I N T R O D U C T I O N
D A Y 1
73 days. The actual length of one summer. A summer away from everything. A summer away from the things that destroyed me, and a summer away from the things that saved me. I'm alone now, struggling, left with two options. By the end of summer, I will have either recovered from this deep, sorrowful pit of melancholia or I will have killed myself. This diary will either serve as a memorium, a look back at my last days...or a glimpse into the dark pit that I pulled myself out of. Alone.
You saved me. Every single time, you saved me. I was expecting to be hurt by you. Everyone else had hurt me, so why not you, too? I was so afraid of you hurting me, that I hurt myself. In a way, it was comforting for a while. Truly, deep down inside, I never thought you would hurt me. Everyone else had hurt me, abandond me, pushed me off to the side...but you...no, I never really thought you would, too. I hurt myself so much, and when it got to be too much to bare, your arms were always open. Always.
Or so it seemed... but in your own words, I was nothing.
I am nothing.
I will always be nothing.
Those long nights when we spent hours on the phone, giggling at each other, every little thing was hilarious. Life was beautiful.You were beautiful. Your voice carried, and it echoed through the phone straight through my ears and into my dream-catcher heart. You could comfort me like no one else could, every mischance that was thrown at me was made neutral by you. Nothing really mattered, as long as you were by my side. Sure, some things were hard, but you were there.
Until you weren't.
I loved you. You said you loved me, and I still don't know if you really did... but I was getting restless. I had fallen out of love with you, romantically, but you were still my best friend. I didn't know that two little words would change that much. I was angry, angry at myself, in all honesty. I felt worthless, and helpless, and just fucking pissed. And the worst mistake I ever made, was taking it out on you. I didn't realize it back then, but you were really the only one who put up with all my depressing shit. I always felt worthless, and useless, and torn, and broken. And I complained about it all the time, like a whiny little bitch. But you put up with it. You put up with it for as long as you could, until I uttered that fatal phrase.
"Fuck you."
God, if I could take it back, I would. I would do anything to have my best friend back. I would do anything to be able to be close to you again. To know that, no matter what, you were going to be there. To know that if I fell, you were going to catch me.
"I'm done."
Please, don't let go. I'm fucking sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. Now, more than ever, I need you. I am so close to death. The only thing stopping me is the lack of resources. Not enough pills of the right kind, no rope, no shotguns, nothing.
Nothing.
I'll figure out a way, eventually. There's only so much aspirin the body can take, right? Right.
You don't even laugh at our old jokes anymore. You act like they were never funny, like they were just stupid. Were they stupid? Yeah, they were fucking stupid. But that was us. Not just my jokes, or just your jokes, but our jokes. They were funny because they were ours. Now that we're not us, you're just you and I'm just me, I guess they're not funny anymore, and that hurts.
Today, I begged for your help. Begged. What did I get? Nothing.
"I need your help...what if...what if something happens? What if I'm not okay? What if I need somebody to call...somebody to talk to...you're going to just let me die? After all we've been through?"
"Yep. Call somebody else."
"You don't miss me...?"
"Nope. I'm happy."
Happy.
At least you're happy. I know you wouldn't come to my funeral, and you even said you wouldn't cry if I was dead...but at least you're happy. I'm miserable, but you don't care. You're happy. That's what matters...but, don't cry at my funeral or act like you cared, because I was drowning, and when I reached out for help, you let me drown. Don't show up to the memorial looking miserable and lost, because you weren't there when I was dying. When I'm gone, don't say you miss me, and that you loved me, because I'm already gone and you even watched me go.
YOU ARE READING
73 Days
Non-FictionA series of letters to a once best friend, a series of letters he may never get to read. There are 73 days in summer, and that means 73 days of change. From a suicidal, depressed, self-harm addicted teenager into a (hopefully) stable young woman, th...
