To My Suicidal Friend

Dear Friend,

I haven't seen you in a while. We Skype sometimes, but it's not the same. I know we text a lot, which is nice, and Whatsapp has made it cheap, but it's not the same. Remember when we shared a room at school? There was something in that which has made us the friends we are now. The friends we will be forever, if I have it my way.

I don't know what is better: calling the ambulance when I lived a few doors away, or having you tell me your roommate called the ambulance this time. It's not important. It's not about me. But I love you, and my soul hurts when your soul hurts.

My soul also rejoices when your soul rejoices. When your puppy comes demanding belly scratches, or your new shoes sparkle like Swarovski, or you've got your hair cut and you look like you should be on the cover of some fancy magazine. When you got straight As at school this term, even though last term you couldn't make yourself go to class. When your job payed well this month and you can afford that dress you wanted. When you make member-of-the-month at the gym and I'm so proud.

My fierce mama bear heart is so proud of you. Of how far you've come. Of how fiercely you've fought to get better and happy and safe. I am so proud of you and your selflessness and dedication and perseverance. I am so proud of the fact that you know what you want and will take no nonsense from nobody. Even when it's hard. Even when it hurts. Your strength inspires me.

My fierce mama bear heart also wants to kick your butt when you text me that you tried to kill yourself again. Because I want to hold you. I want to bring you chocolates and tea and sit on that awful grey sofa you love and watch Sailor Moon until morning. But I can't, because I'm so far away. And it hurts so much that it makes me breathless. So I want to kick your butt.

My fierce mama hear heart wants to hold you. I want to cuddle you in that tight and breathless way that you hate, and stroke your hair, and make you food and cookies and tea. And I know that none of that makes it better. I know. But I don't know how else to tell you that I love you, and that you would take a piece of me with you if you left. And that it shouldn't matter, it shouldn't be about me, and I feel so guilty for it, but I just want to bubble wrap you, and keep you safe.

But I can't do that. So I will continue being here, so far away but forever with you in my heart, until the next time that you text me from a hospital bed.

Until then, keep texting me about birthday brunches and wedding dresses and bunnies and boys. About that old friend you met in Starbucks whose life seems so put together. I'll bet you it isn't. And about that customer you had that paid in all single dollar bills. That's just weird. And text me when your eyelash glue is useless, and when your pink lipstick from that place in Soho finishes. I'll mail you a new one.

I won't tell you to stop. I won't give you a long list of reasons to stay. You know all of it. I am just going to repeat it again, in case you didn't hear it right the first time:

I'll be here. I love you.