Everyone thinks they’ll know what to do if their child becomes dangerous.
Until it’s their child.
Until it’s their house.
Until it’s their life.
Tyler Perry’s STRAW hit hard for many. In the movie, the main character’s pressure came from outside forces. In my case, it came from the bedroom down the hall. All my stress had a name—and it called me ‘Mom.’
It started early. She was just 2 years old when she was sexually assaulted at daycare. Then again by a stranger who tricked her with an “owie” story and asked her to “make it better.” I did what any good mother would: filed police reports, pushed for prosecution, and made sure she received mental health services.
But her behavior grew concerning well before adulthood. One of the first red flags came when she made sexual advances toward a friend’s father. She was 9 years old and he was 35 years older than her. He called me afterward, shaken and confused.
Around the same time, she created an identity named “Veronica,” claiming she wasn’t Caucasian. She smeared my mother’s makeup on her arms to appear darker. This wasn’t pretend play—her voice dropped, her eyes went dark. It wasn’t possession. It was psychological, consistent, and calculated.
She was soon diagnosed with borderline personality disorder and multiple personality disorder—now known as dissociative identity disorder. Unusual for someone so young, but in her case, it fit.
I was a full-time single mother in my 20s, raising her and her younger brother, working as a domestic violence and SA hospital advocate, and attending college full-time. While I tried building a future, it was if she was detonating landmines beneath the floors.
By 15 years old, she had also been diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder (ASPD). It’s rare before 18, but for her, it was undeniable. She lied compulsively, manipulated effortlessly, and showed no remorse when people got hurt. Once, she attacked her boyfriend with scissors for choosing to fish with his father instead of spending time with her. It was premeditated—she hid in the car, waiting.
She laughed when people cried. She admitted to making a little boy cry at the park “just to see if he would cry.” She met every diagnostic marker of ASPD: deception, cruelty, boundary violations, and blame-shifting. She rarely hurt animals—but when she did, it was without remorse.
She racked up legal trouble early. She made false police reports, prostituted herself both in cars and through Craigslist, stole thousands of dollars using identity theft, and was eventually found by police in a known flop-house with seven middle-aged men after being missing for three days. She also physically abused her little brother when he was still a toddler.
Back then—pre-internet—I spent years contacting every mental health provider I could find. Most said it was “normal childhood behavior.” It wasn’t. Not even close.
When I launched my Forensology business, she planted drugs in my house and called the police, hoping they’d raid my home and ruin my career. Luckily, the responding sheriff had met her before. He said, “She’s pure evil.” As her mother, I hated hearing that. But by then, denial felt more like delusion than hope.
She once told me, “I’m only in your life to fuck yours up.” And she meant it.
Her suicide attempts weren’t cries for help—they were manipulation tactics. To protect myself and my young son, I began hiding voice-activated recorders around the house. One recording helped prove my innocence when she accused me of abuse after falling off a tornado slide at school. The case was closed as “unfounded.”
I also used camcorders to document her behavior. When I showed her the footage, she stared at the screen and said, “That’s not me.” Then immediately accused me of faking it. This was years before “deepfakes” were even a thing.
Even her school counselor refused to work with her: “I’m not willing to lose my license because of her deviance.”
With no support from my parents or providers, I spiraled. The pressure was relentless—constant fires, no backup, and nowhere to breathe. Like the mother in STRAW, I hit a point where it all felt impossible. I became suicidal. The only thing that stopped me was my son. He was my lifeline—the one thread keeping me tethered when everything else was unraveling.
At 16 years old, she was granted SSI for mental illness. She rejected all interventions, medications, and support. A group home took her in—13 staff members on shift. She ran away. They never called me or authorities. When I asked what happened, they said, “We don’t want her back. We can’t handle her.” Thirteen of them couldn’t manage what I was expected to handle all alone.
She fooled clinicians too. One male psychologist, during an SSI review, started venting to her about his failing marriage—then labeled her “stable.” She wasn’t. But she was strikingly attractive and knew how to perform vulnerability. Most providers were men, and she used her appearance like a weapon. They saw sadness. I saw strategy.
In fact, I think the clinicians missed a diagnosis. That is sociopathy.
As an adult, she shoved her husband off a second-story balcony. When he ran, she jumped in her car, chased him down, and hit him. I was there. She nearly fled the scene—leaving her three-week-old newborn behind.
If you’ve seen Fatal Attraction, you’ve seen an eerily similar version of her. The obsessive control. The violence. The volatility.
My grandson was born 5 weeks premature. Just 3 days after he came home from the hospital, he cried in the middle of the night—as all babies do. I woke to her screaming at the top of her lungs, “This is why mothers end up on CNN for killing their kids,” as she struck him with full force. My son and I had to physically pull her away from him. When I picked him up, his sobbing is something I’ll never forget.
Eventually, when she was court-ordered into treatment, she moved counties to avoid compliance. By then, she had already abandoned her son multiple times.
When he was 6 weeks old, she left him with his Godmother—someone I trusted—for 10 months without checking in. I was overseas for work but still sent money. She only reclaimed him when custody was threatened. She never asked me to take him—keeping him from me was the point.
When he was 2 years old, he was found wandering McAllen streets in a diaper. I raced from Phoenix to get him, but by the time I arrived, police had already released him back to her. “She promised not to do it again,” they said.
When he was 3 years old, she dumped him at a children’s home and vanished for six months. Then went on the news claiming she couldn’t feed him. A lie. She had income, food stamps, rent help, medical coverage, and my ongoing financial support. She just didn’t want the responsibility.
When he was 13 years old, she turned him in to CPS, saying no one would help her. I had been helping—financially, emotionally, logistically—for 13 years. She just wouldn’t let him come live with us. Keeping him from me was her revenge and for what? I may never know.
They eventually returned him to her—even though he said on recorded audio, “I’m scared she’s going to kill me.” What followed involved HIPAA violations, an unethical investigator, and formal complaints I filed with agencies at every level.
They were living in a remote part in the Arizona mountains. No neighbors that could help. No transportation options. No access to phones or internet outside of online school. She kept him isolated. Trapped.
Just over a year ago, he escaped.
He called me, panicked. She had entered his room naked in the middle of the night and tried to attack him. He defended himself. During the struggle, she tripped. She later admitted it. But in the moment, she called the police, accused him of domestic violence, and had him arrested.
He was immediately taken to juvenile detention with pending DV charges.
But the juvenile probation officer saw through her. The charges were dropped, his record cleared, and he moved in with my son. “He is not safe at home and cannot return,” the officer said.
She didn’t even try to find him.
No calls. No report. No questions.
It’s been over a year. She still has not reached out.
He’s 18 now. He hasn’t spoken to her since that violent night. He’s in trauma recovery. He’s doing what she never did: the healing work.
He spent most of his life locked in his room. When they’d come to my house—2.5 hours away—it wasn’t because I wanted her there. It was because I wanted him there. I wanted him to feel safe. To know I loved him. To show him normalcy, even if briefly.
He’s mature in ways that break your heart—and behind in ways that remind you what he has endured.
In 2021, without her current phone number (she changes it like people change socks), I asked police for a welfare check. She called me furious: “You sent the SWAT team. They’re hovering in helicopters.” Then, “I’m reliving all your childhood memories, MOM.” I stayed calm. It was delusion. And it was the last time we spoke.
Not because I hate her. On the contrary—I will always love her. She’s my daughter.
But I finally understood that love without boundaries isn’t noble. It’s self-destruction.
This Isn’t Just About Parenting—It’s About Pressure
As a society, we don’t talk enough about what it means to live in a home where someone else’s instability dictates the emotional climate.
Where your nervous system learns to scan for danger in the twitch of a lip or the tone of a breath. Where walking on eggshells becomes so normal that your body forgets what rest feels like.
This isn’t just a parenting story. It’s a pressure story.
The pressure to stay calm while chaos builds.
The pressure to hold the family together while someone else tries to tear it apart.
The pressure to keep showing up, even when every instinct says to walk away.
You become fluent in emotional forecasting just to survive your own household.
And you stop asking for help—because no one believes you anyway.
Not every diagnosis comes with empathy. Some come with devastation.
I stayed not because I couldn’t leave—but because I believed my presence might protect my grandson. I thought if I held on long enough, I could shield him. I wasn’t staying for her. I was staying because of what she might do if I wasn’t there. Because walking away didn’t feel like freedom—it felt like leaving him behind all alone in a war zone.
But in doing so, I became the buffer. The barrier. The casualty.
In all my years as a mental health professional, I’ve told families: never be more invested in someone’s healing than they are. Doing so is not compassion - it’s codependency.
It does not save them but it sure does destroy you.
You Don’t Owe Your Presence to Destruction
There are people smiling through gritted teeth.
There are parents managing chaos behind closed doors.
There are children who become dangerous—and mothers who carry that truth alone.
All because society still clings to the myth of “unconditional love.”
But here’s the truth: You don’t have to stay in someone’s life just because you gave them life.
If your adult child is abusive, manipulative, or refuses help—
If they weaponize your love and blame you for everything—
If your presence becomes the excuse they use to avoid accountability—
It is not betrayal to leave.
It is survival.
And it may be the only shot at real healing—for both of you.
Because as long as you’re there, you are the scapegoat.
You are the fallback.
You are the punching bag.
And they never have to face themselves.
Sometimes the only thing left to give is space.
Sometimes the most ethical thing you can do is step back.
Sometimes real love requires absence.
And that’s not failure.
That’s restraint.
That’s wisdom.
That’s love from a distance—and sometimes, that’s all there is.
Especially when the wound calls you “Mom.”
If you want to understand how this connects to the larger theme of emotional collapse and ethical thresholds, you can read my related essay on Tyler Perry’s STRAW here.
P.S. The photo used is a symbolic visual. Out of respect for privacy, no actual images of my daughter are included. This account reflects real experiences. Some names location details have been withheld for privacy.