If the plane crashes, I will finally be free.

The thought came to me often when I was a young teenager, as easily as breathing. My mother was away, and I imagined what life would be without her. The fantasy didn’t last — she always came home — and everything exploded.

One night in 1969, I was in the car with my friends. I was running 30 minutes late. I’d tried to call my mom from a public phone booth, but the rotary dial was broken. My stomach tightened. I knew what awaited me.

As the headlights swept across the driveway, I saw her standing there — stiff and stern, her body rigid with rage. One hand clutched our dog’s leash, the other gripped a glass of water and was trembling slightly — not from fear, but from fury held barely in check. Her jaw was so tight, it looked like it might snap.

Brightly lit by the car lights, she hurled the water in my face before I could even say hello.

“Walk the dog,” she snapped. “I don’t care if you get raped — if you weren’t already.”

The author with her father and mother in 1955.

She marched to the car and demanded everyone’s phone numbers. I burned with humiliation. I knew this wasn’t the end — it was only the beginning.

Inside, she ordered me upstairs. Her angry breath followed me like a shadow. My father was asleep. She ripped every item from my closet and screamed at me to put everything back. Every time I tried, she tore it all out again. Her rage was unstoppable. It was as if she saw the devil... and that devil was me. Her fury was always aimed at me.

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That night bled into the next day. At our cabana at the local beach club, she forced me into a skimpy bikini. I was painfully thin and flat-chested, and ashamed of my body. My mother refused to let me wear my cover-up. My brother teased me constantly, saying things like, “The carpenters need you — they need flat boards.”

Mother had a solution, one I didn’t want. She stuffed my bikini top — the hard-cup kind — with foam falsies.

My worst fear happened. During swimming lessons, the pads floated out, one at a time. Everyone saw them and started laughing. I wanted to sink to the bottom of the pool and stay there.

Humiliation was routine for me.

My brothers became my mother’s enforcers. At her command, they once hoisted me onto the refrigerator and left me there, terrified, while the family ate dinner. I begged to be taken down. They laughed. She stayed silent.

One brother frequently pinned me down and shoved the dog’s blanket into my mouth as I squirmed and screamed. Mother’s voice would ring out from downstairs: “Leave your brother alone.” I was blamed even when I was the one being attacked.

My body responded to the unpredictable attacks. I experienced dizzy spells. Headaches. Nausea. I lived in a constant state of fight-or-flight.

Childhood friends saw glimpses of my torment. They heard my mother call me in her high-pitched voice, order me around, and constantly interrupt my time with them. She forced-fed me oatmeal as my friends watched and were told to eat it too. They stopped sleeping over.

The author with her parents in 1969.

At 16, a social worker — likely from school — told me I had to get out. I can’t remember much about her; my memory has gaps so large that pages and even chapters of my life are gone. People get frustrated when I can’t recall them or our shared experiences. I do remember a sense of urgency and finding out how to graduate high........

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