I was dead. It’s one thing to lose your child, but it’s something altogether different to have your child stolen our of her own bed. She endured months of bitter scrutiny, with some of most horrible things being said about her family. In her darkest hours, she imagined all of the suffering that I might be going through. And now she knows about it, the pain that I endured and things that I was forced to do.

But she didn’t let any of these things stop her. She remains the strongest woman I have ever known. She is full of faith and hope and optimism.

So you see, I come from a very strong mother. In fact, I come from a long line of strong women. Maybe I inherited a little of their stock.

And there is also significant historical precedent that indicates that what I’ve been able to do is not terribly unusual.

The truth is, history is replete with stories of human suffering. The world has been full of brutality and abuse and suffering since the beginning of man. There are examples of those who suffered abuse as I did, maybe in different forms, or from different sources, but I am not the first one to suffer at the hand of an evil man. And there were other kinds of challenges. Some of my own ancestors were early pioneers. They faced suffering and starvation, the loss of their children, the loss of other loved ones. They too endured the gamut of emotions, from utter devastation to lifesaving miracles. But the human spirit is resilient. God made us so. He gave us the ability to forgive. To leave our past behind. To look forward instead of back. I’m not the first one who has ever done this. People have been doing it for generations. Since the beginning of time, men have found ways to heal.