My bad reputation had long preceded me to NY. As I have said before the lie that went around the family when I was still a teenager was that I had wrongly accused my father of molesting me in the dark of night when Mother was at her church circle meeting and I was safely tucked in bed on the way to sleep. I did not know, of course, because the lie was acceptable where the truth was unthinkable, until 1995 when my sister Valerie asked me what happened.

I thought the only aftermath of the incident was in my mind going over and over and over the events of that night trying to figure out what I had done wrong to induce my father to do such a thing, because you see, I could not readily believe it either. Sheila had said it, “Shame on you, Janeen, you know Dad would never hurt you that way!” But he did what he did, so the blame must be mine and I tried and tried to put the pieces together in a way that fit my belief that Dad loved me and he told the truth that he was only trying to show how much he loved me.

It was only years later that I realized he did not deny that something happened. But it happened to me, and it was not a case of showing love. It was dirty and icky and traumatic, one more male figure laying his hands on me in secret, he was the fifth and I was only 16. I’d like to say that was the last nail in the coffin of my future life, but there were many more nails to come and I have, so far, survived them all.

Now back to the big lie. Why was it necessary to invent a lie to cover Dad who apparently did not deserve to be charged with such a crime, and blacken my name to the family? Was it done with purpose and intent? Or was it just another yearly campfire tittle-tattle to fill the reunion week gossip column? Whatever happened to little Janeen to make her such a mess of a person. She was the baby, she had a wonderful life…

More lies preceded me to NY. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, I lost my children because Social Services were coming to take them away and Fred and Cindi stepped up and rescued them. What a great life those children have and what a sacrifice that woman has made to raise those children. And what did I get? Shame on you for losing your children.

The truth is always the truth and lies are always lies no matter how many times you tell it or how good at it you are. I knew I was in trouble as a mother, partly financial, but mostly emotionally. I called Fred for help. Social Services was not in the picture. Fred agreed to take the children for six months while I got back on my feet. He thought ahead, or rather Cindi did, and brought legal papers for me to sign. Due to ill health I was unable to care for the children.

I still try to comfort myself with the lie that the children were better off in a two parent home with two working people and a home to grow up in. Beyond childhood I had been beaten down by ten years with a man who’s solution, even when I did not know something was wrong, was to abandon us for a few days and come back begging forgiveness and amid tears of remorse, promise to never do it again. I counted the number of places we had lived in those ten years. Including living in with family, 20 moves with all the packing and unpacking and having babies in an uncertain and ever-shifting marriage.

But as tempting as it would be to tell Fred’s story, I am here to tell mine. In the summer of 1980 the children and I spent a month at Cane Creek Park in Waxhaw living in a tent after Fred abandoned us in Charlotte and drove back to NY State. The first night I’d parked the car in the parking lot of Brookridge apartments where we had lived before we had no money for rent. The manager found us and took us in to the lounge and let us sleep there.

But here again, delving into the whole rotten story instead of focusing.

New York State. The lie stood that I had lost my children rather than that I tried to give them a better life than I had any confidence that I could give them. I had long ago been branded as a boldfaced liar, selfish, mean, a spoiled brat. But please, if someone out there was spoiling me do not come back and do it again. It was all a tale straight out of hell.

My children were not better off in the way that counted most. Their grandmother, Betty, called me up crying and begging me to “get those children out of that house!” because there was no love there, it was cold, Fred and Cindi were cold. Yes, I cried, I had done this to my children.

And yes I was weak. For a time I drank my pain away. Life had already been far too long and too filled with pain. I needed to rest. I needed oblivion and alcohol provided that, for a little while, then it turned on me and left me wide awake and facing all that I had tried to bury deep inside.

Who people think I am is built on lies and innuendo and the “evidence” born out by my erratic and unstable life and life-style. the evidence of “crazy” born out by many hospital visits, all but one self-imposed. The “evidence” of lazy born out by erratic work history. The “evidence” of hate-filled born out by my actions towards people which in truth reflected my fears and insecurity rather than hatred.

Family is not all it is cracked up to be. People post mushy-gushy memes all the time touting family as the great institution it is, but only for some people. Fred, who had previously been the cad, became everybody’s hero. Cindi, the woman who purposefully got involved with a married man she found crying on a bench at Freedom Park though I asked her to back off and she lied that they were only friends and she had been “instrumental” in helping other married couples get back together became a hero that stepped up and raised four, in her words, “motherless children.”

The boundless lies about me and my character have stood the test of time. Perhaps that is why I hate lies. And the DeGolier family is full of endless lies and coverups and whitewashing and there must be collateral damage to keep up the image of a great family. I was the collateral damage, and all I did to deserve it was to be born the littlest DeGolier.

When I got to NY the family already knew what a waste I was, a liar and a thief and a user and abuser. It was not a far reach for them then to believe every lie that came along in the form of gossip.

That I attacked Shirley and vowed to take her and Denis’s grandchildren away.

That I killed Valerie, well, ovarian cancer killed her, but my shenanigans were part of it somehow.

That I abused Wanda,

That I was kicked out of Letchworth State Park for bad behavior.

That I was Bi-Polar and bi-polars always claim they were molested as children.

That I was mad because I never got any of Mother’s “treasures” when she died.

That I was “in cahoots” with Glora who had done only what any good person would do, try to save children from sexual abuse.

The list is endless but I will tell you what happened the night of the “attack” on Shirley.

We were camping at Popehaven, in Rabdolph, NY. Wanda and I walked up to the store and Shirley was there. Like nice little family members we sat down and began to small-talk. I do not remember how the subject came to sexual abuse, though Shirley had been married to the family pedophile for 50 years so I suppose that is what was on our minds. How does one stay with a known pedophile for fifty years, well, known to the family.

I do not recall what I said, but Shirley actually complained that she had had to watch her husband follow little blonde girls around campgrounds for fifty years. I said, “So you knew? And you did nothing?” Then she brought up Dad. “Well, what about your dad? You know about him don’t you?”

She would not say more, but since I was the only one who ever claimed I had been molested by Dad, I felt I had a right to know the whole story. Sharon and Rozzella had admitted to waking in the night when visiting home to see Dad standing in there bedroom doors staring at them. That was all.

Later I decided to go ask Shirley what she had meant about Dad. She came at me but her screen door was between us and the latch broke. She covered it up by saying I had broken it trying to get in. A couple of days later Joyce called berating me for trying to hurt Denis and Shirley by taking their grandchildren away. I denied it. Hell, I had enough trouble taking care of me, let alone taking on a mission like that. But even though Shirley lied all her life at the drop of a hat, her lie stood. Again I was the scapegoat, and the family was going to make me pay dearly for… what? For other peoples “honor” though none of these people had any honor and the family name had been trashed by DeGoliers before I was ever born.

I was told I was not a DeGolier. So I began to use the name. They were being unforgivably cruel, but I forgave them.

People lie because they have things to cover up, Fred, Cindi, most of the DeGolier family trying to keep the world from knowing about things the town of Brocton knew when I was still a schoolgirl. Other people believe them, perhaps because it is easy? Because they have a preconceived idea of who the person being lied about is so they just store the new lies with what they already think they know?

I have longed for years to expose the lies. Did I have the right? Does that make me more cruel than people already think I am? Does it matter? People hate me for who they believe I am, so will I lose any more by setting the record straight? My heart has been broken and broken and broken and I have spent my life trying to keep the pain at bay and be the nice guy and not rock other people’s boats. If you think for one moment I have exposed without purpose other peoples flaws I tell you now there are many things I have not exposed and I doubt I ever will. Especially things that would harm other innocent people, like my children, in particular my children.

So I leave this with this question. Why have I had to endure, pretty much all my life, being portrayed this dark person, this liar and hater, corrupt and cruel when all I have done is survive the best I could and try to not hurt people along the way though I have ended up hurting many by keeping my silence?

No, I will leave with this question. Why, since I have begun to tell my side, do I find myself singing in the shower once again, I suppose to my neighbor’s delight? Oh heck, I will answer it too.

In AA they said we are only as sick as our darkest secrets. As I write I free my inner being and burst into song and little dance moves (though not dancing in the shower) like a little songbird flitting through the trees. I have more right to my freedom than anyone had to their lies that helped steal my life.