I changed my mind and decided to drive over to Dee’s house. I couldn’t just
stand in the doorway waiting, with my coat on. What if Jerry came in and saw me
standing there?
As I pulled into Dee’s driveway, her husband, the bishop,
walked out the front door. I got out of the car and hurried over to him.
“I was coming to see Dee, but, bishop, I believe it’s you
I’m supposed to see,” I said, my chin quivering. The Holy Ghost planned it
perfectly.
The bishop didn’t hesitate and invited me in, though I knew
he was probably headed out to see someone else. I felt for the cold metal of
the blue phone in my pocket as I walked into the house. Both ired and afraid, I
shook and shivered as we went downstairs into his basement office. The sting of
humiliation followed me and, I knew, would be a constant companion in the
coming weeks and months.
I spent about an hour confessing my life with Jerry to the
bishop. Nobody knows our whole story. I’m sure the bishop found it hard to
believe. After all, my husband was once a bishop, too. He’s this bishop’s
second counselor now!
But he didn’t judge me. He didn’t show shock. He didn’t exhibit
disbelief in my words.
It’s not the first time I’d been to a bishop. No bishop ever
believed me when I told him about the abuse I endured, until one finally did. That
bishop who believed helped me and I am forever grateful to him. In fact, the stake
president who was just released believed me, too.
Other bishops followed and all I got was, “But Jerry’s a
great guy. He’s always helping people.” I
couldn’t explain it myself, so how could I ask them to understand?
The stake president when Jerry was bishop actually showed me
the door when I came to him depressed, confused. I told him Jerry was acting
strange, he yelled a lot, had a lot of anger, road rage.
In mid-sentence, that stake president got up and walked over
to the door. I thought, I didn’t hear
anybody knock. He opened it and pointed his hand at me, then to the hallway,
signaling me to follow his hand out the door. I couldn’t believe it. I was
about as low as I could get that day; suicidal—again.
Jerry moved a twin bed into his sparsely-decorated man cave
tonight. I don’t even want to be in the same house with him. I am disgusted.
I’m venting now. I’m exhausted. I can’t eat. The thought of
food makes me want to throw up. I don’t know what will happen to me or to my
family. A husband, a father, is supposed to be a protector. He’s supposed to
take care of us.
I’m afraid to go to bed and I’m afraid to wake up in the
morning. Tomorrow is church. I’m a counselor in Primary, the children’s Sunday
School. The Primary president is pregnant and she doesn’t need me calling her to
say I won’t be there tomorrow.
Please, Lord, let me fall asleep quickly. I am the waking
dead right now. I need to sleep. I want to crawl under the covers and forget
this day ever happened. I just want to die.
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