The Move Out

I moved out of her house soon after I turned 18, I was still in high school.

Our battles were getting frequent, daily even. Between 17 and 18 I was kicked out on a regular basis. I could never figure out why I made her so upset. I had been working since I was 15, helping out around the house and with my brother, got good grades. The only conclusion I could draw was that I had a stable boyfriend (now my husband) and she was not the center of my world any more.

My boyfriend's parents were kind enough to let me stay with them during the times I was kicked out. Even when she called them, harassing them and calling them names. After months of this happening, John surprised me with a key to our own place. I never went back home.

I had to sneak back into her house to retrieve some of my things. I was always jealous of my friends. I didn't have one of those typical move out experiences. The ones where mom helps you pick a place and then helps you make it home. Stocking you up with food and bathroom supplies. Bringing you casseroles to make sure you were eating healthy. Nope, that wasn't in the cards for me. She never even came to my first apartment, or my second.

I always tell my husband that he saved me. He freed me.

I had never felt so good. So content. Even though I was now solely responsible for my living expenses, she wasn't on my back telling me how stupid I was. She wasn't there to ridicule me.

She told me once that she had hoped I would fail. That I would come crawling back.

I never went back. I never asked for help of any kind. I made it. We made it.