It’s insane to think about all that can happen in one year. It’s so amazing to me that you can actually become an entirely new person in just twelve short months. The whole world can transform into a completely different place. Maybe a year ago you were stressing about GPAs and SATs and other ominous acronyms and now you’re sitting back enjoying your summer before you go off to your dream school for the next four years. Maybe you were going through a vicious breakup and swearing you wouldn’t survive and now you’re going on a date with that cute guy you met at the bank (or let’s be real, on Tinder).
A year ago I was smack in the middle of the worst year of my life. Just 8 months earlier I was in a horrible five car pileup in the center lane on 275. My car was totaled. I had nightmares of car crashes for weeks and had to start taking the 2-hour bus ride to and from work. The next month I was missing Christmas with my family and fighting to raise enough money to save my best friend’s life. I was bedridden, calling out of work and drowning in anxiety and fear that I would never get to see my baby again. Then it was January of 2016. I was nursing a broken cat back to life, knowing very well that the doctors said she probably wouldn’t recover, and sitting on $5000 in vet bills. When we finally made it out of the risk period and it looked like she was going to be okay, I went to Walmart to buy her a new collar to celebrate. I was standing in line at the self-checkout with my groceries and Cat’s new present when I got a text.
“I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Meg’s gone.”
I dropped the eggs. I closed my eyes and took a long breath. I finished scanning my items, called a cab home, and brought my groceries inside. The door hadn’t even closed before I dropped to the floor in agonizing sobs.
The next few months were a blur of razor blades, blackouts and benzos. Nothing prepares you for losing a friend to suicide. I didn’t leave my bed for weeks. I dropped out of school and quit my job. I ignored all my friends and began despising the people I once loved. I ate too many white sticks and blacked out for days at a time. I was the farthest from okay that I have ever been, so deep in the darkness, no speck of light could reach me. I self-destructed.
Around this time last year, the dark storm clouds in my head were starting to fade. I slowly started to come back to the real world. I was nowhere near okay yet; I still had another car crash, mono, a heartbreak and a suicide attempt ahead of me, but I came up for air for a little while. That little break was enough to restore some bit of hope deep inside of me. Something in me anchored onto that light and though I dove back down into the darkness and lost it for a while, I eventually found it again and started to climb. Now here I am, in 2017, alive. I just got home from a job that I love and I’m sitting in the bedroom that I’m in the process of remodeling, texting my (human) best friend and petting my two healthy cats. I have real friends who genuinely care about me and a blade hasn’t touched my skin in months. It’s an entirely new world and I’m an entirely new person. I’m happy.
I know that this has been long, but I hope that you read it and that you see that no matter how dark your life gets, it’s always possible to come back to the light. You might be ready to end your life today, but think about how much can change in a year. A year from now your life will be in a different place than it is today, and don’t you want to stick around to see what that’s going to be like? Don’t you want to give yourself a chance to be happy? I’m living proof that it’s possible. I always say cliches are cliches for a reason, and this is the perfect example: It gets better.
Dedicated to everyone who lost someone this past year, and to anyone who may be hurting.
It’s been a year since you’ve been gone. Actually it’s been a year, three months and a day since you’ve been gone. It’s weird that I’ve been on this Earth without you for this long. There’s so many things I’ve wanted to tell you. When the boy I liked broke my heart I needed to hear your comforting words assuring me that I was better off without him. When a “friend” monumentally screwed me over I knew you’d be here hating her with me and listening to me vent. I saw today they took our show off of Netflix, and I knew you’d be as furious as I was, but I couldn’t text you about it.
One year, three months and a day is a long time to think. I still think about you and how sad I am that you’re gone, but I also think about me and how much I have grown. Losing you forced me to grow up a bit faster than I’d planned. It forced me to think about things in ways I’d never considered before. Suddenly all the lessons you’d been brought into my life to teach me made sense, and I knew that I had to do right by you. I had to become the person that you’d always wanted me to be.
Since losing you, your lessons have really sunk into my brain. I’ve learned that friends should always come first, and no boy can ever change that. I’ve learned that the most important people in your life are the ones who want the best for you, and to always be available to those people when they need you. I’ve learned that true friends won’t let anything come between them (no matter how cute he is!!)
I didn’t always do right by you. I chose boys over our friendship more than once, which led to fights and led to me barely seeing you the last summer we had together. I will always regret that, but I refuse to allow that to dictate my future. I refuse to ever be that person again. It’s too late for me to make it up to you, but you always gave me the chance to rectify my mistakes. I didn’t while you were still here, but since losing you I’ve been working to do just that. I haven’t always done right by you, and I know nothing will make up for that, but I promise to never do anything like that to anybody ever again. I promise to be the friend you wanted me to be, the friend you deserved.
One year, three months and a day is a long time to think, and all I can think about is being a better person for you. I am becoming a better person for you. Thank you for coming into my life when you did and thank you for guiding me to become the friend I always should have been. It took a while, but I’m making progress, and I can only hope that you’re proud.
Love you forever, Meg.
Two weeks after my eighteenth birthday I received a call at work. An old friend, in hysterics. I could barely make out what she was trying to tell me, but I did hear one thing clear as day.
I hung up the phone and, in shock, went back to work. I didn’t feel it right away, and I thought I’d be okay to stay but my manager insisted I go home. I told my friend I’d meet her, but on the way I guess it must have hit me. I pulled over to the side of 495 and just cried and cried. I remember not being able to breathe and starting to hyperventilate. I think I blacked out for a second.
Noah was dead.
And it was his drugs that killed him.
I remember thinking that I didn’t understand death. It wasn’t fair. People shouldn’t die from the things that make them happy. Noah was sad and his drugs made him smile again. He needed to smile again. He deserved to smile again. But now I see that it was only artificial happiness, and he didn’t deserve that. He deserved so much more. A better life, people to love him, a world away from drugs. He deserved true happiness.
Heroin terrifies me. I stay awake at night crying over the people that I’ve lost to such an awful poison. And I don’t just mean the people that have lost their lives, I mean the people I’ve lost to the drug itself. Some of the most important people in my life have chosen that path and they’ve become something that I can’t even recognize anymore. They’ve chosen their needles over me and I don’t know how to cope with that. I don’t know how to be okay with that. Addiction truly changes you into the worst possible version of yourself and that version doesn’t care who gets hurt as long as you get your fix.
It’s really painful for me to write about this. I apologize for the lack of structure and overall messiness of this post but it’s hard for me to put into words how I feel about this particular subject. It scares me. It hurts me. It absolutely shatters my heart. I recently told a friend I’d given up on her, and as much as it tortures me, I have to stick to that. It’s too painful for me to sit by idly and watch my friends tear their own lives to shreds.
Let me tell you a little bit about what it’s like to be the friend of an addict. It’s constant fear. It’s the feeling of dread you get every time your phone goes off because you’re always just waiting for that call telling you that they’re gone. It’s watching the pain of a mother just wishing her child would come back to her. It’s sticking by somebody when they steal money from you because you trust them to get better and then still seeing them deteriorate. It’s constantly hoping for them to find help and consistently being disappointed when it, once again, takes a turn for the worse. It’s endless false hope and disappointment.
That said, I still hold out some shred of hope that things can turn around. I still fully believe that if they really make the decision to get better, they can. With the right programs, the right will power, and the right support system, I firmly believe that things can get better, and when they do I’ll be right here waiting with open arms. You too deserve true happiness, not the artificial highs your needles bring you. And happiness is possible if you allow it, and I will help you find it. But for now, unfortunately, all I can do is wait and hope you find your way back to the light.
One day, out in the woods by the high school, I made a plan to write a romance novel about two of my great friends. One of you may be gone, but to the other: Please don’t let this be the end of your story.
Please find your way back to the light.
Dedicated to an old friend
An essay on mental illness
When things go wrong it’s human nature to look for someone to blame. Often people look for others to blame but for a lot of us with mental illness, it’s more likely that we’d choose the easier victim – ourselves. It makes sense. We’re the one common variable in everything bad that has ever happened to us. We’re the one thing that doesn’t change. Something I hear people say a lot is “I hate myself.” I say it too, often when I’ve done something embarrassing, but for a lot of people and even for me sometimes, it has a deeper meaning. We’re not saying it out of embarrassment but out of pure, true self-loathing. It’s because we blame ourselves for the bad things that have happened to us, and in some cases it’s true. It is our fault. We’re the idiots that got drunk and lost our wallets. We’re the hotheads who got into a fight at the bar and landed an assault charge. We’re the cowards that picked up a needle for the first time.
But it seems we often forget about another common variable, and that is our mental illness. It is never without us and we are never without it. Something so so important is the ability to recognize when it’s coming into play. It’s important to be able to recognize when it is to blame. It’s not always really us having a panic attack over a boy that didn’t text us back, but our anxiety. It’s not always us jumping from one wild decision to the next, but our bipolar. It’s not always us making the decision to pull out a blade or swallow a bottle of pills, but our depression. In order to stay sane, it’s crucial that you learn to recognize this. You’ll drive yourself mad blaming yourself for everything bad that has ever happened in your life. Sometimes it really truly just was not your fault. Your mental illness is never your fault.
I wrote before about how I’d never felt more suicidal than the day after I attempted suicide. A lot of that was due to the regret and embarrassment I felt both from failing but also for ever trying in the first place. I was embarrassed that my friends had to be practically stripped down in order to visit me in the hospital. Mainly though, I felt a bitter, almost cruel sense of guilt. I felt so guilty that my roommate had to drive me to the hospital on her first night back from vacation. I felt so guilty that my best friend was being attacked for not getting to me first. I felt so guilty that everyone had to change their everyday pattern in order to cater to me, the suicidal psychopath sitting in bed next to someone who “really deserved to be there.” What I’ve come to realize about that night is that it wasn’t me who picked up that bottle. It wasn’t me shoving pills down my throat. It was my depression, and it was trying to kill me.
This is not to say we should blame all our faults on our mental illness. As I said, sometimes it really is just our fault! Sometimes we really did mess up and in those times we should accept blame and deal with any repercussions that follow. However, sometimes our mental illness makes decisions for us that are beyond our control, and during those times we should cut ourselves some slack. It’s not our fault that we self-destruct. It’s not our fault that we’re sick.
Dedicated to a friend who needs to give herself a break.