Leaving the Saints by Martha Beck

Author:Martha Beck
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780307237989
Publisher: Crown
Published: 2005-03-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 24

The Man in Tweed

I knew virtually nothing about the origins of the Pearl of Great Price when I started having flashbacks. Growing up, I’d heard my father talk a great deal about Egypt, Mormon scripture, and especially Joseph Smith. But no one had ever simply told me the story of the scripture (the Church seems committed to preventing frank discussion of the issue, brushing over it in manuals for seminary and adult Sunday school students and leaving it out of historical accounts), and I’d never really understood why my father’s work was so important. All I knew was that the faith of many Latter-day Saints had been strengthened because of what my father did for a living and that it was my duty to uphold his image and reputation.

I still felt this way after I remembered what had happened to me during my childhood, and because of this, dwelling among the Saints—once such a comforting and comfortable part of my spiritual search—came to be about as soothing as plowing a minefield. Every time some well-meaning Mormon asked me to give regards to my father, I felt such a storm of conflicting emotions I practically fell down. On one hand, I was virtually frothing at the mouth with the outrage that followed hard on the heels of every flashback. On the other hand, the Mormons around me were such good people, and much of their goodness was grounded in their religion, and their religion was stronger because of my father.

Rosemary Douglas, for example, treated me with the kind of pragmatic compassion that made the term Latter-day Saint sound completely appropriate. She told no one my secret but checked in on me almost every day, inquiring after my welfare and offering steadfast emotional support. One day we were standing in my front yard talking when another ward member stopped to say hello and tell me how much my father’s work meant to him. I smiled and said thanks.

Once he was out of earshot, Rosemary whispered, “How can you do that?”

I shrugged. “Habit,” I said. But the real answer was something closer to noblesse oblige, the burden of protectiveness an aristocrat feels for those not born into nobility. It came easily enough—I’d been doing it all my life—but it stoked the hidden fires of my anger and despair almost beyond endurance. Survivors of trauma recover by telling their stories to people and groups outside the dangerous system—in the case of child abuse, the family—that inflicted the damage. My entire community, with the exception of John and Rosemary, seemed to be part of one huge dysfunctional family, heavily invested in protecting my father.

• • •

After a few weeks of trying to cope with my situation on my own, I began seeing a therapist. True to the promise I’d given my mother, I managed to find a non-Mormon. The social worker who became my counselor (I’ll call her Mona) was a friend of a friend who lived in a largely non–Latter-day Saint mountain village an hour’s drive from Provo.

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