Now go, write it before them
that it may be forever and ever
The first journal
My mom bought a blue journal for me when I was four years old. She’d sit with me on the living room couch, ask me about my day, and write down whatever I said. The very first entry on November 3, 1980 begins like this:
“At school I did something that I shouldn’t have done. And I did something terrible I was supposed not to do. I pulled out gum and stuck it on the floor accidentally. And the teachers got it off today. That was it.”
I love that she wrote down what I said word for word, funny little kid speak and all. Occasionally my mom would insert her own commentary in cursive. In the next day’s entry about falling down and hurting my forehead wherein I claimed, “it blooded and blooded and blooded,” she wrote, “I don’t know how true this story is.”
Under most entries, I practice writing my name in block letters: JESSICA M, and draw pictures of whatever we talked about.
I can’t remember if my mom purchased my journals at Deseret Book, a Mormon bookstore chain, or at the church distribution center. Whoever it was sold my blue journal with Isaiah 30:8 quoted on the front (no pressure) for years. I have 10 volumes (counting the first spiral-bound version my mom started) on a shelf in my office closet, but there should be 11.
Matthew has the 11th in a storage unit somewhere.

I mean, I guess I don’t know for certain if he still has it. But he was hoarder when I knew him, so I assume nothing has changed. Though I’m not sure what happens to a prisoner’s belongings if they’re jailed for life? Maybe my journal will end up on one of those shows where they buy the contents of unpaid storage units.
These journals are full of cringe and anyone else probably would have burned them long ago. But I love the cringe. I love seeing myself learn and practice cursive in awkward entries about third-grade recess drama. I smile as I read about how I rode my bike to my maternal grandmother’s house in 7th grade to watch Who’s the Boss in secret in her basement so I could record outfit ideas: “Alyssa Milano aka SAM: black pants with a little notch in the front. Suspenders. Striped shirt with quarter length sleeves. Pants have pleats and are blousy at the top but narrow at the calf.” I added the clearly perplexing question, “Are jean jackets out?!”
The last journal
My last blue volume ends on September 25, 1995. I’m contemplating whether or not my anniversary with Matthew is a one-month anniversary (dating from our first kiss) or a three-month anniversary (dating from the first night we ‘bonded’ over Mike’s sprained ankle). I have used some money to purchase a Frankie Valli & the Four Seasons CD and am listening to Oh What a Night on repeat because Matthew played it for me on that “Je t'aime Jessica” car stereo of his.
It’s still so early. I still have stars in my eyes. I don’t yet know that he got a girl pregnant in high school. I don’t yet know that he was sent home from his Mormon mission in Las Vegas for sexual misconduct. I don’t yet know that he went back out to finish his mission in Ogden, Utah and had more sexy fun times with a Mia Maid.
But I have heard carefully-cultivated-for-sympathy sad stories about his parents’ divorce and how he never fit in with the cool kids at school. I’ve met his mom, maternal grandmother, and two of his sisters. I’ve met his dad, paternal grandmother, and many aunts, uncles, and cousins on his father’s side. I’m drowning in his adoration — in his family’s happiness that he’s finally brought home a ‘good one.’ I am pedestaled. I am worshiped. I am fully and completely love bombed.
Without the missing volume, I don’t know when he started trickling out the strange, the controlling, the weird. I wish I could see it written out in my own handwriting with dates and justifications and the confusion and unhappiness that I’m certain must have slipped through in my writing. I wish I could read it and follow along and remember.
All I have are miscellaneous “case study” notebooks he had me set up to chart my personal development, and later, the charts I had to fill out for our weekly personal review meetings wherein I detailed how I spent my days, what self improvement books I read, and how many hours I spent on scripture study.
Matthew’s micromanaging of my life felt familiar. I’d gone from a stern and controlling father, to a stern and controlling fiancé. It wasn’t exactly the same, obviously, but it was similar enough that I didn’t question some of the odder aspects.
The best timeline I can sort out goes something like this:
June 1995 - December 1995: Intense attention. Grand romantic gestures, flowers, gifts, poems, cards, notes, declarations of undying love, etc. The wool over my eyes is thick and cozy. I accept his marriage proposal and we travel home so he can meet my family and stay for Christmas.
December 1995(?): I’m not sure if it’s during this trip to Utah when my dad has what he feels is a prophetic dream, or if it’s later. Either way, my dad has what he describes as a terrifying warning dream and tells me Matthew is bad news. Matthew had already laid some groundwork against this kind of thing, telling me that parents of girls he dated often didn’t like him and it added to his sadness and loneliness because all he ever wanted was to be a part of a close-knit family. As he did with the girls in our ward who tried to warn me away from him, he explains this away with tears in his eyes and pleads, “Don’t leave me like the others did.” He rests his head against my chest, “You are my home now.” I am torn. Lost. I am craving the acceptance and approval from my father I never really had and wanting to help and fix and save this broken man. I can’t make both of them happy.
January 1996 - April 1996: Little by little, I learn about Matthew’s troubled past, his strange two-mission situation, and start seeing more of his controlling nature. He is less romantic and more stern and father-like. I learn about the two year old little girl he calls his daughter, even though there is a question of paternity. I see his MANY storage units for the first time, packed to the ceilings with memorabilia from all the women he’s been with. I see his massive collection of old-school magazine pornography, and am shocked to my core. I’ve never seen images like this in my life and don’t know what to do with the feelings it creates or the shame it induces. My heart breaks when he holds these pictures up and tells me I must meet all of these fantasies and standards before he can get rid of the suitcases. Every once in a while he gives me one of the pictures as a gift. I’m allowed to tear up and destroy it because I’ve somehow met the confusing requirements the photo represents. Sometimes it’s because of the way I’ve done my hair or the outfit he’s dressed me in. Other times it’s because my voice sounded nice.
Meanwhile, he’s pushing gently, but persistently, against my own purity culture mindset and sense of morality, using the crushing guilt and despair when I feel I’ve been made to cross a boundary of chastity to further control me. He holds me when I cry and says, “You poor thing, you’re so broken. You don’t understand the atonement at all.” He continues to separate me more and more from my friends and family, and there’s a huge “us against the world” fatalistic Romeo and Juliet thing going on. It would be painful to read that missing journal. I remember hurting and feeling unhappy and lost, but defending Matthew, loving him, sympathizing with him, wanting to heal him, fix him, and protect him.
I view church standards, repentance, and temple worthiness as the only way I can help him and the only way I can feel happy again. I see the promised “mighty change of heart” in the Book of Mormon as the path to his happiness (temple marriage, family, children) and believe in it FULLY. I also see redemption as the only way to earn approval and support for this relationship from my parents.
April 1996: Our singles ward bishop pulls me aside and says something like this: “When you arrived, you were full of light and happiness. You did pirouettes in the parking lot. You danced. You sang. You laughed. You do none of those things now. I was afraid of this, afraid he’d pull you into his complicated and confusing world. Love shouldn’t be this hard.”
I don’t remember when or how or if Matthew influenced the decision, but I decided the only way to fix everything was to go home. I’d work with my bishop at home and Matthew would work with his bishop and stake president in PA. We’d reunite when we were both temple worthy and then get married. Marriage would fix EVERYTHING, I was certain.
My nanny contract wasn’t up until June, but I wanted to leave early. I remember arguing with Cindy and Bob, telling them I was putting my entire life on hold (referencing my engagement) and needed to go home to plan a wedding. They were baffled. I was so young! Hadn’t we only just met? Didn’t we want to date for a few years first? Wouldn’t we need an entire year to plan a wedding? I tried to explain that Mormon brides were younger, that Mormon engagements were quicker, that we didn’t live together first, that Mormon weddings were inexpensive and less involved.
They began the process to get an au pair hired from France.
The worst thing I ever did
Matthew was away on rotation at a hospital a few hours away. Any time he was gone and I had some space, I got a little more clarity. This time, that clarity meant a laser focus on getting the heck out of dodge. I packed up most of my room and buckled the girls into their car seats before driving to a shipping center. The girls fell asleep on the way. I scanned the parking lot for a cart that would hold the sleeping girls and my boxes and came up short. I didn’t know what to do; the desperation to leave was so strong.
It was a cool day in a quiet little town. The minivan had tinted windows. All I had to do was drop off the boxes - surely the girls would be fine. Yes, I was young and dumb and trapped in a terrible relationship, but this was so unnecessarily risky. Why didn’t I wait to mail the boxes until after work? Why the urgency? With all the wisdom of middle age and kids of my own, this story makes my throat close up. I’m so incredibly grateful nothing bad happened to those beautiful babies.
I mailed my boxes as quickly as I could. I would have sworn I’d only been in there for five minutes, but I don’t know, maybe it was ten. Maybe it was fifteen. When I ran out of the store, I found a white-haired man standing by the minivan scowling at me. A police officer was walking around to write down the license plate. I started to cry. “I’m here! I’m here, I’m so sorry, I had to mail some boxes.”
The white-haired man yelled at me and I cried harder. The officer made the angry man go away and with more gentleness than I deserved, asked for my license and registration. I handed it over. His eyebrows rose. “Utah? 1976? Are these your children? This car is not in your name.”
I shook my head, “I’m their nanny.”
His gaze grew sharper; less sympathetic. He took down my employer’s phone numbers and said he would have to let them know what happened.
Bob and Cindy took away my car privileges with the kids. No more swimming pools or library trips or parks. I could still drive myself to church and institute and Matthew’s house. I felt the punishment fit the crime and was just. I felt awful. Cindy and I both cried. I apologized over and over. I loved those girls. I knew better. I was so sorry.
That night when Matthew called, I told him everything. He was not happy with how I’d handled things. Didn’t I know Bob and Cindy had hired me to make my own decisions? Why did I give the officer any information? Why didn’t I just thank everyone for their concern and get in the van and drive away? Why did I tell the officer I was the nanny? I should have said I was the wife and hadn’t changed my name yet. I should have said I was sick and ran inside to throw up. I should have said my period had leaked all over and I went inside to clean myself up. I shouldn’t have said anything, just left.
I fell apart all over again. I’d handled everything wrong and badly.
Matthew gave me a clear set of instructions and my heart sunk. I was already in trouble and he wanted me to completely burn a bridge. If I did what he asked, I wouldn’t have a reference from this family for my next job. I’d probably lose contact with the kids. No Christmas cards or kindergarten drawings in the mail. My heart shattered. He’d only been training me for a few months, but I was malleable and oh so eager to prove myself. I knew what I had to do.
The next day, I carried out Matthew’s instructions. I sat on the steps next to Cindy when she got home from work. I recited what Matthew told me to say, something about how losing car privileges was unacceptable. That they’d hired me to take care of the kids and I’d done a superior job and nothing had happened in that parking lot. And then I delivered the ultimatum: if they didn’t restore my car privileges immediately, I would quit.
I remember Cindy blinking at me, confused. What had happened to the tearful resolution we’d had the previous day? Why was I acting like this? She told me if I was staying, if I wasn’t bailing early on my contract, I could earn car privileges back. She didn’t want her daughters missing out on parks and story hour permanently, but there had to be a consequence. She wouldn’t be a responsible parent if there was no consequence to receiving a phone call from a police officer. But as I was leaving early, and my heart and mind were clearly elsewhere, it felt safer to restrict my travel with the girls. She had to keep them safe; they were her number one priority.
She made perfect sense. I can still remember the way my brain seemed to fracture. One half knew I’d messed up, knew my punishment was not only fair, but better than I deserved. I knew I was already putting them in a difficult spot leaving earlier than planned and they’d been more than patient with me as Matthew had constantly brought me home past curfew over the past eight months. The other half of my brain had been molded and shaped by Matthew. I had to pass this test. I had to prove I could follow instruction and stand up for myself. He had my best interests at heart, didn’t he? He was making me do this because it would help me grow.
Shaking, I stood up and said, “I quit.” I went downstairs and called a friend from the ward — I can see her face, her short, dark, curly hair, but I can’t remember her name. She came right away and we loaded the last of my things into her car. Cindy was almost crying, “Jessica! Jessica, stop!” My two-year-old charge was peering through the stair rungs, looking lost. I swept her into my arms and told her I loved her and that I was sorry.
And I left.
I actually left.
If this was a movie on Netflix I’d be throwing things at the screen.
The friend dropped me off at Matthew’s apartment in Ardmore, PA. His room was the dining room with a cardboard box blocking the entrance to the kitchen. I did not have a car or a plane ticket, and Bob had done a ‘stop payment’ on my last paycheck, so I had very little money.
I collapsed onto Matthew’s twin bed, reeling. I had done what he instructed me to do. He would be proud of me. Surprised even. I had shown backbone. I had done the hard and terrible thing. I’d stood up for myself in the face of… in the face of… a fair consequence.
That kind of confusion was common in our relationship as he pushed me to test boundaries that didn’t really exist or existed for good reason. He seemed to want to alter my way of thinking in every way, and wanted me to position myself as entitled in every possible situation… just as he did. I still wonder what his end goal was. He wanted someone young enough to mold, yet was he molding me into a version of him? Or did he just enjoy yanking on my puppet strings because he could?
I think I paged Matthew and he called me on his apartment phone. I remember how his stern, controlling voice disappeared and he sounded shocked and even a little giddy. “I can’t believe you did it.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I think I did both. He had given me a difficult task not believing I would follow through, but I had. His creation was complete.
I don’t remember arranging plane tickets. I don’t remember how I got to the airport. I do remember driving (getting driven?) past Bob and Cindy’s house and seeing Bob outside pushing the kids on the swing — he would have had to take vacation days to watch the kids during the interim before the new au pair started. Matthew resented Bob and Cindy for occupying so much of my time; I wonder if he felt this was payback.
I remember being home again and my mom hiding in the laundry room talking to Cindy in hushed tones. Mom was trying to smooth things over by explaining how awful Matthew was and how he’d made me do this.
The lost journal
Matthew and I were semi-separated, semi-long-distance for nine months. It was hard and terrible and I was incredibly unhappy. I wrote in my journal the entire time. And one day, I found out my mom had read it.
In my family, journals were sacred. No one ever peeked in anyone else’s. They were places of honesty and truth and vulnerability. And I took mine very, very seriously.
To this day, the thought of someone else reading my journal is devastating. It was such a huge violation during such an incredibly confusing and unhappy time.
My dad sat outside my bedroom door while I cried and cried and tore my room apart. We never had locks on our bedroom doors, but for whatever reason, he didn’t barge in. He just sat cross-legged in the hall, probably praying. I know he and mom felt helpless, but no one apologized. No one said, “I’m so sorry, I was just so worried.” Nothing.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see straight. Life at home after that heady (yet confusing!) taste of freedom was already suffocating. I had turned 20, yet my dad went right back to attempting to control and micromanage my life as though I were 15 again. And now this.
I had to get out.
I called Matthew crying and he jumped at the opportunity to fly out and rescue me. When he arrived, my parents stood on the porch, tears streaking their faces. I didn’t wave. I didn’t look back.
Some friends of Matthew’s from our singles ward in PA had gotten married and were living in Provo. (Eric Huntsman if you attended BYU and maybe had him as a bishop or teacher. Nice guy. I liked his wife, too, though [strictly according to Matthew, so therefore probably not true] she flirted with my fiancé and told him when she had sex dreams about him. At that point I accepted a lot of weird.) Matthew took me to their house where I stayed for a few days before arranging to live in Ogden with my friend from high school.
I broke the binder tearing out the defiled journal pages, intent on burning them. Matthew pried them gently from my hands and wrapped the whole bundle in an elastic band. I can still see it sitting on his desk in PA. I wish I’d grabbed it when I left him for the last time, but I didn’t.
Matthew and I weren’t ‘cleared’ by our respective bishops to get married in the temple, so after staying a few days with me, he returned home. I didn’t know it at the time, but Matthew was also getting kicked out of medical school for sexual harassment. Awesome.
The Huntsmans called my parents to tell them where I was, that I was safe, and reassure them with their active/holy/married/bishop Mormonness. I’d learn later my parents were extremely grateful for his call; they were certain as they watched me drive away with Matthew that I wouldn’t be coming home again unless it was in a body bag.
Chilling, given what he later became. (Old article, he won his last appeal).
Mom & momming
It’s a strange sort of full circle story. My mom started me on the path of writing, recorded my little-kid words and bought me new journals and new page inserts when I filled one up. But after that space was violated, I never wrote as faithfully again; nor did I ever use one of those blue binders again. I kept writing (obviously) but it was forever altered.
I know why my mom read my journal. I know she was worried and anxious and scared and desperate to help. I know this, especially as a parent myself now. But the violation of my privacy still hurts, even after all this time. I hold that old yellowed bruise alongside the immeasurable gratitude that she was the first to record my words, to hand me a pen, to read to me, to spell out words I wanted to write, to show me that the littlest things in my life were worth remembering — worth recording — worth giving a voice to.
My old life and my old way of thinking would suggest that forgiveness and forgetting are vital. That I am somehow dragging myself down or holding myself back for continuing to feel the pain of a lost sacred space. But it’s just not that simple. Just as my dad wanted me to give all the Matthew ‘stuff’ over to Jesus and never talk about it again, I think talking about it is important. I think remembering it is important. I think honoring a hurt that still hurts is important.
I thought of my mom and my journals when, years ago, I took my son’s door off its hinges because he’d broken family rules. I was still deep in Mormonism and a ‘consequences’ worldview. I thought tough love was a real thing.
I thought of my mom when I lay on my floor crying, pleading with god to help me save him.
I thought of her when I drove him to an appointment with the bishop, believing I was doing the absolute best thing for his salvation, for his soul, for his heart, for his spirit, when all I was doing was violating his privacy, his trust, and forcing him into situations where he felt forced to lie.
And I thought of her when I realized the harm I’d done (with the best of intentions!) after my faith crisis. I thought of her when I sat my kids down and apologized for the personal progress interviews and the invasive questions. For teaching them that it was okay to answer private questions about their bodies and private feelings with strange men behind closed doors.
I thought of her when my relationships with my kids began to heal.
I think of her now when my kids come to me with their problems instead of trying to hide them. When they can talk with me openly and freely and without shame.
I think of her now as I write on a computer, occasionally stopping to run my fingers across the pages of my journal with my precious little-kid handwriting and her little notes in the margins.
xo