hands.

One may find it difficult to explain something in which they do not understand.
                                           while
Another may know that something like the back of their hand.


I dont know my hand.
Yes, I am aware that I do indeed, have a hand.
The hand is brown. Has thick and sausage like fingers, and the middle ones bend to the right at the very top.

Its just that sometimes I become lost when it comes to whose hand it is. 

It doesn't make sense, does it?
Its difficult to explain. 


And it's becoming more frequent.

One moment I go lay down for a nap after yet another sleepless night, and the next I wake up in different sweats and my pajama shirt.
No big deal.
Then I receive a text from my boyfriend asking if I would care to know what he said to them.
Assuming he used the pronoun to describe a group of kids at school or his family, I told him that I would love to.
My messages were erased.
Silly mistake?
As I wait for his reply, I notice that my legs feel as if they are on fire.
Thinking a bug bit me, I look down my pants and wince as the fabric is pulled off of my skin.
Cuts. Gashes. : 19 on my hips. 14 on my upper thighs.
I start sobbing at the thought of my mother and how shed react.
How I had ruined everything we were trying to fix since the 8th grade.
But it wasn't my fault.
I didn't put the razor to my flesh.
They did.

So really, whose hand is it?

picking up the pieces.

How long have you been here?
How long have you been watching me?

Are you here to protect me?
Or to become me?

You appear to others constantly.
Its obvious.


But no ones looking.

No one can see the shift in our weight - from the left to the right.
Or the way your hands move along the keyboard.
The way we hold our pens.

There is a difference between you and I.

The distinctions are subtle.
'Insignificant'.
Unseen by most.
Contemplated by some.

But there nonetheless.


Truly, you are one of my very best friends. We've been close for as long as I can remember.
I can recall some moments in elementary school - crying because my parents left - but eventually smiling in comfort knowing that you were there.
And you remember some things too, don't you?

Things you dare not tell me?
There are months in school where I don't remember ever being there.
Words and actions that others have told me I once did.
Bad words.
Mean words.
Lies.


But that was you, wasn't it?

for Aciel.

Aciel.
Ace.

You are a stranger to some - and how you remain unknown to others is a mystery to me.

I've sat here and tried to bring myself to think of a way to thank you.
A way to show you that I am truly grateful for what you've done.
For not only my love, but for me.

I've started countless blog entries and torn innumerable sheets of paper from my notebook.

But I still couldn't get it right.

I couldn't encompass the perplexity of any situation or  describe my tangled thoughts in order to properly thank you.


I've always been too complex for simplicity like that.

But that's just it.

The fact that you've resided in his mind and made yourself known to me proved that:
I am not alone (in a metaphorical sense, of course).
I am not bad.


& that they are here to help me.


I wanted to make this entry short and sweet.
To thank you and be done.
To say goodbye.

Yet after typing but only a few words, I realized that I don't want you to go.
Granted, we've only spoken a handful of times and I don't know you very well.

But the times I have spoken to you have had actual meaning to me.
When you speak, it makes me think.
And due to your wisdom I will continue to think long after our last words have been said.

Although I know you must leave, I am sad to see you go.
But I wanted to let you know that in addition to changing his life, you have completely altered mine.
Thank you.

can you keep up?

There are three of them.
Three very kind, gentle souls.
One rude.
One lost. 
One overwhelmed.
But kind nonetheless.

But whose to say we aren't in charge?
That we aren't the main ones?
That we don't have a say?

We are a pair, you see.
Clever. Abstract. Different.

A complex sort of 'Yin and Yang'; we compliment each other.
We work as a team.
One calm. One quick.
One simple. One intricate.

It's a sort of dance, you see.
The way we move around the others with ease, and yet never loosing sight of one another.
A waltz of the mind, if you will.
Beautiful, really.

We are forever intertwined within one another.
Together tangled in her mind.
Always hidden. Yet never leaving.

Are you frightened?


Can you keep up?

a psychological phenomenon.

[written on Friday, August 26, 2011. reposted because it still remains a favorite.]

Tragedy strikes.

As it always does.

No need to be alarmed, Sammie is used to this.

No need to cry. No need to call anyone.

This happens daily.

Tragedy stikes so often in fact, that Sammie has decided to let Sam take over.

Over the years, Sam had asked to fill in for her.

Sammie had told Sam "no"; she was capable of figuring things out on her own back then. 

After the trauma, Sammie was still the Sammie everyone had gotten to know and love. Sammie was still creative. Sammie was still a writer. Sammie was still too loud in public places, and Sammie had still had boyfriends.

Despite the bruises and the cuts, everything was all right - physically speaking. 

Despite and increase of anxiety and the development of PTSD and insomnia, everything seemed somewhat normal to the doctors. 

"She was supposed to heal this way." Psychologically speaking.

You plan to ask Sammie how she's 'holding up' as soon as you get a chance to see her.

3 days since the incident.

You ask her how she's feeling.

Sammie tells you that she's fine. 

You ask her if she wants to go see a movie with you later. (your attempt to help her keep her mind off of things).

Sammie seems excited to go.

'Is she nervous at all?' you ask yourself. 

The grin and dorky laughs ensure you that Sammie is fine.

You two are on your way to the theater.

You decide to take a risk and ask her what had happened.

You question the bruises.

The chunks of missing hair.

The cuts.

You ask what he had done to her.

You even feel as if you could use his name.

You two are close; you view yourself as her confidant. 

Sam answers and tells you that everything is fine.

Her voice is an octave deeper and she avoids eye contact.

Her whole demeanor changes.

She isn't as 'bubbly' as she was a minute ago.

She hardly even catches your jokes.

That's because you're talking to Sam now.

Unknowingly, you are speaking to an entirely different person.

You cant treat her the same way as you do Sammie.

Sam holds her pen a different way.

Sam's handwriting is clearly distinguishable from that of Sammie's.

Sam likes different foods.

Sam watches different movies.

Sam is a different personality.

Your movie plans change because 'Sammie' had changed her mind and didn't want to see the movie the two of you planned on watching.

Although Sammie was excited to see that movie; she had been waiting for ages to go with you - you had taken Sam.

Sam didn't want to see that movie.

And when Sam is in control, it is what Sam wants.

They could trade back: let Sammie go see the movie with you and have Sam take the backseat.

But Sam doesn't like that either. Sam doesn't like to be used.

So when Sam is in control, Sam tries to get the best out of things.

So the two of you go to dinner instead.

Sammie is usually in control. And no, Sam isn't a parasite.

Sam does Sammie favors.

When tragedy strikes, 

As it always does.

Sam takes control and lets Sammie hide.

They're a team.

With Sam, Sammie no longer has to deal with the tragedies and traumas that life plans on throwing her way. She has a safteynet: Sam.

So in therapy, Sammie is congratulated on a speedy recovery.

The therapist was able to get the facts she requested.

Heard the rapists name from the victim's mouth (a part of healing, they were told).

Sammie's therapy sessions are reduced to twice a month rather than twice a week.

All thanks to Sam.

Sammie is in denial that anything had ever happened.

When presented with questions such as "Where did he touch you." or confirmations such as "He took you to his room, correct?" 

Sammie had no idea how to answer.

Not because she was afraid.

But because she had no recollection of what had happened.

Sammie was never raped.

When in therapy, Sam takes over.

Sam remembers the facts.

And since Sam is tough, she tells the therapist what had happened.

Although she struggles, she clearly explains the series of events with as much detail as the therapist requests. 

Although its tough and tears begin to swell, the therapist is proud.

The victim is healing.

You are almost to the restaurant. 

You are asked to turn back around.

"Lets go bowling!" Sammie suggests.

Sam is gone.

Sammie is rarely hungry.

She doesn't want dinner.

Do you get it?

Of course not. Sammie isn't even aware. 

Sam has become so automatic, Sammie doesn't think anything of it.

Her decisions change almost instantly - she calls herself indecisive. 

Her views on current events or drama at school change - she calls herself wishywashy.

She falls out of love at a blink of an eye - she decides that she isn't 'relationship material'.

She isn't aware that she isn't always Sammie.

When she reads this later on, its fiction.

If she gets praised for her creativity and imagination, she takes it; the plot of this entry is pretty far fetched indeed.

Then how is this being written?

Am I Sam?

No. I am the third in this group.

Just the 'Narrator' - thats whats Sam calls me.

I am neither Sammie or Sam.

I allow things to be written for her.

I research Split Personality Disorder for my dear Sammie when I have the control.

I look for help for her.

I am called the Narrator, for I document this phenomena. 

But I look out for Sammie and take over when neither Sam nor Sammie can handle the drama in the environment.

Perhaps I am a hero? Pashaaww.

Caregiver? Sure.

You're there reading this. And you think I'm crazy.

Im not.

Sam's not.

But perhaps Sammie is.

But name one "sane" writer. One "sane" artist.

There aren't many names to choose from, are there?

This is my first entry.

Sammie has written the others.

Sam may have typed a few.

Sammie is the lead. Sammie is the imagination, creativity and the poor girl that had lost her innocence.

Sam and I just try to give that back by providing a hiding place from her often cruel reality.

i hear you.

I’ve heard you. 

I’ve heard you every night.

For years now.

I’ve ignored you.

Thought you were a silly dream.

Or a side effect of drugs.

But now you’ve gotten my attention.

All of you. 

I’ve heard you when I’ve been desperate for sleep.

I’ve heard your voices the moment the lights went out.

I hear you when I’m alone.

And now I hear you when I’m with others.

Now I see you. 

I’ve seen you before.

But all along I was convinced that it was just a nightmare.

That you were a fictional character hiding in the depths of my subconscious.

But now I know you’re real. 

And now I listen to you. 

And you’re right.

I’m not good enough.

I’m not skinny enough.

I’m not smart enough. 

I’m not pretty enough.

Countless times I have tried to prove you wrong.

But you’re still in my head.

Yet you offer me another world.

One where I can be free.

One where I wont be anxious.

Where I wont be scared.
Where I can leave my past behind.

But I must also forget the present.

Give up my future.

You speak to me of this other world.

You try to bribe me.

Try to trade me.

All I have to do is give up.

Seems like a good deal to me.

my nightmare.

First written on September 4th at 3:39 am in my notebook. 
I am starting to have nightmares.

I fell asleep during Beauty and the Beast downstairs.

I just woke up.

I was asleep for about 45 minutes to 1 hour. 

I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I just took my Ambien for tonight.

I’m starting to feel anxious.

I want to watch my movie again, 

but I can’t watch it in my room nor can I sleep downstairs. 

So I’ve decided to try and write down each thought thats tangled in my mind.

I am anxious.

I am antsy.  

I am itchy.

I want to jump out of my own skin.

I hear the cricks and cracks of the house and of Seen getting up to go to the restroom & I know what the sounds are - but they’re still scaring me. 

I can hear something else.

But I can’t quite put my finger on it.

I can’t explain it. 

I have the feeling that someone’s watching me. 

You know, like in the horror movies. Where the victim is looking down and is completely unaware that the murderer is right behind them with a knife?

Thats what it feels like. Thats how I feel.

Someone’s watching me. I know there is.

I can see them. 

And they can see me.

But I can’t see their faces. So I’m not really hallucinating. 

Its like - when you’re trying to remember someones face.

So you close your eyes.

It’s dark.

You need to remember their face.

So you close them tighter.

And you can almost see their face.

An outline, perhaps.

You just catch a glimpse of their appearance. 

It’s like that.

I can almost see him.

This man.

This creature.

And its scary.

So I don’t want to sleep.

I feel as if he’s just waiting for me to fall asleep.

And when I do, something bad will happen.

I won’t sleep.

I feel like a little girl who is terrified of the monster living under her bed. 

Or the demon in her closet.

Of the creatures haunting her in the night; hidden in the shadows.

Just waiting.

I try to draw him. To use paints to better describe him.

His big, black and soulless eyes.

His unhinged jaw.

His shadowlike being - concealed in some sort of ratty fabric or jacket.

Sometimes his hood covers his face so its hard to see him at all.

But I know he’s there.

Whether he’s behind, above or beneath me. I know he’s here. 

I know he’s real.

He tells me.

HE TELLS ME. How much more fucking real can one thing get?

He wants to touch me.

To grab me.

Take me.

I get the feeling that his atrocious hands are right above me. So I constantly cringe and cower - refusing to life my head from my pad of paper.

I’m afraid of him. 

I’m afraid that if I look up, I’ll see him for real.

And take away the chances of this just being a bad dream.

** this happens frequently with or without Ambien. A side effect of Ambien is hallucinations, so at first, this is what I thought it was. But this was occurring way before I had ever taken it.**

welcome back.

I recently made a new account on Blogger for reasons that I would not like to discuss. 

I am about to post my first new entry on my new page.

But if you are interested in reading my past entries, feel free to visit:

http://shaummiee.blogspot.com/

Thank you.