My grandfather noticed something was missing from the barn—his antique electric fencer. He asked if I would go down to the trailer and see if my dad had taken it.

The short walk from my grandparents’ house to the trailer felt longer than it was. I dreaded every step. I never knew what kind of mood he’d be in. My dad was a lit fuse most of the time, and I did my best to avoid him by playing outside on my grandparents’ three-acre property.

His eyes said it all that day—dark circles, red-rimmed, pupils dilated. Wild. Manic. Twitchy. Angry.

I opened the door to see that he was tinkering with the fencer, mumbling angrily to himself. I asked him what he was doing with it, and his answer chilled me. He believed someone was stealing his drugs. And that someone, he said, was my grandfather.

To “teach him a lesson,” he planned to hotwire the door handle so it would shock anyone who touched it.

I told him it was mean, that it didn’t belong to him, and Grandpa wanted it back.

He snapped. In an instant, he flew off the couch, fury written across his face. I slowly backed toward the door, as he started to advance on me. He picked up the brick we used to prop the door open and threw it at me. I was already out the door before it could do the damage he intended.

I ran.

He chased me, caught me by the hair, and screamed in my face. He dragged me back to the trailer, saying I wasn’t going to ruin his plan—that I wasn’t allowed to tell Grandpa what he was doing. He grounded me to my room, where I stayed the rest of the day, terrified.

Weeks later, I was sitting on the couch, watching TV. I absentmindedly stuck my hand between the cushions and felt something strange. It was a tightly folded magazine page. Inside there were small white rocks. I knew what it was. I had seen the crushed powdered lines on the dresser before.

I ran to tell my grandparents.

We called the police, hopeful this would finally be the moment that ended the chaos. I showed the officers what I had found. They examined it, spoke in hushed tones, and then gave it back to me.

“It’s not enough,” one of them said. “Put it back where you found it and don’t tell your father. Call us when you find more.”

We were stunned. I remember hiding in my room when he came home, paralyzed by fear. Certain he would know what I had done—that I had tried to get him the help he so clearly needed.

I failed.
I was scared.
And I was completely alone.

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To Be Continued…

This was just one moment in a lifetime of survival. But the story doesn’t end here.

What happens when a child is forced to become the adult?
When the one person meant to protect you becomes your greatest threat?

In my next post, I’ll share the breaking point—the day my grandparents made the difficult decision for me to live with my aunt and uncle.

There were still 20 more years of violence, drugs, and uncertainty with my father. The final turning point came when he made my young daughter cry (many, many years later). That was when my then-husband and I knew: he no longer fit into our lives in a healthy way. We chose to cut him out—for good. Cutting out a parent is a very difficult decision to make and one that is never taken lightly. But one that gave room for more joy, healing, and other healthy relationships to take his place.

Make sure to subscribe or follow to hear the next chapter of my story.

Much love,

Beth