The trauma inflicted by my stepmother echoed through every corner of my childhood. I was nine when my mother died. Two years later, George and I met our stepmother, Dotti, and our two half-brothers, Rick and Ron.

Ron was born the day after our mother died—October 15, 1962.

That date would take on deeper meaning in the years to come.

From the very beginning, Dotti made her resentment of us clear. Her abuse was constant and unrelenting.

She struck out physically—yanking my hair, slapping my face, locking me in closets, and denying me meals.

Her true cruelty lay in her emotional warfare: calculated, relentless, and all-consuming.

There was no respite, no safe moment. Her hatred seemed to renew itself daily. Like many abusers, her violence was just the surface. What lay beneath was a campaign designed to erode my sense of worth. She delighted in destroying anything I loved. I later learned she had banned George and me from keeping anything that reminded us of our mother.

By ten, she had taken control of my meals; food became another weapon. Her goal, it seemed, was to erase me.

At twelve, she found my diary—a secret lifeline—and in a moment of theatrical cruelty, tried to force me to eat its pages.

I wasn’t allowed to grieve, to cry, or to protest. Even crossing the street became perilous; she’d dig her nails into my wrist as a silent warning. The signs were visible. Her disdain wasn’t hidden, and with my father looking the other way, no one felt they had the authority to step in. Friends and relatives occasionally voiced concern, but any pushback risked exile from our lives, leaving me further isolated. Summers with Aunt Dorothy or visits to Grandpa George offered brief sanctuary. Small acts of kindness—a walk to the candy store, an ice cream cone, a gentle word—left a lasting impact. Those moments were lifelines.

People often ask why I didn’t fight back. They can’t fathom the paralysis of a child terrorized by someone with complete control. It’s easy to speak of courage from the outside. Inside that house, I learned to survive. I found fragments of freedom where I could. My best friend and I pretended Dotti was a witch, whispering and giggling behind closed doors.

Once, she hissed, “I know what you say about me,” her voice venomous.

When others were present—a neighbor, the pool guy, the au pair—I was temporarily safe.

But when we were alone, she showed me who she was.

By sixteen, I was the primary caregiver for the boys. Dotti was frequently absent, out drinking, golfing, and bowling. One day after Thanksgiving, I made a second holiday meal from leftovers for the boys and me. I used the special dinnerware to make it feel festive. For a moment, it felt like family. Then she came home. She stormed in, her fury ignited by the sight of the dishes. Without a word, she shoved the boys into a back room and slammed the door. She grabbed my hair and dragged me into the living room as I quietly wrapped leftovers. She threw me into the armchair, then onto the floor. Suddenly, my head was shoved beneath the cushion, and she sat on top of me. I was no match for her at 5’3″ and barely 100 pounds. I couldn’t breathe. I gasped, panicked, and faded.

Then something happened: Everything around me fell away.

I was in a dark, silent space—too vivid to be a dream.

I realized my body was still beneath the cushion, but my spirit had lifted above it.

I had no doubt—Dotti wanted me dead.

Suffocation is one of the most lethal forms of child abuse. I was among the lucky ones. I screamed for help, conserving air as best I could. My body was shutting down. I couldn’t move. But inside, something rose: a voice, defiant.

“This isn’t for me,” I thought.

Just as I began to return, doubt flickered: Am I already dead?

That fear jolted me back into my body. My eyes snapped open. I was still choking.

Then—voices at the door.

Sherry, my cousin, and Steve, my boyfriend, had arrived. They entered and froze at the sight. Sherry screamed at Dotti to get off me. Steve shoved her away and pulled me to safety. My face was pale, my lips turning blue. I didn’t speak immediately, too stunned, still desperate for breath. I disconnected from the moment, doing what I’d always done to survive. But I hadn’t broken. Something inside me held on. Sherry and Steve had saved me. And so did George. Just thirteen, but already brave beyond his years.

Outraged, he stormed in, eyes blazing. “If you mess up my sister, I’ll mess up your things!” he growled.

Then he swept her precious china collection onto the floor.

Tearfully, he shouted, “Stop being mean to Doretta!”

You learn to adjust. You adapt to the heat. In my twenties, I battled depression. But I wasn’t destroyed, because I had quiet allies. People who helped me survive in subtle, powerful ways. Still, the silence of my father hurt more than Dotti’s rage. His refusal to see, speak, and act was the deepest wound. Because I needed to believe he loved me.

We looked like a typical family from the outside—picnics in the park on Sundays, camping trips, ski weekends.

But behind closed doors, life was a minefield. I tiptoed around her moods, calculating each word and action to avoid triggering her wrath. Only at school could I breathe. I tried to get help. I called the Los Altos Police.

Each time, they asked gently, “Do you want to go into foster care?”

The question implied that staying might be better. But how could I leave George?

I never truly believed Dotti would be held accountable, though once, surprisingly, she was. But punishment never brought safety. Behind closed doors, the danger only grew. Justice, in my world, was a fantasy.

My only hope was something sudden and divine—like lightning striking her down.

That never happened.

So I adapted, endured, and became fiercely self-reliant.

After two near-death experiences, my perspective changed.

I discovered that death itself isn’t frightening—it’s like stepping through a doorway.

I learned that the soul is expansive, able to observe life from multiple viewpoints, and to travel with the speed of thought. If you find yourself in darkness, you can rise just by changing your thoughts. Think of love. Think of God. And you ascend. My sensitivities changed, too. I began experiencing moments of precognition, hearing voices when no one was there, and sensing the presence of animals that weren’t visible. But the biggest change was within. I developed an intolerance for anything inauthentic. I craved truth. I felt an overwhelming need to find my purpose, even when I didn’t know it. Every day became a quiet search for meaning. Those moments of clarity were fleeting. Life still had its upheavals. I was still figuring out who I was. But I survived.

Thank you for taking the time to read my story.