Warning: Sensitive Content – Descriptions of Violence
Losing my father was a confusing and devastating time. I had so much inside me—thoughts, emotions, grief—but I didn’t know how to process any of it. So, I stuffed it all down. How could I, at 14, possibly understand what I was going through? Hindsight, of course, is 20/20. Looking back now, I can see the impact it all had.
My father was my anchor, my protector, my source of unconditional love. The kind of love that made me feel safe, warm, and untouchable. No matter what, I knew I’d have his hugs and understanding. And then, suddenly, he was gone.
A Home That Didn’t Feel Safe
As if losing him wasn’t enough, I quickly realized something else—my mother wasn’t just difficult. She was worse than I had ever imagined. We were both mourning, but in entirely different ways. I withdrew into myself. She became unpredictable. Her anger surfaced in ways I never expected.
At first, it was just words. Then, it became physical.
One morning, as I got ready for school, I heard my mother talking. But she wasn’t on the phone. Peering through her half-open bedroom door, I saw her sitting on the edge of her bed, rocking back and forth, mumbling to herself. In her hand was a metal fingernail file. She stabbed it into her leg, over and over. Blood seeped from the wounds.
I didn’t know what to do with that moment. So, I buried it—just like everything else.
Forty-eight years later, I would finally understand that this was the moment my eating disorder began. Back then, I had no idea. I only knew that I binged on food. But with a teenager’s metabolism, endless sports practices, and after-school runs into the country, I burned it all off.
Surviving Through Isolation
Being a teenager is hard in the best of circumstances. For me, it was unbearable. I was grieving my father, dealing with my mother’s unpredictable rage, drowning in failing grades, and enduring relentless bullying.
I was the odd one. The Mormon girl who wasn’t allowed to do what other kids did. The one with the attention span of a gnat—something my teachers never failed to point out in report cards. She’s really smart but doesn’t focus. Variations of that phrase followed me year after year.
At home, it was worse. I was belittled and punished constantly. It wasn’t until much later in life that I was diagnosed with ADD/ADHD. If only they had known back then. My life might have been different.
Weeks blurred into months, months into years. I learned many things. I learned I was “as useless as tits on a boar.” I learned it was a good thing I was adopted, because otherwise, I’d “end up a whore on the streets.”
I stuffed it all down, convincing myself that this was normal. That everyone must experience this at home. Right?
The First Hit
By the time I was 16, I found some relief in small freedoms—sports, a driver’s license, anything that got me out of the house. I discovered running, not just as exercise but as an escape. The wind in my hair, the rhythmic pounding of my feet against the pavement—it was the closest I came to feeling free.
At home, I did most of the cooking and all of the dishes. One night, I stood at the sink, scrubbing plates, when—without warning—my mother hit me from behind. Hard. My forehead slammed into the cabinet in front of me.
I don’t know what was worse: the shock, the pain, or the realization that this was not normal.
The hitting continued. I learned to be on guard, always anticipating the next blow. I remember asking her why she did it. Her response? Because you’re as useless as tits on a boar.
To this day, I can’t sit with my back to a door. Even at work, I had my cubicle reconfigured so I could always see what was coming.
A Cry for Help That Fell on Deaf Ears
By the end of my sophomore year, I knew I had to tell someone. I spent weeks scoping out teachers, the principal, the school nurse—anyone I thought might listen. But it was a small town, and my mother was a teacher at the same school. I had to choose carefully.
Finally, in the last week before summer, I found the courage to speak up. I told a teacher, giving a watered-down version of the truth but still being honest.
The response crushed me.
“After your mother and father adopted you and gave you a nice home… this is how you treat her? Shame on you.”
My heart dropped. I don’t remember breathing. I just walked to my locker. Then I walked home.
Alone
For years, I carried everything inside me. I had no idea that the things I buried would haunt me for decades, shaping my life in ways I couldn’t predict.
But in that moment, at 16 years old, the most overwhelming feeling I had was this:
I was alone.
And no one cared.
Molly's Not-So-Secret Diary 