My dad had been in the hospital for two weeks recuperating from the very invasive bypass surgery. The surgery had been successful, but it left my dad completely unable to care for himself. He required round the clock care. My mom was at the hospital with him day and night, providing the emotional support he needed. My sister, brother and I spent quite a bit of time at the hospital as well, both to support my dad, but to support my mom as well. During the weeks he was in the hospital, he was healing faster than expected and seemed to be doing quite well.

Out of nowhere, extended family started swooping in. My dad’s younger sister, Linda, flew in from Texas. My mom’s younger brother Joe flew in from Seattle. There may have been others, but I can’t immediately recall. I believe at this point I was about seventeen.

By that time, my faith in the LDS church was all but nonexistent. I only went to church when I was forced to go, and even then, I usually only stayed for sacrament meeting. On the weekends, I was going out to clubs and staying out far too late. My grades weren’t that great, and school almost seemed like an afterthought with everything that was going on at home. Even graduating didn’t seem all that important to me.

While I was glad to see my extended family that came flying in while my dad was healing, I was beginning to question their motives. Everyone seemed really tense and something odd was floating around in the air. It was almost palpable. I chalked it up to everyone being concerned about my dad. If only that had been the case.

One afternoon, my aunt Linda and uncle Joe asked that I sit down and talk to them. I went into the living room and there they sat along with the bishop of our ward. Before I could even ask what the hell was going on, they launched in and explained that they were planning an intervention on my mom. They had decided that my mom was a drug addict and that her continued use of her prescribed drugs and her behavior were going to end up killing my dad. They were planning to completely blindside my mom. My dad was scheduled to be home from the hospital the next day and that was when they were planning the intervention. They explained in no uncertain terms that I was not to interfere with the intervention, and wasn’t to breathe a word about it to my mom. It was very “you’re either with us or you’re against us, and you sure as shit better be with us or else.” It was explained that my little brother and me were not initially going to be part of this intervention, but if my mom didn’t agree to go to rehab, we would be brought in, because we could be the key to making this a successful endeavor because my brother and me were closest to my mom. Out of all of what was about to transpire, I think this is what has scarred me the most. They were exploiting the close relationship I shared with my mom, and worse, they were going to do the same thing to my little brother.

And where, you might ask, was my older sister while all this was going on? Well, she had conveniently moved out of the house at this point and was living with friends in an apartment. I resented her for a very long time for leaving my brother and me alone to deal with all this, but I know now it was the only way she felt she could survive. As far as my sister is concerned, I have been able to forgive her for her part in what happened. She had helped coordinate this entire intervention. My mom’s older sister Karen, younger brother Joe, both of them recovering alcoholics and AA poster children, along with Bishop Chapman had been the masterminds behind everything that was happening. With all the time that has passed, I realize she was mainly just another pawn in the game

Mandi and my parents had a very rocky relationship after my mom began to get sick. Mandi was a party girl. She was drinking, experimenting with drugs, and having sex. Looking back, I’m sure this was her way of acting out and trying to deal with what was happening. When she was still living at home, she was gone most of the time, at her boyfriend’s house, her friends’ houses, basically anywhere she could be other than home. She loved my mom, I knew that, but she pretty much didn’t want anything to do with her. Mandi blamed her for tearing apart our family and causing all my dad’s health problems, and was pretty vocal about that.

And, while we’re at it, you might be asking, what did my dad think of all this? Later I learned that he agreed to it, because he was too weak to fight. This was quite literally an ambush and given his weak state, he was in a very similar position I was in. This was going to happen and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do to stop it.

I was in shock. I couldn’t even begin to process all this information as it was flying at me. The only thing I could think of to say was “What?! You’re doing this the day my dad comes home from the hospital after having MAJOR SURGERY? ARE YOU NUTS? My mom isn’t a drug addict!” But they weren’t listening. The really compassionate response I received when I asked this question was, “Your dad’s arteries are clear from the surgery. He’s just fine.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This was going to happen no matter what I did. And really, what could I do? I was one person up against all these people who were on a Mission- determined to do what they were going to do, and God save the people who tried to get in their way. They were armed with the weapons of God.

I told them flat out that I wanted absolutely nothing to do with the intervention, and not to ask, but they made it clear that I probably wouldn’t have much of a choice. The phrase they kept using was “do you want your dad to die? Because that’s what’s going to happen if you don’t cooperate. In fact, it’s quite possible you’ll lose both your parents!” They also let me know that if my mom didn’t cooperate and go to rehab, social services would be called and it was very possible my brother and me would be taken in by the state and placed in foster care. I know now that my dad never would have let that happen, but at the time, the threats were very real, and utterly terrifying.

I was told to go to my friend Josh’s house the next afternoon and stay there until I was called. I spent the next day with Josh, as instructed. I told him everything that was about to go down. He was as dumbfounded as I was. He loved my mom almost as much as I did. But like me, he felt helpless. He gave me as much support as he could, and I will never be able to repay him for that. I never would have made it through without him.

It was becoming late in the evening and I still had not received a call. I was on tenterhooks waiting to hear what was happening. Around 9pm, the phone rang. I was surprised to hear my mom’s voice on the other end of the line. She was absolutely livid. Her anger was almost seeping through the phone. She told me to get home right then. The tone in her voice made me really uneasy. When I got home, she began to grill me about how much I knew about the intervention. I told her honestly that I knew about it, but had outright refused to participate in it. She told me she wasn’t going to rehab, and there was nothing they could do to make her go. She was hurt, confused, angry, but eerily calm about the whole thing. We sat and talked for hours, and then she asked me a question that caught me completely off guard. She said, “If I had to leave, would you come with me?” I asked her what she meant by that, and she said she might have to pack up and leave and start a new life somewhere else, and she wanted to know whether I would come with her. I had no idea how to respond. A million thoughts were swirling around in my head. I thought about the gravity of what she was asking me. I thought about never seeing my friends again. I thought about never seeing my dad again. It scared me, but at the same time, I have to admit, I was intrigued by the idea. I also knew I loved my mom and wanted to do anything I could to support her. Somewhere deep down, though, I knew the escape would never happen. She didn’t have the heart to leave behind everything she had always held dear. The idea was born from fear and anger. She was feeling cornered, and wanted to do anything she could to escape.

We talked until the wee hours of the morning, and eventually she fell asleep and I went to bed. I slept fitfully. I knew the battle was only beginning, and I wasn’t sure I had the strength to get through it. I did something that night that I hadn’t done in a long time. I prayed.

The next morning, I woke up convinced for a moment that it had all been a terrible nightmare. But as is often the case, that moment of relief is dashed when reality sets in and you remember what’s actually going on in your life.

My mom was sequestered in her room. She had locked the door and wasn’t allowing anyone in, and wasn’t speaking to anyone who tried to talk to her. I couldn’t really blame her. I think at that point I was just as angry as she was.

No sooner had I gotten showered and dressed, I was informed that our whole family, excluding my mom, were going over to the church to meet with Bishop Chapman in his office. My uncle Joe was coming along with us. I told them again that I wanted absolutely nothing to do with any of this, but again, I was told if I wanted my parents to live, I would go along with it.

We sat in the bishop’s office at the church for hours. Scriptures were read, blessings were given, and tears were shed. The bishop called on God to give my uncle Joe the right words to say to convince my mom that going to rehab was necessary. This nightmare was never going to end. At this point, I was too tired to fight them. I didn’t have anything left inside me to give. I felt a lot like I believe my dad felt; just too emotionally and physically drained to argue. I sat quietly, listening to what was being said, numb and barely hearing a word.

Another intervention was being planned. The bishop in all his infinite wisdom was convinced that this time it would work because he had two secret weapons: my brother and me. He knew my mom would listen to us, and if we said the right words, she would agree to go to treatment. We were told what we should say: if she didn’t go, we would be taken away from my mom and not allowed to see her. We were told to tell her explicitly that she was destroying our family and killing my dad. If she loved us, she would agree to go.

I would be lying if I said I remembered much about the first intervention I took part in. I can’t even tell you where it took place. One thing I remember is feeling very angry that I was being coerced to participate in something that was destroying my family. My heart was breaking and there was nowhere I could turn for solace. The bishop was right: the words were spoken, words I didn’t believe. Lies and sentences I knew were breaking my mom’s already fragile spirit. Someday I hope I will be able to forgive myself for speaking those hateful words. I felt like a puppet, being manipulated and controlled by Joe and Bishop Chapman. Eventually, my mom agreed to go to a 28-day inpatient treatment facility just south of Salt Lake City. Everyone was thrilled. Everyone but me. I looked into my mom’s eyes and I could literally see her heart breaking. I had never seen that kind of pain in her face, even through all the horrific panic attacks and deep depression I never saw her that broken. Broken, but resigned to what was happening to her. She, too, was too exhausted to fight anymore.

The next day, she was checked into the treatment facility. It was done rather unceremoniously, as was the case with much of her previous medical treatment. The only sense of relief I felt was knowing that this part of the ordeal was over. I was so drained, and spent the next few days walking around in a stupor. I was emotionally numb, but even through the numbness, I was still able to feel the pain.

The next few days were eerily quiet. The atmosphere was very subdued, but an odd electricity had also impregnated the air in our house. At the time, I thought I was just being paranoid, given all the weird shit that had come down. I learned then never to give in to a false sense of security. No matter how bad things are, I was given a hard lesson that things can, and usually do get a hell of a lot worse.

Over the years my mom was sick, she became really lonely. A lot of the depression stemmed from that, I think. People she thought were her friends had abandoned her. She couldn’t get her brothers and sisters to return her phone calls. My sister was difficult to reach. My dad was at the end of his ropes and just didn’t know what to do for her anymore; not for a lack of wanting or trying, he just didn’t know how else to be there for her.

To pass a lot of the time, my mom discovered QVC, one of the many home shopping channels on cable TV. She watched it constantly, day and night. She told me once that just hearing the presenters talk made her feel less lonely. To this very day, thinking of that just breaks my heart. Naturally though, the watching turned to buying. She began collecting porcelain dolls. They arrived on our doorstep by the dozens. Eventually we had hundreds of these dolls all over the house; some were never even taken out of the boxes. She said that knowing they were going to arrive gave her something to look forward to; a little ray of sunshine in her bleak world.

I understand now how unhealthy the obsession with the dolls was, but I also understand the reason behind it. She wanted so badly to give her life purpose and meaning, and this was one way she found that she could do it. The physical and mental limitations that had taken over her body prevented her from doing much of anything else.

I remember frequently having long conversations with my mom. She was so sad because the state she was in was completely opposite of how she’d always been. A woman that was so vibrant, energetic and full of life had been reduced to a lonely woman who rarely left her room, was too scared to be around people and whose life had become completely devoid of happiness. She cried so often because she thought of herself as being a terrible mother. There were so many things she wanted to accomplish and do, but simply couldn’t. All the facets of her former self were slipping away from her more and more with each passing day.

Witnessing her deterioration was one of the most painful things I’ve ever been through. I felt so completely helpless because there was nothing that could be done for her. Medically, everything had been tried, short of committing her to a mental institution, which she sometimes begged for. Over the years, she spent several voluntary stints at the psych unit at the University of Utah hospital. As painful as it was for her, it was the only way she could think of to get away from the house and rest. Above that, she knew being away would ease the stress on our family and more importantly, give my dad a little downtime. These periods often gave her a little more hope, but that never lasted long.

Before long, the house became neglected. My dad was in absolutely no shape to be able to keep up with it by himself, even with our help, the task was so overwhelming, we kind of threw our hands up. The house became cluttered and dirty. All of us knew it was an issue, but we hadn’t the slightest idea how to go about dealing with it.

The house itself became a catalyst in the weeks and months that followed. The time was quickly coming for my mom to return home from treatment. As I said earlier, there was an odd feeling in the air, a feeling that none of this was even close to being over with. Just a few days before my mom’s scheduled release, we were once again summoned to the bishop’s office. There, under the unassuming smile of Jesus in a traditional LDS painting that was hanging on the wall above the bishop’s desk, my nightmare began again. My mom wasn’t coming home from treatment, at least, they were going to make damn sure she didn’t come home anytime soon.

There was to be yet another intervention. Bishop Chapman, Joe and Karen, my aunt, had decided that my mom needed more treatment, but they didn’t want her at a facility in Utah. My aunt Karen worked closely with a rehab facility just outside Spokane, Washington called Sundown. This is where they were going to send my mom. It was a 90-day inpatient program, with only limited contact with the outside world.

Bishop Chapman once again told us that in order to make this work, my brother and I would need to use the close relationship we had with my mom to coerce her into going. This time, he told us we would need to tell her that we didn’t want to have a relationship with her unless she agreed to go.

The whole thing was like some déjà vu horror. I had lived all this just three short weeks before. Only this time, they were pulling out all the stops. If I didn’t do what they asked, not only was my dad going to die, but I would most likely never be allowed to see my mother again. These threats weren’t veiled, either. This was going to happen unless we did and said everything we were told.

Emotional manipulation and extortion should be punishable by law, especially when it involves kids. As helpless and scared as I felt, I can only begin to imagine how my brother was feeling. He was only fourteen at the time all this was going down, and had a far more fragile heart than me. I could see the pain and terror on his face, and I knew he felt just as trapped as I did.

The plan, as it was explained to us, was to go to the treatment center in Salt Lake City with the pretense of a “pre-release family counseling session.” We, the family, would be in a room with my mom, a counselor and Bishop Chapman. Once again, we were going to blindside my mom, just when she was becoming hopeful that she was on her way home.

The next evening, we arrived at the treatment center. I was quite literally sick to my stomach. I had only seen my mom once since she had entered treatment, as they felt that her case, family contact would hinder her treatment. I missed her so much, and the last thing I wanted to do was see her under circumstances such as this one. We waited in the lobby for quite some time, and the bishop continued “coaching” my brother and me on what we were to say. I only half listened. I hated this man so bad. He had taken this whole situation and just run with it. It began in the family, starting with my aunt and uncle, but now, Chapman was running the show. I could feel the sense of smugness and what he thought was power radiating off his skin. I could barely look at him. He had this mock look of concern on his face, but it was very easy to see through it. Just his presence there made me so angry I could barely see clearly.

Eventually, the counselor/interventionist came out and escorted us into a small conference room. She gave us the lowdown on how this would all happen, and reiterated the things we needed to say to her. She also said my mom would most likely become very agitated and upset (duh), and this would probably be one of the most difficult interventions she, the counselor, had ever been a part of. Even she seemed hesitant about doing this. I think she knew my mom really had no business being in treatment at all, let alone being shipped off to another facility a thousand miles away. After about twenty minutes, she informed us that she was going to bring my mom into the room.

My mom came into the room a few short minutes later. She saw us all sitting there and began to cry. She rushed over and hugged us, and looked terrified to let go, for fear we might all slip away. The look on her face crushed the little bit of my heart that was still intact. How could I possibly break her heart again? Every cell in my body was screaming at me to get the hell out of there. I knew there was no way this would end well. I couldn’t stand the prospect of destroying my mom’s spirit any more than it had already been destroyed. Yet again, I was left with nothing to do, nowhere to go, and no one to turn to. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. I didn’t want the moment to come, but I couldn’t wait to get it over with. The longer I stayed in this “happy” moment, the more I knew how much she would be destroyed. My heart felt like it was leaking into my shoes.

The counselor said she wanted to start the meeting with my sister. My sister stood up and began a tirade. She let my mom know why we were there, and demanded that she, my mom, stop being selfish and go to Sundown. My mom’s face blanched and turned to stone. I couldn’t look her in the eye. She immediately said there was no way in hell she was going. My sister started yelling at her. “YOU’RE KILLING MY DAD, YOU SELFISH BITCH! CAN’T YOU SEE YOU’RE RUINING OUR LIVES????”

My mom stood up and stormed toward the door, but it had been locked from the outside. She crumbled to the floor and began to sob. The counselor motioned to me to go talk to her. Everything I had been “coached” to say went right out the window. I knelt on the floor next to her, held her and told her I loved her, and would love her whether she went to Sundown or not, and that I would always be there for her, and no one could ever take that away. I told her though, that all of this shit that was going on would never stop unless she went. That, I knew was true. The only reason I wanted her to go is I knew this would keep happening over and over again, and I couldn’t take doing this again. I looked right in her eyes. She looked like a child sitting there on the floor, eyes filled with fear and confusion. I wished more than anything that I could just magically take her away from this place and make everything alright for her. She looked so trapped and helpless. I think she knew there really wasn’t any way out of this. After what seemed like an eternity, somehow, someway, she agreed to go to Sundown.

I had said this so many times before, but this time I meant it. I couldn’t take anymore. I had absolutely nothing left. I was a shell. Everything I’d ever known had been pulled out from under me. Emotionally, I felt nothing. Physically, I was so tired I could barely stand. Mentally, I felt like my entire personality had fallen out one of my ears, and it would take me a lifetime to find it again.

If it was at all possible, Bishop Chapman looked even more smug and pleased with himself. He had, after all, used his Priesthood Power to degrade an already fragile woman into doing his bidding. To this day, I have no doubt in my mind that his intentions were far from good. This man oozed evil. He smiled the entire way out to the parking lot, embraced us all, got in his car and left.

My mother completed her time at the treatment facility in Utah, then was on a plane to Spokane, Washington to enter treatment at Sundown.