There is something to be said for those people who know you, just know so well that you don't have to stop and explain.

When I left for college, I was so entirely fed up with the idea of everyone knowing my life story — not that there was much to know, I suppose, but in 18 years, scarcely a move had gone unnoticed. Comes with the territory, I suppose. The only diaries I kept all my life, afterall, were written with the knowledge that someone else would read then.

(As a 14 year-old, every angry moment of jealousy, rage or bitterness toward Liz went documented in my notebook with the blue fabric that I left under my mattress where I knew she would find it. Some might call that passive-aggressive. I prefer "indirect communication.")

So it seems very strange when suddenly, I find myself having to explain — rather quickly — the facts of my life to date these days. It never quite comes out right, either. An example:

"Oh, yeah, no, my parents are getting divorced," I mumble between bites over dinner with my newest housemate, half-convinced I had already related the sordid details to her once. "Well, yeah, no, I more or less don't speak to him anymore. I guess you could say he had a midlife crisis named Janet. But it's ok. I mean, we manage," I say, because I don't know what to say, and frankly, I'd rather not.

I know no matter how I put it, what strange bits of evidence I draw up (and I don't want to), it's going to hit the way it would if you knew before. I can't say to my friend with the happily-married parents 'picture your life now, then picture that announcement tomorrow. Because they don't honestly get it.

It's just an example, mind you, but it's why I sometimes don't know how I'm supposed to process all the people who've arrived in my life in recent years. And it's why, no matter how far apart we might be or how long we go without speaking, I will always feel a certain bond with my friends from back home.

I remember what Lillian's family was like when she was eleven and still had a mother and "lukemia" held no particular relevance to our lives; I can tell she harbors a certain kind of resentment for my father in a way she would if he were her own. And in a strange way, it's a bond to hold.

I have my stock reply for when people ask me what it's like to have a twin — I don't know what it's like not to have one — but it's more truth than simply a way to avoid a question. I don't know what it's like to have memories that are entirely your own, to have places that you've been that only you remember (or those who remember it as well are long since severed from your life, travelling a path you will in all likelihood never intersect again). I always thought it must be a luxury to go someplace where nobody knew you at all, where there was no chance someone would report back to home on your activities.

Now, I have a better sense of that. The people I meet today don't know what I was like yesterday. They don't know how once upon a time, I came from a family not unlike some idyllic sitcom situtation where everyone loves each other and arguments get settled in 27 minutes or less (well, I thought, anyway). They don't know about the stupid games we played on Jaye Street and they don't get my strange half-serious conviction that I suffered a rare form of childhood schizophrenia (people tend to think I am crazy when I try to explain this (as they often will when one brings up a story that involves "the voices") but Liz knows what I mean, which leads me to believe we've either spent too much time together or it's genetic.)

There's something to be said for not having to deal with the preconceived notions of the world. It's nice to not have to fight an identity thrown onto you before your arrival. But sometimes, it's even better to not have to say anything at all.