I feel as though life will never be the same. I always thought about the bond between a mother and a daughter was something so strong, it could never fail. But, what happens if that daughter gets kidnapped? I never truly realized what damage it could do on a family, let alone a mother. Everyday you blame yourself for what happened, everyday you wake up retracing your steps over and over. I think about it everyday, how I could’ve saved her. I could’ve saved us, our family. It was all my fault, I live with the guilt everyday. The guilt of not picking her up and ruining something beautiful.

****

I put on my evergreen t-shirt and white converse as if it is a normal day. I try to think it’s a normal day, but I know no day will ever be normal to me again. Sometimes I wish I could be normal. I want to experience life like every other teenager my age. I want to go to parties with my friends, I want to meet boys, go shopping, and get my license. The sad thing is, I have no friends, not anymore at least. I use to have so many friends, beautiful friends as well, but now I am just alone.

****

I wanted to take her place. I wanted to be the one that had to go through hell and back. I wanted to be the one to feel the pain of not knowing if I was going to make it out alive. I wanted to be the one that was locked in a basement for two years with no food or water. I wanted to be the one to feel all of this, I wanted to be the one to go through so much pain. I wanted to trade places with her everyday, but instead I couldn’t. I had to sit in my bedroom for two years wondering if she was alive. I had to sit in my bedroom wondering if she was being tortured, raped, or beaten. I had to live with myself. I had to sit there.

****

I have nightmares. I have a lot of them actually. I think about what it felt like to be trapped. I think about his breath on my neck, and the way he said my name. I think about the way he looked at me up and down as if I was owned by him. I think about the way he touched me, the way he made me feel so weak. I think about all the things that happened in that basement one hundred times a day. I replay every memory I had with that monster. I feel so much hate, so much anger, so much sadness, towards one human being. But sadly, the only person I can blame, is myself.

****

When I do find enough courage to talk to her, I usually break down and cry. I do not like showing her I am weak, a mother is supposed to be a role model, someone you look up to. I can’t help the emotions I feel when I see the pain beneath her eyes still. I can’t help but feel pain myself, knowing I could’ve prevented it. I wish it never happened, I wish my baby never had to feel the pain. I would pay millions of dollars to go back in time and change that one decision I made. I wish I told her “No honey, I will pick you up.”

****

I can see the guilt behind my mother’s eyes when I speak to her. I wish she knew it wasn’t her fault. I have told her millions of times it wasn’t. I have told her countless times that she never could have known this was going to happen to me. I think my mother has cried more tears then I have. I knew she was losing her mind because of the guilt, I wanted to stop it. I wanted to shake her and tell her “Look, I am alive. Please it is not your fault.” But I know it would only bring more sadness. I have learned that telling someone it isn’t their fault, makes them feel like it is.

****

I look at her sometimes. She is such a beautiful creation. Her long blonde hair falls just below her waist, and her blue eyes resemble the deepest ocean blue. She is so strong, she is a survivor. I run my fingers through her hair and just look at her sometimes. I look at her sometimes to know she is still my daughter, to know she is still who she was when she left, to know she is still alive.

****

I feel dead but I am alive. I don’t think that will really make sense, but in my mind it fits perfectly. People treat me as if I died, and came back to life. People treat me as if I am some delicate flower in which the slightest touch and I will break. Strangers come up to me sometimes and tell me how strong I am, and how moved they are by my story. I hate when they say “my story.” I feel as though I am defined by the terrible event that happened to me. I am Samantha Waters, the girl who got kidnapped. I wish I could change my name, not physically, but in the eyes of the public.

****

I want to know what she is feeling. I want to know if she wakes up everyday happy or sad. I want to know if she thinks I am a good mother, I want to know if she still loves me. I want to know if she thinks I am crazy, I want to know if she blames me on her father’s disappearance. I want her to know that I love her more than anything in this world. I want her to know that I lost my mind trying to find her. I want her to know that she is the reason I wake up everyday thankful. I want her to know that nothing is her fault. I want her to know I am so proud to be her mother.

****

I tend to keep all my emotions inside of me. I don’t really like expressing my feelings towards any matter. I feel bad for my mother because of this. I try to tell her how I feel about everything in my life, I want to, but it ends up being silence instead. I want her to know a lot of things. I want her to know that I love her. I want her to know that I miss her, I miss how close we were. I want her to know I don’t blame her for anything, not even my dad walking out on her. I want her to know that the people who call her crazy, are crazy themselves. I want her to know I feel so blessed to have a mother that loves me so deeply. I want her to know that she is the reason I stayed alive.

****

I use to hold her clothing in my hands and cry. Some nights, I slept in her empty bed hoping that she would come join me. I went through countless sheets every month because they were stained with tears. I hated going outside, I hated getting out of bed. The only thing that I would get out of bed for is if I heard the doorbell, or it was a search day to try and find her. Countless days, countless hours, and sleepless nights. I laid awake, praying every night, for her to come home to me.

****

Everyone always tells me how my mom never gave up on me. People told me that when everyone started to give up, she did not even lose a sight of hope. Even the police department told me that sometimes she was the only one out searching for me, she was the only one putting up flyers, and she was the only one who called the station every night. Even when my dad gave up, even when my own father left my mother because he couldn’t “handle it” she still pushed through. She tells me every night that she loves me more than anything in this world, she tells me every night how lucky she is to have me, and how she thinks I am the bravest girl in the world. In all reality however, she is the bravest person I have ever met. If it wasn’t for her, the police would’ve never found me. If it wasn’t for her persistency, the police would’ve moved on. If it wasn’t for my mother, I wouldn’t be alive today.

****

I try not to blame myself for what happened anymore. I try to look at the bright side, even if there is only a tiny sliver of one. My daughter is alive, my daughter is breathing. My daughter still loves me, my daughter still laughs. A terrible thing happened, a beyond terrible thing, but this terrible thing has ruled my life for too long. It is time for me to breathe, it is time for me to let go, of that terrible thing.

****

It is like I have to learn to live again. I have to learn how to function in a normal society. I have to learn how to communicate with normal people again. I don’t have to beg and plead for food, water, and a blanket to keep warm. I can be a normal human being again, and I think that is the hardest thing. I have realized what it takes to survive, I have realized my greatest strengths, and my greatest weaknesses. I have realized that terrible things happen in this world to the best people. I have realized so many things about myself and the world from this one terrible thing. This terrible thing will haunt me no longer. I will not allow it too. The truth is that things only haunt you if you allow them too.