"When I landed in California in 1989, I followed the rest of the passengers to baggage claim. There, one woman caught my attention. I knew she was my mother, even though I hadn't seen her since I was three. When our eyes met, she knew who I was, too. The closer I got, the colder and more distant the space between us became. This was my first memory in my new world, my first jolt of freedom."

The pain and shame and worthlessness that I experienced when I escaped the Children of God cult at fourteen became something of a self-fulfilling prophecy. I was derivative of the abuse and severe neglect I had suffered since birth. And so was my brother, Michael. We were born second-generation Children of God cult members and had known no other life. Our father was devoted to the organization and was abusive both physically and emotionally, and our mother had parted ways with him when we were just two and three. Adults had started experimenting sexually with us by the time we were ten and eleven. We had been brainwashed to believe our leader, "Moses David," was to be followed without question. We read the Bible daily; we read "Mo Letters" about rape and hell and the fate of "backsliders"-people who went against the cult. We were told that horrible things would happen to us if we left. Our subconscious minds ruled our behaviors once we entered the real world, the "Whore," as the C.O.G. called America. Deluded as we were, we backslid into our own demise.

I started experimenting with drugs, alcohol, and sex. I attempted suicide. Yet, I still managed to graduate from high school with the help of my aunt and uncle. By that point, however, my mother and stepfather said I was an adult, and so I was left to figure out how to exist on my own. I had no understanding of the big world. I had no useful social skills or any skills. I didn't even know how to drive. I lived with one boyfriend until he realized I was an empty soulless human shell, and then I'd move onto the next.

After spending several years on the streets in Hollywood, I ended up wandering Venice Beach for a few months. I would stare at the ocean longingly, begging for it to take me home. It was so beautiful, and I was nothing.

Then one day, a couple police officers found me standing on the median of a Freeway down in Santa Monica. They took me in and I spent a year in a mental institution recovering.

And then I was released.

I was up north again, wandering around San Francisco. This was in 1998. I was at a gas station. My brother walked up. I hadn't seen him in years. His smile was as magnetic as ever. He saw the tracks in my arms and asked me to please stop hurting myself. He bought me a burrito, said I was too thin.

I wanted to be better for Michael and myself, so, I went to the Children of God cult in San Francisco-to recover in the safety of the only arms I'd known as a child. But my story doesn't stop there....