Of my 12 brothers and sisters, four are full siblings. They were my best friends, my companions and my world. We fought like regular children, but we bonded together as outcasts in our town, enduring the taunts and stares of other kids who made fun of our strange Little House on the Prairie clothing and funny braided hairstyles. I still recall the pain of hearing them yell "Polyg! Polyg!" (slang for anyone who came from a polygamous family) as I walked down the street, but having my siblings with me made it easier to bear. I have fond memories of cuddling together with my sisters and whispering late into the night.

My father repeatedly reminded all his daughters to "keep sweet," but that sugary fundamentalist slogan carried bitter implications. In order to keep sweet, you could never admit to emotions such as jealousy, anger or uncertainty. The key to living the Principle was unquestioning obedience. Never question Father. Do as he says. Never question the Prophet. When I was a child, the Prophet for the FLDS was Leroy Johnson. We called him Uncle Roy. He was a frail but animated old man who prophesied that he'd live until Christ's second coming—and then he'd be literally lifted up to heaven. If I kept sweet, he explained, I'd be taken with him. So I tried—I kept my questions to myself, prayed every day and did my best not to disappoint my elders.

Then, in 1986, Uncle Roy died and my world fell apart. He was 98; I was 15. "Why did Uncle Roy die?" I asked my father. My father responded that the Prophet was weary of our sinful ways. "But didn't he promise us that he would live until the second coming?" I wanted to know. "How can you trust the Prophet if he doesn't keep his promise?" Enough questions, I was told. We must trust Uncle Rulon, our new Prophet. He is God's mouthpiece.

But I refused to place my faith in Rulon Jeffs, an imposing gray-haired old man. Where Uncle Roy had been loving and gentle, Rulon seemed gruff and stern. He banned the dances and sporting events that had brought the community together. Disheartened by these changes, I no longer accepted the aspects of the Principle that didn't make sense to me. Why did the Heavenly Father require men to have three wives in order to get into heaven? Why were women required to share their husbands, but not the other way around? Why did the Prophet need more than 50 wives? Increasingly, as I stitched my dress, I felt as if the needle were piercing my heart and soul. Who would stand beside me when I wore it? Would I be his first wife, his second or his third? Nobody could answer me. My fate had yet to be decided.

Angering my elders

My siblings and I attended the private Alta Academy in Sandy, Utah. The school was led by the Prophet's son, a tall lanky man named Warren Jeffs. Warren taught math, history and church history and led devotionals every morning. Some of our lessons were slightly modified versions of the truth. We were taught that man had never landed on the moon; it was all a staged show similar to the movie Capricorn One. Why teach us this strange fiction? Maybe because FLDS members believe that after death, worthy men may become the gods of their own planets; it threatened the order of things if non-Mormon astronauts could visit the moon.

Warren constantly warned us about the wickedness of this world: "I want to say to you young people: Leave television alone. Do away with videos. Do away with headphones and listening to radio. Hard metallic music is the devil," he said. Righteousness, he preached, meant wearing long underwear even in the blazing hot summer months. We girls were made to dress like women on a wagon train heading west and were constantly being groomed for marriage. "Learn how to keep a house, behead a chicken and cook it up for your husband!" Warren demanded.