I remember when the missing time started up again I didn’t panic. Mostly because this time around it wasn’t all missing. It was like the vague memory of a dream I had.
I knew that in those moments I wasn’t me. Those were Samantha’s moments. I remember the first time her and I talked about those moments the ones that weren’t mine and didn’t make sense to me. She apologized right away slight panic in her voice. I told her that I didn’t want her to be sorry I just wanted to understand what was going on and why.
Neither of us had any real answers to the big what and why questions, but we had other answers. The ones that went to all our small questions about one another and how we were going to function properly as one person. We needed to understand one another and learn to be accepting of each other.
I knew that it was wrong to carry on like she wasn’t in there but there was no way I could tell anyone she was there so what choice did I have. We talked about our lack of communication being the cause of things becoming overwhelming for us both. We needed a plan something better than what we had.
So we started writing to one another. Before bed I would write her a letter about my day and all the messed up things that ran through my head that day that I knew I couldn’t tell anyone else. It was like I had a best friend no one could ever take away from me.
Some times I would wake up with a vague memory of getting up and writing but I could never recall if I had actually done so, I would always have to check just to be sure. Sometimes there was a letter from Sam other times just my entry from the night before. I always envied her ability to disappear when she wants.
Still being young and unsure of exactly what Sam was, it would always make me feel extra crazy when she wouldn’t talk or write for days at a time.
I would spend that whole time thinking I was just a lunatic that needed to be locked up forever before I hear some other crazy voice and hurt someone. These thoughts always led to darker thoughts and contemplation of suicide, typically I would just settle with the razor and wait for Samantha to return.
Eventually she would come back all loud and demanding like she hadn’t just left me here alone and scared. I remember one night I wrote her a 4 paged letter about how I felt when she would just disappear like that. I explained it as openly as I could. This was way easier than it would have been if I had tried any other way. I’m a much better writer than I am a talker. She never responded to that letter but I know she read it and I know this because….
She hasn’t ever left again.
” The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence.” -Sylvia Plath