Girl on a Wire

by Libby Phelps

  “OK …” I said vaguely. Reading the email while listening to Shirl’s relentless invective, I suddenly questioned her sanity. And if her sanity was in question, the entire church’s was also suspect. I had been raised to believe the church was full of honest, hardworking, pious individuals—God’s chosen elect. But despite years of conditioning, it was becoming clear to me that there was something very wrong with the way these people were behaving. Something was rotten at the core.

  “You started working behind my back on Gramps to get both Gramps and Gran on your side.” Her voice was more spiteful than ever.

  “Actually, I’ve been working on his back for a few weeks now. You can ask him,” I retorted, growing braver and more fed up with her accusations.

  “Well,” she said, “if you leave, you can never come back.” This wasn’t the first time she’d said this to me.

  I stayed silent.

  “If you’re not going to say anything, then I guess this conversation is over,” she said, disgusted. She hung up.

  I got ready for work, still struggling to process all that had just happened. I felt betrayed, like I’d been living a lie, and was slowly and painfully waking up to the truth. Through the facade of faithfulness, the mask of self-righteousness, the WBC’s true face was beginning to show.

  THE DAYS FOLLOWING THE INTERVENTION WERE THE MOST stressful of my life. I tried my best to continue on, but in everything I did, I could feel the suspicious eyes of the church watching over my shoulder. Everywhere I went, I felt surrounded by a cloud of judgment and condemnation. I had lived with that paranoia my entire life: the constant sense of being watched, the fear that if I so much as had a bad thought about my family, they would somehow find out. But in those final days, the feeling had grown so intense that it was painfully visceral.

  I felt I was being persecuted, the target of a never-ending stream of ridiculous accusations and unreasonable demands. More than anything, I felt trapped. But I still couldn’t see myself walking away from the church, leaving my family. The unknown world outside was too dangerous, too frightening. I feared for my soul. I had had the fear of hell drummed into me for as long as I could remember, and was reminded daily that eternal damnation lay in wait for the entire world outside of the church walls. The thought of leaving the church was always accompanied by images of fire pouring from my eyes and an eternity of weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, gnawing my tongue in excruciating pain. There was no way out. I fell into a deep depression, and spent most of my downtime at work crying in the basement.

  The physical therapy office I worked at in Eudora, forty-five minutes from home, was my only place of relative escape. Some members of the church didn’t like that the office was so far from home, but I was grateful to be able to put some distance between the tumultuous church and myself. This didn’t stop them, after the intervention, from barraging my cell phone with voicemails and text messages demanding that I quit my job and find another place to work closer to home. Other members, including Brent, were allowed to commute to work. I liked working in Eudora, had worked hard to get where I was, and felt their demands represented an unfair double standard. I refused to consider leaving my job. They wanted to control me as much as possible. It seemed no matter the sacrifices I made, they would never be satisfied. I ignored their messages.

  I HAPPENED TO BE CHECKING MY PHONE WHEN GRAMPS called. I had no idea it would be the last time I would speak to him.

  “How are you doing, hon?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” I replied, fighting back tears.

  “You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. In the moment, I was telling the truth. The fear of the outside world, of damnation, was still too powerful. It had nothing to offer but disease, sorrow, heartache, sadness, drugs, and alcohol.

  “I’m glad to hear that. Remember that I love you,” he said softly.

  “I love you, too,” I said, forcing a steady voice as tears streamed down my cheeks.

  I hung up the phone and immediately thought of Megan. In that moment, I realized I couldn’t stay. She and Gramps seemed to be the only ones who wanted anything to do with me. We had been as close as sisters our entire lives. I wished I could talk her into leaving with me, but I was on my own. There was no middle ground. By pushing me away, treating me like an outcast within my own family, they were forcing me to make a drastic decision.

  I thought about Sharon, who had left more than ten years ago. From the stories I heard, her life was a complete mess. Over the years, my mom had taken multiple phone calls from bill collectors because she wasn’t paying her bills. Church members also talked regularly about how she had been abusing drugs and alcohol. Shirl used stories of my sister’s misery and hardship to keep me scared, keep me close. She wanted me to believe I was no different from Sharon, that I’d fall into the same fate. I wondered if the stories were true, or if they would make up similar stories about me.

  I NEEDED TO TALK THINGS THROUGH WITH SOMEONE I TRUSTED. I turned to my coworker Meg for help. Meg and I were close in age, and she was always friendly to me at work. I considered her a friend—though, like the friends I had at school growing up, our friendship had limits prescribed by the church: you were never supposed to get too close to someone outside WBC. After all that had happened, I felt she was the only one left I could trust. I approached Meg at her work desk and blurted out what had happened—as is my style, especially when I’m anxious—and said that I was thinking about leaving the church.

  She turned her office chair away from her computer to see me leaning against the counter overlooking her desk. “What’s been keeping you from leaving?” she asked. She looked concerned. My face clearly showed how torn up I was inside.

  “I don’t want to go to hell!” I exclaimed in terror, feeling like a volcano about to erupt. Images of fiery eyes and gnashing teeth came rushing back. Never in my wildest dreams had I thought I could confide my biggest fear to someone outside of the church. But the fear had been building up inside me for so long that I simply couldn’t contain it any longer.

  “I think the only reason you’re staying there is because that’s all you’ve ever known. It’s how you were raised. It’s your lifestyle,” Meg observed. Her words were simple—obvious, even. But hearing them in that moment flipped a switch for me, and suddenly everything I had ever known came into question.

  “Yeah,” I replied nervously, too stunned by the honest power of my thoughts to say more. A wave of relief washed over me. My parents raised me to express little or no emotion, and I had just confessed my biggest fear to someone I barely knew. I was sick of the constant paranoia and the unending anxiety. I suddenly realized why the church had been so adamant about keeping us from spending time with friends outside of the church. They wanted me to have as little contact as possible with anyone who might question what the WBC was doing—what I was doing. They figured as long as they kept me contained, I wouldn’t have cause to question my surroundings, to question their authority. But they had gone too far.

  “Do you think I should move out?” I had all but made up my mind, but still valued her opinion, and I wanted to hear her say it. It was the biggest decision of my life.

  “You should do what you want. I’ll help any way I can.”

  “I don’t know how to live, though. I mean—I don’t know the process to pay bills—I don’t have a place to stay. What will I do with my mail? And last year’s tax information? And I’ll need my birth certificate …” I rambled anxiously, fidgeting with the Kleenex box on the counter and restlessly kicking my shoes into the carpet.

  “You’ll figure it all out,” Meg answered calmly. “Everyone does. Just ask questions to the right people. You can forward your mail to my place if you want.”

  “OK. Thanks! That will help a lot.” I shook my head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m actually considering this. I don’t know what to do!”

  “Well,” she said, “do you think this will
be the best for you? That’s all you need to think about. Do what you think is best for you.”

  This was the first time anyone ever asked me to think of myself, to do what was best for me. I had always been told that every thought, every action, had to be for the betterment of the church, for the satisfaction of the elders. Meg’s comment awoke a courage hiding deep within me. Thinking of my own well-being, if only for a few moments, felt alien, like I was committing a dreadful sin, but also extremely liberating.

  I can do this. I have to do this. A lightning bolt of clarity hit me all at once. I suddenly and desperately needed to get out. I now had no doubt I needed to leave the church and start a new life. After almost twenty-six years of being brainwashed into conformity, it was time I started thinking for myself and doing what was right for me. I knew if I stayed, I’d lose myself completely. Meg’s words of careful encouragement gave me hope for the future, and strength enough to take the next step forward.

  THE FIRST THING I HAD TO DO WAS CALL A COUPLE OF PATIENTS to ask if they would reschedule their appointments for later that day. They agreed, buying me what I hoped would be enough time to make the forty-five-minute drive to Topeka, get my stuff, and drive all the way back to Eudora.

  Meg and I jumped in my Honda Civic and headed for the highway. As we pulled onto the interstate, my phone rang—it was my dad. I knew there was no way of talking to him without Shirl and the rest of the church hearing about it; he wouldn’t understand what I was doing any more than they would. Part of me was also afraid that if I heard the soothing tone he had used to calm me down so many times in the past, I might change my mind. Seeing my turmoil, Meg gave me a look of reassurance. It rang one last time and went to voicemail.

  He left a message, saying he hoped I was having a good day. He reassured me that everything would work out; all I needed to do was talk to people in the church, and we would be able to resolve their concerns. I knew that wasn’t true. I loved my dad dearly, and still do. The regret of not answering that call is something I’ll always carry with me. We have not spoken since.

  I continued driving. Every mile marker felt hours apart. I squinted against the glare of the sun, which was still high in the wide Kansas sky. The skin on my left arm and the back of my neck reddened from the unseasonable warmth of the afternoon, and I broke into a sweat. It was only mid-March, but in my state of near-panic, the heat was almost unbearable. I noticed the tenseness of my arms and shoulders, and tried to shake it off. Turning on the air conditioning and then the stereo, I searched for a distraction.

  “And the feeling coming from my bones, it says find a home,” Jack White sang over a screeching electric guitar.

  JUST OUTSIDE OF TOPEKA, I CALLED MY FRIEND CAROL, WHO was working at the Topeka branch of the company I worked for. Carol was my boss, but I had befriended her and another woman, Faith, at the office while finishing up my last round of clinicals before getting my degree. Their office was near my house, and I was hoping that with their help, and a couple of extra cars, I would be able to get most of the possessions I needed from the house. Hearing the urgency in my voice, they agreed to drop what they were doing to help.

  Reaching Topeka, I took the Gage Street exit mechanically, still in a haze. Except for the terrible butterflies in my stomach, I felt completely numb.

  “What if I get in trouble for wearing jeans?” Meg asked as we passed Gage Park, the place where the picketing began. Carol had recently sent a message to all employees about proper workplace attire; wearing jeans was no longer allowed.

  “Meg!” I couldn’t help but laugh. “I think your choice in pants will be the last thing on Carol’s mind.” I was grateful for the distraction, and the rare moment to get out of my own head and catch my breath.

  I pulled up to the Topeka branch and ran inside to fetch Carol and Faith. We were in our cars ready to go moments later. Carol followed me in her Prius, with Faith right behind.

  We wound our way through the busy shopping center where the office was located and through the surrounding middle-class neighborhoods, passing several sites that we picketed frequently. As I turned each corner, I feared I might come upon a picket in progress. Any member of the church would recognize my car and know something was wrong. I held my breath as I turned onto Holly Lane, and my house came into view.

  I knew my immediate family would be out of town at a picket, my parents in Illinois and Sara in Massachusetts, but we were only half a mile from the church, and as paranoid and protective as the church was, it was likely that Shirl or another member would come by to check up. Given everything that had unfolded in the past few days, they were also no doubt suspicious that I might try to leave, and if Shirl had the chance to catch me in the act, she would. If she did, she would likely do more than just a lot of yelling. I was certain she’d cause a scene, but it also wouldn’t have surprised me if she called the police to try to file charges for trespassing since my parents were away and I didn’t own the house.

  WE PULLED UP IN FRONT OF THE HOUSE AND QUICKLY GATHERED at the door. My hands shook as I pushed it open. We stepped inside. OK, now what? I thought. Time was short—I needed a game plan.

  “We only have a few minutes to get this done. Follow me,” I said to the girls as we walked.

  I gave Meg, Carol, and Faith a quick rundown of the layout of the house as they followed me toward the back staircase that led to my room. Having always separated my personal and professional lives, it was strange welcoming people from the outside world into my house, people who I knew were unwelcome by the church. But despite everything I’d been told, I knew there were good people in the outside world, and it was these good people who stood by me in my hour of greatest need.

  They followed me into my room. My bedroom, with its dark-pink carpet, big bright windows, and light-pink walls, had often served as a safe place where I could take refuge from the turmoil of church life. But it was a sanctuary only while I was in it. Personal space and privacy were ridiculous notions to Shirl and the other church members, and I had always been too afraid to keep a diary or journal, for fear someone would take it and read it.

  The girls stood just inside the doorway, awaiting instruction. “I mostly need my clothes and shoes,” I told them. “I want the pictures with their frames and everything off the shelves. I also need my schoolbooks,” I added, motioning toward the objects as I listed them.

  “We can use the bedspread to wrap up the clothes. That way we can carry them all at once,” Carol suggested.

  “Great! Use the bedspread … and this blanket for the rest.” I replied, grabbing a pink Hello Kitty throw blanket and laying it out flat onto the carpet.

  The girls got to work, grabbing clothes from the closets and drawers as I hastily scanned the rest of the room. I was doing my best to be conscious of taking only what was mine, which meant leaving the new shoes my mom had bought me a few days before. As a member of the church, I, like all the others, had always been provided for, spoiled even, and I honestly didn’t feel like any of it belonged to me. It wasn’t until later that I’d notice that the security and spoils of church life had always been designed to keep me in comfortable complacency. I was terrified of moving out into the unknown world, but I knew the time had come to create my own life.

  I emptied my green pillowcases of their pillows and began shoving framed family pictures and other smaller belongings into them. I threw my schoolbooks and other notebooks, along with my high school yearbooks and a Bible, into a lavender backpack.

  “OK?” asked Meg, referring to the two large piles of clothing on the blankets.

  “Perfect. Now we can take everything downstairs and leave it by the door. After we’ve got it all there, we’ll run to the cars and pack them as quickly as we can. I don’t want to cause a big scene.”

  “Why did I wear these high heels?” Faith exclaimed, as she stumbled down the stairs, laughing.

  Carol paused a moment to wipe the sweat off of her brow. “And why, out of all days, did I choose to wear
a cashmere sweater—it’s hot!” she added, as she tried to roll up her sleeves, only to have the limp fabric fall back down to her wrists.

  I was extremely grateful for the girls—for their help, and their distractions. I was still in a state of disbelief about what I was doing. The feelings of almost overwhelming doubt and dread wouldn’t subside. But in my panicked state, the girls offered a much-needed dose of humility and humor. I’m sure they were as nervous as I was. We had no way of knowing if someone was about to walk through the door to try to stop us. They were willing to take that risk and, like true friends, were ready to support me and my choice to escape from the church any way they could.

  “Do you think anyone will come and try to stop us?” Meg asked.

  “I don’t think so, but let’s hurry up just in case,” I said.

  The last items to go down the stairs were the biggest: my turquoise papasan chair, a small dresser with multicolored drawers where I kept many of my most sentimental possessions, a black bookshelf, and a small lingerie chest I could use to store my clothes. Working together, we were able to get these down the stairs and to the front door.

  After several frenzied trips through the house, we had everything piled in the entryway, ready to go—nearly twenty-six years packed in thirty minutes. We rested for a moment, trying to figure out how we would fit everything into the cars.

  “Let’s take the chair and the other furniture out first, and we can pack my clothes and everything else around them,” I said, then stopped as I realized a car was coming down the street. I didn’t recognize it and let out a sigh of relief. As I watched it turn the corner, a wave of excitement struck me, despite all the stress. I opened the door and stood for a moment, drenched in sunlight. A new life sat waiting for me in the form of three empty cars, only a few yards away.

  Once we got as many of my belongings as we could fit into the cars, the girls agreed to wait while I went back up to my room for one final look. I had been moving as if in a dream, still half convinced I would wake up to find it hadn’t happened at all. The only way to maintain my sanity was to disconnect, to not think about the magnitude of what I was doing, or all of the heartbreaking consequences I would soon face. Even in that state of shock, I knew I was doing what had to be done, though it meant leaving everyone and everything behind—all at once and with no good-byes.