![]() But perhaps, at last, it’s time for me to tell mine. No one will ever know her side of the story now. It wasn't until last year that I learned that she had died - in 2007. ![]() That was how my mother - my real mother - raised me. A year and a half later I would be living alone on the street on the other side of the country, wondering whether I could even survive on my own.īut I did. My family, my home, my friends, my future. For years I’ve lived with the sadness of knowing that she, too, was a helpless victim – a victim of a terrible disease that consumed and destroyed the strong and caring woman I had once called Mom. ![]() I experienced first-hand the terror of watching someone I loved transform into a monster, the terror of discovering that I was to be her primary victim. I had what every teenager wants: a stable family, a nice home in the suburbs, a great group of friends, big plans for my future, and no reason to believe that any of that would ever change. ![]() ![]() I was sixteen years old, a junior in high school and an honors student. ![]()
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