By Natalie R. Collins

In 1922 the film world gave us one of their many takes on The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints with a funny little film called Trapped by the Mormons. This 95-minute silent movie told the story of unsuspecting young women who were lured into polygamy by the evil followers of Joseph Smith, Jr.

The film, which I'm pretty sure no one took too seriously, features a missionary with flashing eyes who hypnotized young maidens from Great Britain to drag back to his harem in the "Temple of Salt by the waters of the Great Salt Lake."

This, of course, is not my story. I just borrowed the title. I was born "Under the Covenant" (which means I was born to parents who were married in the Mormon temple) in Logan, Utah, and I've never lived outside the state of Utah. Nobody lured me here. According to my mother, I chose my life-and my family-in the pre-existence. Right about now they are probably wishing I had picked some other family. "How about those Gentiles down the street?"

Nonetheless, when I got old enough to question the LDS Doctrine—which I had been taught all my life was the complete truth—I discovered I had "issues" with Mormonism. I won't go into those issues here, as so many others have done it so much better than I could, but I decided that it was time Mormonism and I parted ways.

Ha! Boy was I naive.

My parents spent the better part of ten years or so trying to lure me back in to the fold. I'm fairly certain they have never completely given up, and hold out hope that I will one day recognize the error of my ways and return to the teachings of the gospel of Jesus Christ-Mormon style. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't really blame my parents. They wholeheartedly believe those teachings, and really do just want the best for me. They just don't understand that living eternity in the Celestial Kingdom with my husband and all my sisterwives just isn't my idea of a good time.

For a lot of years I just sighed when the visiting and home teachers would show up at my door. I hid when the young boys would come around on Fast Sundays to collect their "offering." I cringed when the fliers announcing the singles ward dances and relief society enrichment courses were taped on my door. Once, while living in Salt Lake City, I received a phone call from the clerk in the ward boundaries where my apartment was located. My parents were kind enough to forward my records so that the local Mormons could find me. I still haven't thanked them for that.

This clerk, an elderly gentleman, called one evening, for a reason I no longer remember—probably because I hadn't been to Church. He started questioning me about why I wasn't going to my meetings, and I remember telling him I didn't go to Church any more. "Oh, so you're an apostate?" He said the last word with such total disgust that I was determined to get out of this religion once and for all. Of course, I was a college student back then, and had a lot to do-there were fraternity parties to attend and dates and other things that took up a lot of my time-so I never quite got around to resigning my membership.

But after I got married, starting writing my first novel, and began researching the LDS faith yet again, I discovered I could not in good conscience remain a member. So, I wrote my exit letter and sent it to the bishop of my ward, whom I had never met or spoken with.

He ignored it.

I wrote him another letter. He ignored that one, too. I called him, but one of his fifteen children (okay, I'm probably exaggerating here) said he was at the Church, attending to ward business—apparently that business did not include my exit letter.

The next time I called, I think I said something about dancing naked on his lawn, but I'm not sure.

A couple of weeks later I received a letter from LDS Church Headquarters, stating that my name (along with my husband's, who had also requested removal) had been removed. Finally, I was out. I thought.

Two years ago I discovered that Mormonism—like the old Hotel California in the Eagles' song—is something that you can check out of anytime, but you can never really leave.

My first clue something was amiss in the land of Zion was a birthday card that arrived at my house, signed by three women I have never met. It said "We love and appreciate you." I puzzled over it for a while. I've had two children, and both of those pregnancies zapped quite a few brain cells, but I didn't think that I'd totally forget three women. Surely I'd remember at least one of them.

Clue number two wasn't actually a clue. It was big, fat, concrete proof I was back being a Mormon, and I came back in a big way. My daughter came home from a friend's house and said, "Mom, did you know we're on the ward directory?" Huh? "Yeah, you're there twice, actually. Once under your maiden name, with Cambre and some kid named Robert, and once with Dad and me and Cambre."

Of course, this discovery was earth shattering. I knew how the Mormons were experiencing their incredible growth! I wanted to shout it from the roof tops! I wrote a letter to the editor of The Salt Lake Tribune, but they didn't care. They didn't publish it. No one cared that the Mormons were inventing people to raise their membership numbers. Sigh.

And who the hell was Robert? Were they just assigning spirit children now? I was pretty sure that I would remember having a son. Both my pregnancies were difficult, and both my baby girls were born by C-section. Apparently, Robert got out some other way. Let's not go there.

This is why I borrowed the title, Trapped by the Mormons. I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to do now. I could write another letter, threaten to dance naked on the bishop's lawn (I'm sure it's a new bishop by now. Surely he wouldn't have heard of me) and then wait for four years to show up on the rolls again, but I'm kind of tired of it. Someone suggested I sue. My attorney laughed at me. Apparently, the Mormon Church has a lot of money. Go figure.

So here's a warning to all you people who aren't Mormon, and who might be considering opening to the door to those nice, clean cut Mormon Missionaries who look so young and wholesome: RUN! HIDE! Bolt the windows, lock the doors and don't answer. Their eyes may not be flashing, and they may not have magical hypnotic powers, but when they talk about eternity, they are NOT kidding.