After the night my dad refused to let me go with my mom, everything changed. I started asking questions. What really happened when I was little? Why did she leave? Why didn’t she come back? Why wouldn’t he let me go with her that night? He never answered my questions until now.

And then he told me something that broke me.

He said I was sexually abused by her boyfriend. When she dropped me off at 22 months old, I was dirty, malnourished, and had sores between my legs because she would put her cigarettes out in my pubic area. I would scream during diaper changes. He called her a whore. Said she used to hit him. Told me she was a monster.

Through the tears, I begged him to tell me it wasn’t true. He confirmed by saying the judge had awarded him full custody, even though courts always favored the mother back then. He said the abuse and neglect were so severe that the court had no choice.

I remember going to my room and collapsing in pain. Crying until I couldn’t cry anymore. My body felt heavy. My chest ached. And then came the rage.

The Collapse of Longing and the Rise of Anger

Suddenly, the woman I had longed for—ached for—became the villain. I was glad she left. But also confused. Because the times I did spend with her she was kind. Loving. I didn’t feel unsafe. I felt like I belonged.

The longing I had felt for her turned into confusion, then into resentment. I began to believe she was no better than him. The pain and abandonment sank deep into my bones, and I internalized it all. I must’ve been a bad kid. I wasn’t worthy of love.

He had dropped a bombshell, and yet he was also the one hurting me. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally. He was manipulative and abusive. He put me in dangerous situations. I was only 12 and couldn’t yet comprehend the devastating effects his words carved permanently into me.

When Rage Becomes a Shield

I turned grief and pain into rage.

I started sneaking out. Vandalizing the neighborhood. My grades dropped. I gave my teacher so much hell she frequently left the classroom crying. I put thumbtacks into her chair. Wrote on the wall that she was a bitch. I was eventually expelled for choking another student.

I was a storm no one knew how to calm. A child without an outlet. A girl drowning in pain.

A Breaking Point

I shut down. Completely. I didn’t want to hear from my mother. I didn’t want to feel. I only allowed myself to feel rage.

Eventually, I had enough. I packed a bag and told my grandparents: If you don’t find me somewhere else to live, I’m running away. I don’t care if I die. If I stay here, I will die.

They listened.

I moved back in with my aunt and uncle. I stayed there for nearly five years, until my world shattered again—but that’s a story for another post.

A Letter That Brought Back Hope

When I was 18, a letter arrived. It was from my sister:

“Dear Sister Beth,

I hope that you will get this letter and that it finds you well. Happy Belated Birthday! Now you are 18! I am wondering how you are doing and if you’re going to college or working? I had our cousin try to get a hold of you this past summer, she called your uncle’s house and they said that you didn’t live there anymore and that they didn’t know where you were?

I am married now and I got married August 26th, 2000 to a wonderful man named Jeff who loves God as much as I do. We live in Monroe, WA. It’s about 45 min NE of Seattle. No children though, not yet anyways!

I’ve been praying to find you and I hope that you don’t hate me or mom. I hope you will write or call me if you ever need or want to. I love you and miss you and want to know you. I hope you are doing good. Please write or call.”

My heart pounded. I was overjoyed and terrified. She’s been looking for me. She wanted to know me. ME! I couldn’t wait to talk to her. To get to know her. We began to write each other and call regularly. I invited her to my High School graduation but I told her I didn’t want our mom to come down, I wasn’t ready yet and wanted to spend time with her. I shared everything with her that my father said about my childhood and how I was treated. She was outraged and mortified and quickly refuted the allegations of abuse and neglect. She tamed my fears of meeting my mother again and asked to listen to her story.

I flew up to Washington that summer after my graduation. I decided that I was finally ready to meet my mother and get the whole story.

Stay tuned. In the next post, I’ll share what happened when I finally saw her again—and how it shifted everything I thought I knew.

This is how we heal: story by story, layer by layer.

Much love,

Beth