THE FIRST TIME I WAS FALSELY ACCUSED
 |
| (Wizard of Oz) |
My sister Kadey is a witch. No, not the
kind that flies around on a broom and wears a black hat, but that’s how I think
of her. In six decades she hasn’t given many reasons for me to change my
opinion.
Our parents believed she was the
perfect kid, the angel in the family. She patterned after them; she could be
cruel in the name of God. They openly showed their prejudice and favored her
over the rest of us.
There were six of us. She wasn’t the
oldest kid. She wasn’t even a boy. She was the second in line and two years
older than me.
(great swamp Baptist church)
|
Sharing a room with her caused me a lot
of grief, many a night sleeping on the floor, and a crescent moon shaped scar
on my left forearm.
When Kadey was around twelve going on
sixteen years old, she wielded our father’s wooden yard stick, a piece of
yellow chalk, and measured off the middle of our room. Half for her. Half for
me.
We shared a double bed. She shoved it
to the exact center of the back wall.
Her desk went on her side, my desk went on mine. She used masking tape
and stuck it to the marks she made on the floor, walls, and yes, even on the
sheet down the center of our bed. She tore up the top sheet, gave half to me,
and she took the other. If my foot, hand, or any other part of me accidently
touched her side of the bed at night, she kicked me back to my side and onto
the floor. I learned to keep a rug there. It served as a pad and helped to
soften my fall.
My parents knew I slept there along with
my dog. They said I was being stubborn and did nothing to intervene.
Kadey was a clothes hog. Our closet was
the only thing that she did not divide evenly One-fourth was for me,
three-fourths was for her. When she wanted to iron her clothes, she had me move
my desk out of her way so she could set up the ironing board. Kadey didn’t want
to mess up her side of the room with her pile of clothes. She also needed to
prove she was boss. I was afraid of her so I usually did what she said until
one time, I refused.
I was studying at my desk for a test. I
had my books and study notes organized the way I needed them to be. If I moved,
I would have to wait until Kadey was finished ironing and then start over
again.
Kadey plugged in the iron and stretched
the cord so it reached my side of the room. She flexed her talons and screamed,
“Get out of my way!”
I cringed and felt fear rise in my
chest but I declined to look at her. A cloud of steam hissed through the holes
in the bottom of the bulky General Electric iron.
My sister waved the iron around,
advanced towards me, and branded my arm. My skin sizzled. I smelled my flesh
boil. A blister immediately formed. I screamed, jumped over my chair, out the
door, and scrambled down the hall.
My parents heard the commotion and ran
into the hallway towards us.
Kadey
joined my father with the iron still in her hand. She had pulled the cord out
of the wall. A tiny piece of my blistered skin stuck to the edge.
My father glared at me and said, “Stop
screaming! What did you do this time?”
My arm hurt but my heart broke into a
thousand pieces of agony. I had nowhere to run. I was wedged in the windowless
hallway between my father and sister on one side and my mother on the other.
The truth of their prejudice and favor towards one child over all of the rest
of us killed the joy of being their kid. They scolded and yelled and accused me
of being bad. They took turns yelling:
“Joyce, you are being stubborn - again.
Your stubbornness is from the devil.
You need to give your heart to the Lord
and repent.
You are our worst disobedient child.
No one will ever love you.
You won’t have any friends.
You’re headed to having a terrible
life!”
I was about ten years old at the time.
The walls of the narrow hallway closed in
around me. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. I don’t know how long my parents
took turns scolding me but after a while, their words sounded garbled. The
anger and disappointment in their faces blended and faded into the color of
paint. I shivered with grief and panic …
Please
stop.
Please
stop.
Please
stop.
They did not.
Fear and shame became a migraine of
pain. I shrunk into myself and withdrew into a tiny little box inside my mind. As
an escape from their abuse, I experienced dissociation for the first time. It
allowed me to survive. Nothing was real – it was just a dream – my parents
weren’t cursing me – they were telling me how much they were proud of me –
because of my good grades – because I tried to obey – but I was afraid.
I woke up as a pile of bones on cold
squares of linoleum tile.
My sister and father were gone.
My mother allowed me to retreat outside
and hug my dog.
Almost six decades have passed. A lot
of things have changed. Some things have
stayed the same. I understand more about post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD),
the cycle of abuse, about the misogynistic personality of my father, and the pseudo
Christian cult in which he raised us.
My father died of a global heart attack
ten years ago. That’s the kind of heart attack from which no one recovers. I
had a few precious minutes alone with him before he passed. I had time to
forgive him and tell him I loved him because, well, because he was my father.
My sister? She never answers my phone
calls. Why would she? I left the religious cult of our parents and am
considered to be a heretic. She is the executor of their estate. Their will
states she can make decisions about them without the notification or approval
of any of the rest of their other five kids.
Favoring one child over the other is not
the heritage I wanted for my children. I choose to teach justice and truth and
live with hope and joy and the gift of salvation.
For more stories on how to stop child abuse:
For more stories on how to stop child abuse:
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********
True Crime Memoir –
Survivor: As Long As I Breathe
is dedicated to:
survivors of emotional, physical, spiritual, or sexual abuse,
those who have had to bury a murdered child,
former members of a religious cult based on misogyny,
children born with Cornelia de Lange Syndrome,
and anyone who was falsely accused of a crime.
********
Joyce A Lefler is the author of
From Miracle to Murder: Justice For
Adam.
She is a facilitator for Parents of Murdered Children,
a bereavement counselor, registered nurse,
and an advocate against abuse.
Connect with her:
Website:
Facebook:
Advocacy project:
Amazon:
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