You Got Out

Libby,

I'm sure you've heard the story a million times, but once more can't hurt. My dad was gone when I was two months old, and I was five when Mom started dating your dad. I remember being six when she told me she was pregnant with you. I was a mixture of elated, nervous, and jealous. Here comes the new baby. The older sibling with no dad will no longer be the center of attention. But it was never like that with you.

I was seven when you were born. You were the WORST child! Always in trouble, always getting into things you weren't supposed to, and to be honest it made me look really good, so thanks for that. I was sad when Mom and your dad split. He's a good guy.

I was twelve when our youngest sister was born, which would have made you five. Our stepdad was nice and always treated us so well. Then our younger sister got sick.

I think that's when the abuse began. Mom was hard on us. SO hard on us. If we didn't clean our room she would tell us we were the reason our sister was dying. We'd go to our rooms and quietly cry. I know you thought no one could hear you. I could. I was just scared to make a sound and I know you were too.

We didn't get hugs. Nobody told us they loved us but Papa. There was no shoulder to cry on when we needed someone. We constantly walked on eggshells, afraid to upset Mom. She had a rage that was different than I've ever seen. We weren't beaten or physically abused, but the mental toll of what she did will forever stay in my mind. She has a way to cut you so deeply with words that you question your entire reason for existence.

We lost friends growing up because they'd come over and see how Mom was, and they'd never come back. We longed for sleepovers at other friends' houses. She told my friend "at least my kids don't come from a broken home" because she knew my friend's mom had died. It was because my friend had laughed while our younger sister played Guitar Hero.

Life wasn't the easiest on us aside from Mom either. We survived two major hurricanes that destroyed our homes. You had birthday parties in makeshift high school gymnasium shelters where they would buy us a cake and get you barbies.

We had it hard, sister. But one day, you had enough. You packed up and moved in with your dad, and I was so happy for you.

You got out.

Not only did you get out, but you inspired me to keep going. I saw how much you accomplished once you left. By sixteen years old you were paying your own car insurance and phone bill. You grew to be so responsible, so kind, and everything I knew you could be.

It wasn't easy after you left. Mom knew I didn't have a dad to turn to, so the anger that was divided amongst us started getting directed at me alone. But that's not your fault and don't think for a second it is. Neither of us deserved it.

I just kept watching you and what you were doing. Even though I'm seven years older than you, I looked up to you. I saw that there was a future outside of the silent walls of our secretly loud house.

When I was seventeen I thought about both suicide and dropping out. You kept me going. I was so proud to be able to cheer you on from the sidelines. It made everything okay somehow. Seeing you succeed was reassurance that one day it would be over and we wouldn't have to deal with it again.

Now, over a decade later, we finally talked about our childhood as adults. It was only last year that we spoke the big A word. We both knew we had been abused but we never talked about it. I guess in a way we were almost wondering if it really happened and hoping the other would bring it up first.

Now you're one semester away from graduating college. You're so beautiful, everyone loves you, and your dreams are coming true.

You got out, Libby. And I've never been more proud of anyone.