From Dreaming of Escape to Living a Nightmare: My Journey Into—and Out of—Abuse

When Travel Wasn’t a Luxury—It Was an Escape Plan

I grew up in Northern California, the oldest child of teenage parents who divorced before I turned two. My earliest memories don’t include them together, and I can’t imagine them that way. They both remarried quickly and started new families. I became the half-sibling in two separate homes, never quite fitting into either one.

When I left to visit my dad, my sisters cried. My mom reminded them that I “had to” go, painting my departure as something unfortunate rather than something normal. At my dad’s, life moved on without me—vacations, memories, milestones I wasn’t part of. And when I returned to my mom’s, I felt like an outsider again. I was constantly moving between families and never fully belonging to either.

One house was steeped in strict religion, where I always felt judged. The other was chaotic and unpredictable. I didn’t belong in either space—and as a kid, I didn’t know how to articulate that. I just knew I was lonely.

So I escaped the only way I could: in my head.

My bedroom walls were covered with posters of faraway places—waterfalls, enchanted forests, fantasy lands. I imagined living under those waterfalls, or wandering through some storybook village. I daydreamed about anywhere but where I was. That theme followed me: no matter where I was, I always wanted to be somewhere else.

As a teenager, I got in trouble constantly—grounded for bad grades, for not following the rules. I wasn’t drinking or partying. I was just…there. Invisible and in trouble. I spent hours watching the world go by outside my window, imagining where passing cars were headed, wondering if someone was excited to see the person behind the wheel.

By the time I graduated high school, I was desperate to escape. My mom helped me enroll in a travel agent course in Sacramento. I loved it—until the anxiety kicked in. Cold calls, client conversations, in-person greetings? My social anxiety, worsened by years of isolation, became paralyzing. I dropped out days before the final.

At 18, I booked my first solo flight—across the country to North Carolina to attend the Marine Corps Ball with a boyfriend. I was terrified and thrilled. I talked to strangers on the plane, something I’d never done before. Maybe because they didn’t know me, I felt free to be whoever I wanted. I felt, for once, unjudged.

But after the trip, my mom punished me for going—she hadn’t given permission, even though I didn’t live with her anymore. She took away my car, trapping me again. I went back to fast food jobs, feeling smaller and smaller.

And then, I met him.

He was popular in high school. I couldn’t believe he even knew my name. We became inseparable quickly. He showed up at work with flowers, left sweet notes on my windshield, gave me nicknames, showered me with attention. I ate it up. No one had ever made me feel like I was worth that kind of love.

He told me things like, “No one will ever love you like I do.” And I believed him.

I turned down a Southwest Airlines flight attendant interview. I turned down a potential career in the military. I stayed.

At first, things just seemed off—he was older, went out drinking, and often didn’t come home. But he always had excuses. Everyone else was the problem. He was the victim. And I defended him because I wanted the love story to be real. I wanted to matter to someone.

By the time I got pregnant, I believed we were building a family. I had a baby boy, and I loved him fiercely. I wanted him to grow up differently than I did—safe, secure, with two parents. So I stayed.

But everything kept getting worse.

He isolated me from my family. Twisted my insecurities. Gaslit me to the point where I couldn’t tell what was real. If a grocery store clerk said hello, he accused me of cheating. If someone sat near me at a football game, he said we were having an affair based on how they sat. Every interaction became a crime.

He told doctors I was bipolar. Said I blacked out for days. That I was dangerous. He would sit in the room and weave these stories while I tried to speak up for myself—but his lies were so rehearsed, so believable, even I started questioning my own memories.

I wasn’t allowed to leave the house without the kids. He’d take my driver’s license and car keys. He tracked me, sent people to spy on me, accused me of having secret lovers based on nothing but his own delusions.

Then came the sexual abuse. I didn’t even know you could be raped by your husband. But he made sure I knew I belonged to him—his property, his possession, not a person with a voice. I disappeared inside myself. I begged for death. I prayed for escape.

Then came the threats—against me, my kids, and even my nieces. One day I came home to find a photo of them, taken without their parents’ knowledge, on the kitchen table. He said he planned to have them kidnapped.

That was the final straw.

I went to the police. They didn’t believe me. He was charming. I was just the “crazy” ex with an agenda. They dismissed me.

So I made a deal with the devil. He said if I moved with him—left everything behind—he wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’d leave my family alone. I agreed.

We moved to Washington, where I had no one. He had a girlfriend. I had nothing. And what had already been bad got unimaginably worse.