Returning to Morenci Arizona after years in Cotton City New Mexico felt like stepping back into an old nightmare, but this time, I was older, angrier, and ready to push back. By the time we relocated, everything had changed between Teresa and me. I wasn’t that young kid she could control with fear alone. Her rules felt tighter, and each one choked a little bit more of my remaining patience. It was no secret, either. Anyone who saw us could sense the tension, the barely concealed hatred simmering beneath the surface. She hated me, and I hated her right back.
After being homeschooled for years under Teresa’s watchful, punishing eye, the transition to public school in Morenci was overwhelming but liberating. Suddenly, I had exposure to kids my age, different ideas, and, most importantly, a taste of the freedom I’d craved for years. I gravitated toward new friends like Rachel and Melissa, kids who didn’t follow every rule, who pushed boundaries. They introduced me to a world I hadn’t seen before—a world filled with escape. For the first time, I started experimenting with drinking, and then came meth, a downward spiral I could barely control.
Rachel and Melissa were my partners in rebellion, my guides into a life Teresa could never comprehend. We’d sneak out at night, running through the streets, laughing at nothing, escaping from everything. The thrill of getting away with it, of doing something just because it was wrong, was a high in itself. Every time I got away with something, it felt like a small victory, a tiny piece of my life reclaimed.
But as much as I fought against Teresa’s control, the anger inside me grew. One night, it finally erupted in a way that changed everything. I don’t remember what sparked the fight with Terry, only that it was years’ worth of frustration finally breaking the surface. He tried to pin me down, tried to put me in my place, and I reacted instinctively. My fist connected with his forehead, and that one punch set off a chain of consequences I couldn’t escape. Terry called the cops, and before I knew it, I was in Juvenile Hall.
Juvenile Hall was both a punishment and a reprieve. For the first time, I was completely separated from Teresa’s control, her manipulation. In that cold, impersonal place, I found a strange sense of relief. I was free of her, if only temporarily. While I was there, I worked toward my GED, a small achievement that felt like the start of something bigger. It was a sign that I could move forward, that I could make something of myself, even if the path to get there was rough.
After about a month, I was released, but I returned home with a plan. I knew I couldn’t stay there forever, so I got a job at the local bar and grill. The work was hard, the hours long, but each paycheck meant I was one step closer to freedom. Teresa and I barely spoke by then. Every interaction was laced with tension, with a barely concealed resentment that everyone could see. She couldn’t stand me, and the feeling was mutual. But with each dollar I saved, each night I worked, I knew I was getting closer to leaving for good.
On my eighteenth birthday, I didn’t waste a second. I had enough saved, just barely, to get my own place. I packed up what little I had and walked out the door, leaving Teresa’s house—and her control—behind. For the first time, I was free. But freedom came with its own challenges, its own battles. I had no idea how to be on my own, no idea how to navigate a life without someone dictating my every move. The scars Teresa left ran deep, and even in freedom, her voice lingered, a haunting echo I couldn’t escape.
But despite the hardships, I knew one thing: I would never go back. I would never let anyone control me again. My journey had just begun, and no matter how hard it got, I knew I had the strength to survive, to keep pushing forward, to make something of myself on my terms.