Beatings and Exile.

We attempted to grow up. We lived in the same house, shared the same bed when Gary moved in. I used to wonder how 2 people—you and me—summed up as yin and yang. That's how it looks anyway: the candy-coated shell, the 8/10 glossy.

You have your 9-to-5 persona, 5 days a week. I think that's when you get your reprieve. That reprieve continues; you've packed your schedule with kids, dinners to prepare, and chores that must be done.

You finally stop after your medicine has titrated your liver; your synapses calm. That maddening noise. The noise that drives your day, even screams for its fork.

So, not by will or simple self-care, but by total and utter exhaustion. Exhaustion from running away. Playing your involuntary game of “high-stakes hide-and-seek.”

Seriously, I get the need to run. Cover your ears. Make “it go away.” Because you believe if you remembered what you've already survived, you'd never survive again. You collapse, pass out, whatever the case may be; it's enough to force your eyes closed.

A couple hours of comatose. Not to be mistaken for rest or sleep. You really cannot consider it a nap. Yours is involuntary. I get that too.

My dearest sister, I've learned there is a different way. No more surviving. Living.

The path less traveled, the hard, painful path rigged with mortar fire and landmines. You've traveled this path before. You were just a child the first time. In the trenches doing your best to survive the horrific maiden voyage. Navigating without a GPS. They were supposed to keep us safe. They didn't.

The people who were supposed to protect you, they were responsible for the enemy fire.

Lunacy comes to mind: to actually go back, willfully, on your own fruition. Follow the tiny footprints we left behind like breadcrumbs. Down this horrid path traveled. Reliving and facing that which you've been earnestly devout in escaping sounds and feels insane. The true example of masochism.

We grew up in the same house. I believe you suffered far more than I. Diverting their drunken tirades so you could protect me; you knew I simply wasn't cut out for the beatings or exile.