I Am Houdini, Not You

I pull the disappearing act, too.

Photo by Matthias Oberholzer on Unsplash

Dedicated to a former best friend.

When I got fed up with you disappearing and taking endless hiatuses, I saved your number as Houdini.
It's still saved that way.

I was so irritated by your disappearances that I stopped talking to you altogether. You irked me. You got under my skin.

Don’t get me wrong—I understand the need to disappear. I’ve done it before. But I was offended that you felt the need to withdraw from me too.

Still, I never blamed you for going into hiding. I always believed your best pieces came out of isolation.

We used to joke about being versions of each other, and whenever I mention you to someone I’m dating, I say you were the male version of me.

Back then, I failed to see how alike we were. I must have been too upset.

But hindsight is 20/20, and looking back now, I realize that knowing you was like looking into a mirror.

Psychology says that the things we hate most in others are often the things we dislike in ourselves.

I failed to see how much of a Houdini I was.
A runner.
A hider.
A magician—disappearing into the abyss and only returning when I felt whole again.

Like that time after college when I deleted all my socials and told everyone I was “taking a break.”
Or the countless times I logged out of Instagram for months because it was “too much.”
Or when I turned off my phone—or left it on airplane mode for days—because I said the world was too loud.

I never considered how that made people feel. People who needed to reach me. People who just wanted to know I was safe.

Maybe it was overstimulation.
But I’ve come to see that there are healthier ways to retreat—ways that don’t leave loved ones in the dark.

I’ve also come to see that every single time I completely withdrew, I was drowning in depression.
I didn’t know how to say it.
I didn’t know how to ask for help.
Maybe disappearing was my way of asking.
Maybe it was my SOS.
Maybe it was my smoke signal.

Maybe yours was too.

Maybe we mirrored each other in more ways than we ever said out loud.

Lately, I’ve been wondering about your mental health.
Were you okay back then?
Did you feel alone?
Did you feel like you had to carry it all by yourself?
Did you think no one would understand if you tried to explain?
Or were you scared the world would judge you more harshly—because you were a man, and men “shouldn’t” show weakness?

If I could go back in time, I don’t think I’d ever stop looking for you.
I’d come drag you out of the abyss.
I’d climb down there and we’d claw our way out together.

I’d tell you that you weren’t alone. That I, too, often need to disappear to find myself again.
That it’s also how I create best.
But we don’t have to carry this alone.

If we could go back, I wish we’d talked about mental health more.
I’d tell you to come home.
I’d call and say, “I cooked—come over.”
And I’d beg you to please stop disappearing.
I’d be more patient with you.

I forgive you for disappearing.
And I’m learning to forgive myself, too.

I still remember how we bonded over Kanye’s old-school music while we painted.
Or how you’d send me poetry you wrote at 2AM because you knew I’d be awake, writing too.

I don’t know where you are now.
Sometimes I think about messaging you.
Sometimes I wonder if you still think of me.

I hope you’re still creating.
I hope you’re still here.

I wonder how different things would be if we’d known how to say, “I’m not okay.”

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Thank you for journeying with me.

I pray that all is well.

Love,

Anella.

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