“What are all those pills you’re taking, honey?” Dad’s voice booms.

For a second, when I hear the H sound, I think he’s going to call me Heidi, my chosen cult name. The wine bottle shakes in my hand. I haven’t been called Heidi since I left the Children of God almost two decades ago.

“Shh,” I say, “John’s sleeping upstairs with the girls.” I live with my husband and two daughters who are four and six years old, in a spacious townhouse downtown, no longer crammed into the commune’s bedrooms which were flanked with bunk beds and sleeping bags.

Dad and I are in my kitchen in Chicago, cleaning up after a family party. In his sixties, he’s wider and grayer. In my thirties, so am I. Dad lives in Spain with my mom and two younger sisters, but he visits Chicago often these days to help care for his ill and aging parents. Our relationship has always been complicated. “Heidi” never could have imagined this normal life for herself. She should’ve died a martyr for her faith years ago, like the prophet predicted.

The cult began in the late 1960s and members lived communally worldwide. No one held secular jobs or went to school because the second coming of Christ was imminent. They supported themselves by begging and selling cult-produced media. To show God’s love, some sanctioned practices included prostitution for Jesus and sexual interactions with everyone regardless of age, relation, or marital status.

Thousands of publications printed the teachings of the Children of God’s prophet, David Berg. Like The Story of Davidito, a 762-page manual that educated cult members on how to have the most productive sexual time with children, featuring Berg’s son Davidito watching orgies, engaging in threesomes, and receiving fellatio starting when he was less than two years old.

The Children of God liked to separate families to maximize control. From the ages of seven to sixteen, my twin brother Michael and I lived in communes all over Europe and the Soviet Union, often with our sisters, but without our parents. At sixteen, Michael decided to renounce the cult, and we lived in Chicago as a family, where the four of us attended school for the first time. After our eighteenth birthdays, our parents returned to the communes in Spain with our sisters. I stayed in Chicago with Michael.

When Dad is in Spain, we only hear from him on our birthdays and Christmas. In Chicago, he’s attentive and communicates constantly. Dad is a wonderful cook and will spend hours making elaborate meals for my family. He’s also a fun grandpa who never tires of playing hide and seek or doing art projects. However, Dad’s rambling, Bible-thumping, and the many unresolved issues we avoid, leave me drained and reaching for the bottle.

Dad points to the pile of pills sitting on the kitchen island. In the Children of God, medication and doctors’ visits were prohibited. Heidi, the programmed cultie who yearned to live with her biological family instead of abusive cult members, appears. She wants to please him by keeping the conversation light. But I’m not her anymore. I’ve fought hard to give myself a voice.

“They are for the nightmares.” My throat hoarse, I take another gulp. Dad’s bloodshot eyes are glued on mine. “Since becoming a mom, it’s my daughters in my dreams, not a younger version of me. For years, I barely slept at night. John would have to shake me awake and tell me I was dreaming. Then, I’d run to the girls’ room to make sure that they were okay.”

My ears get hot. There’s so much unacknowledged pain and trauma simmering underneath the surface. As a parent, there are so many things I cannot comprehend. Why did my parents remain in the Children of God after adults began to sexually assault children? One of my earliest cult memories is of Uncle Paul’s enormous sweaty palm clasped over my six-year-old fist as he dragged me to his bedroom to show me God’s Love. Consent was never possible; we were not allowed to say no.

Why did they deny us access to education and medical attention?  I spent plenty of weeks sequestered in quarantine rooms with other sick people, in communes from Argentina to Poland to Siberia, instead of going to the doctor. We had to trust God to cure us, even if that meant winding up dead. Until I was sixteen, my years were spent cooking, cleaning, fundraising, and watching kids barely younger than me, instead of going to school.

Why did they let the leadership separate our family? Some of the adults we lived with were nice, others weren’t. I can still feel some of the beatings I received for opening my eyes and talking during prayer, instead of quoting Bible verses. My exhausting days entailed begging in extreme heat and frigid temperatures to support the cult, instead of being allowed to listen to music, read secular books, or watch television.

Why did they leave Michael and me behind, unconcerned with whether we could make it on our own? The second they left us, the rampant drug and alcohol abuse began that nearly destroyed us both. I attempted suicide and put myself in dangerous situations. For example, dancing nude in sleazy strip clubs, until I could obtain a fake ID to strip at classier establishments, in order to put myself through college. Michael broke the law, had trouble keeping jobs, and destroyed his relationship with Dad’s family.

Dad chugs more wine, his pupils dilate. Not wanting to get emotional in front of him, I swallow tears and clench my fists. “I’ve worked really hard to reduce my meds. This is a sleeping pill and this PTSD treatment stops me from dreaming. The doctor said it’s the best someone with my history can hope for. He thinks it’s remarkable how far I’ve come.”

I hold my head up high. Dad’s body jerks out of its slump. I refill both glasses, impatient for the fuzzy relief I know the wine will bring. He creases his brow and throws his shoulders back.

“What PTSD?” Bluish veins pop in his neck. The decibels of his voice skyrocket. In the trash bin, I stack the empty wine bottle on top of all the others. His chapped lips are moving, but it’s the prophet’s words that echo in my ear as Dad regurgitates all the lies cult members were programmed to tell outsiders. Incest wasn’t condoned. We weren’t forced to have sexual interactions. Prostitution for Jesus was misconstrued. Public beatings and exorcisms never happened. We didn’t live in extreme poverty.

My heart hurts. His denial of the abuse feels worse than having had to go through it. It’s like ripping scabs off mending wounds. For the past to no longer have a hold on me, I must confront Dad’s pattern of lying.

Through a clenched jaw, Dad drains his glass. “I sacrificed my entire life to serve Jesus. I trusted God and my comrades to look out for my family. You had a wonderful childhood. You saw the world and served God! It’s other kids who were deprived.”

Dad’s denial keeps the trauma alive because we can’t confront and deal with it. A burning rage takes over as I imagine smashing these wine bottles over his nose. I open another one and swirl the peachy undertows in my glass. “Yup! Begging, eating rotten food, being beaten, molested and being a child laborer was wonderful!”

In 2005, the prophet’s son Davidito, who was born Ricky Rodriguez, killed one of his abusers and then killed himself. I was twenty-six years old, going to graduate school, and living with John at the time. Davidito’s suicide video on 20/20 filled the TV screen as he said, “I have this need for revenge. This need for justice. I cannot go on like this.... If there’s a next life, I can look back and see that I did what I could.... How can you do that to kids and sleep at night? Thousands of us were fucked over, literally. Where was our apology?"

I ran to the bathroom and threw up violently. That night I drank two bottles of wine and sobbed. My heart was broken. The following morning, I promised myself that I would use my voice. For Davidito. For me. For all of us.

Mom and Dad had just been in town the week before I saw Davidito’s death on TV.  They knew, but never breathed a word. Michael and I were livid that they didn’t tell us about our friend’s death. When we confronted them, they denied Davidito’s well-documented abuse. We didn’t speak to our parents for a year.

That year, like many of the ones that preceded it, I binged on cocaine and couldn’t quit drinking or smoking, no matter how hard I tried. Holding onto the rage desecrated me. My bitterness didn’t impact my parents in the least; they likely didn’t even notice that I stopped answering phone calls and returning emails. Like drinking poison, it hurt only me.

My parents never asked for forgiveness, and although they might not have deserved it, I forgave anyway, because that’s what I needed in order to move on. Eventually, with the support of my husband, my brother and sisters, and with my hard-won education, I was able to ditch cocaine and cigarettes for good. Numbness had always been my armor, but it kept me stuck instead of moving forward. I had to learn healthier ways to soothe my pain besides abusing drugs and alcohol, even though as a child I was never taught the tools to cope with trauma.

The vibrant moon glimmers through my open balcony doors. Growing up, windows and doors stayed closed and covered to hide the mangy, overcrowded living conditions. Outside, a flashlight zooms around the midnight air; it’s the security guard checking the perimeter of our gated community. Unlike the high compound walls of my youth that kept me locked in fear with my predators, this fencing has gaps and transparency. There aren’t hordes of parked caravans and motorhomes to hide in, no ravenous and bruised children to conceal.

Dad pounds on the counter, drunk and angry. “Why do you listen to those liars?  It’s all bullshit! No kids were mistreated!”

The cult disbanded a few years back when the leaders vanished with decades of members’ monthly tithe. Leadership’s families retired, set for life while people like my parents continue to live in squalor, penniless, trying to figure out what comes next. I wonder, even now, why my dad continues to defend them. It may be the shame, or he can’t be deprogrammed.

“You have a master’s degree from the University of Chicago!” Dad says, pointing his gnarled finger in my face. “None of your cousins or friends who went to school their entire lives have accomplished that!”

I wring my hands together. “That’s because I busted my ass stripping while going to school full-time and found friends to give me the love and support you never could.”

Arguing with him makes me feel helpless again, like Heidi, who wasn’t allowed to speak the truth. But I’m not Heidi anymore. I am Angela. Educated. Resilient. Honest.

This cannot end like the rest of our arguments, him spewing his version of events and me letting him live with his delusions. The silence of his denial weighs on my chest and suffocates me. After eighteen years in the cult and eighteen years out of it, I’m at the point in my life where I must move forward. My daughters deserve a strong mother who’s not afraid to use her voice or challenge a man.

“How can you deny that kids were victimized, that I was molested? How do you explain The Story of Davidito that taught culties how to abuse children? If you can’t be honest, I’ll never speak to you again. You will be out of my life forever. You have always chosen them over me, over everything. For once Dad, choose me!”

Swallowing the tears becomes impossible. And so, I sob. As Heidi, I was never allowed to express emotions. Now that I own my feelings, I no longer need to run, numb, or dissociate.

Dad puts his arms up in mockery protest. “I guess not everything about the way you were raised was perfect. Everybody makes mistakes…”

            “At least Mom’s made amends.”

Mom has apologized for not protecting us when we were kids. She lost her mother to breast cancer months before she decided to leave Michael and me. The guilt of disappearing for 20 years to join a cult must have been overwhelming for her. I understand why she wanted to move back to Spain to be near her father for his last remaining years. She told me that splitting up our family is her biggest regret. She’s a wonderful grandmother and mother to our sisters. That is enough for me. Trauma victims haven’t had much, so we expect little.

Dad rubs the nape of his neck, “I thought The Story of Davidito was just something that the prophet and leadership were experimenting with.” His breathing escalates as he clasps his hands over his face. “I never touched a child and never in a million years thought it would be practiced on you.”

Seeing the despair in his eyes summons up compliant Heidi. She tries to claw her way back into my skin, pry my lips shut, humble my stance, and make me the good girl again. I’m in awe of this younger version, of all she’ll put herself through, of all she’ll endure.

“Thank you,” I say, slouched and rubbing my eyes. “One last thing. Did you feel any remorse for abandoning Michael and me?”

Dad smacks his palm against his forehead and steps back, “You were eighteen! Adults! Same age as I was when I left home!”

My great-grandfather deserted his family for months on end to chase women. My grandpa kicked Dad out of the house when he was that age because he was a hippie who refused to cut his hair. Dad abandoned Michael and me because we left the cult. By the age of 18, Michael, Dad, and I were unfathered and unmothered.

Unlike many kids these days, who live with their parents, with college and health insurance, Dad was thrown into the world just like Michael and me, with no safety net. Tripping on acid, he met the cult’s hippies and boarded a plane to Italy with nothing but a toothbrush and his passport, looking for purpose and adventure. I planted roots in Chicago, searching for love and acceptance. After six years of stripping, where I was beaten, drugged, and nearly raped, I secured a career as a school social worker.

“I’m exhausted,” I say. “Good night.”

In bed, waiting for my pills to kick in, I scroll through photos on my phone. One sticks out: Dad animatedly playing the guitar while my daughters are jumping and laughing. I see him as the scared teenager, forced to leave his dysfunctional home. His growth is stunted. He hasn’t mentally progressed past that point.

I’ve advanced, though. I’ve reclaimed my name. My body. Even though the nightmares persist, they are infrequent. John still shakes me awake and says, “You’re safe baby. You’re safe.” Now, I finally believe him and roll back to sleep.

The following morning, I’m hungover. My stomach churns while my head pounds. However, baring my soul has brought a subtle peace. I breathe a little easier, my rapid heartbeat slows. Dad doesn’t need to tell me he hasn’t slept. His eyes are bloodshot and his shoulders slump. “I just want you to know that I love you, all my children, with all my heart. I never meant for any of you to get hurt. I really believed I was fulfilling the highest calling in my life by serving Jesus.”

For the first time, I don’t pull away from his grippy hug. Even though it’s hard to accept that love is often packaged with hurt and abandonment, I realize that forgiveness is not about him. It’s what I need to move on. My forgiveness isn’t complete, it may never be, but it’s a beginning. My compulsion to communicate honestly with him is for my sake, to make me whole.

Dad walks out of my garage with his guitar strapped to his back. By making him my witness, I see the pain in him. I see his shame and try not to let it break my heart. That’s his cross to bear. I’ve broken my own heart more than anyone ever could. With him sharing my burden, the weight seems lighter. Dad will still live in his version of the truth. I can’t change that. But I’ve been heard, and he loves me just the same.