I wanted to run into the street screaming, "My mom and dad beat me and my brother, can anyone help us!" But I knew there was no help. My mom used a bamboo stick, then when she was done, Walt would beat us with his leather belt, having a thick belt buckle that said Colt 45. Mother would lock us in closets after our punishments. They always took their frustrations out on us, leaving bruises, welts, and blood blisters. They made my brother and I make M-80s in the basement, as Walt would mix up all the powders, while hanging onto a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. The Feds followed us through the countryside. Walt was always one step ahead of them.

One day, my hands were so cramped up from squeezing the glue bottles, I asked if I could go upstairs and run hot water on them. "No," he barked at me, "you will not leave your workstation." I looked around the corner, didn't see him, so running, I turned the water on. I heard a noise; I knew he was behind me. As I turned around he backhanded me across my face, yelling, "You are nobody, and you will never be anybody, ever, do you understand me!" Oh he was a red-eyed, devil and the abuse he put my brother and I through was tortuous.

Going into an abusive marriage, my husband broke my nose twice, and I took nightly beatings. I went to his work and found out he left with his sixty-three-year-old lover. He begged me to stay, and so we moved. Going to work, he took the car keys, wouldn't let me have a phone, or leave any money. He had me right where he wanted me. Every night after work, he would go drinking, come home, then beat the hell out of me. I had to leave and divorce him, or he would kill me. I finally remarried; I knew he would never hit me, but the mental abuse was terrible. He also had a problem that he had hid from me; it had to do with a little white line called cocaine. It led to a lot of problems And he was always trying to make me use.