Posted on by Liz

Trying

Your mom reached out to me last month. I was lying in my bed at 11:00 pm and I heard my phone’s notification sound. She misses you so much; she feels like she failed you. I told her that whenever she needed to talk, I was here. I miss you just as much.

I know it’s not the same; losing a friend is different than losing a child. But loss is loss and when you lose someone you really care about, talking to someone who loved them too is really helpful. So I hope your mom does reach out to me when she wants a reminder that you won’t be forgotten. I could use the reminder too.

She also told me that you stopped talking to me because you were ashamed of your addiction and you thought I hated you. I know that you were sick and your thoughts were clouded by substance abuse and mental illness, but I really hope – I have to – that you knew somehow, however deep down, I could never hate you. No matter what life choices you made, no matter who you surrounded yourself with, no matter who you loved, no matter what you did, I always cared about you. I could and would forgive you for anything and everything because you were my friend.

I wish you were still around to talk to. Our late night whispers over instant message will always be a memory I cherish. I miss you more than I could ever articulate in writing or out loud, but I will always continue to try.

Posted on by Liz

Identity

Nighttime. This is always when I think about you the most. We would stay up so late, talking about anything and everything until I was forced to accept the need for sleep. Even though somehow I knew I wasn’t the only one you sent late night messages too, I felt like it was only us up late, the rest of the room dark, only lit by the bright screens of our computers, typing, typing, typing. Like everything and everyone else was asleep and we could say anything we wanted and no one would know. Not that we talked about anything important. But it was special to me and I miss our midnight conversations.

I read an email you sent to a treatment facility today. It made my heart hurt to hear that your life was stressful, exhausting, and painful because of your addiction to heroin. It made me angry that there wasn’t anyone willing to accept you into a treatment program. It made me even sadder that the email you wrote sounded so you, so normal, like you never changed. I know you must have changed, though. We all do. And I haven’t spoken to you in four years. But, I need to hold on to the you that I know.

From reading comments online, it looks like you started going by your middle name. I see people who I have never heard of call you by that name in comments missing you, loving you, wondering why you had to leave so soon. I don’t know why you chose to stop going by your first name, but I liked to see that you signed your name to this email as Kelsey. This other name, this other identity, I like to think of as a separate entity. Someone that I don’t know. Someone I don’t have to mourn. Someone that doesn’t matter.

But I know you’re one in the same. And you’re gone. And I’ll never have you back.