It started off with one of the larger fears of Crohn's patients becoming reality. The day the bathroom down the hall was just too far away. At work. Not good.
So to procrastinate after fixing that problem, I looked at Facebook, like a good millennial. And at the very top I see a friend post a link to a blog post with the comment "You don't want to miss this one." This friend and I used to be very close at the start of high school, then she wouldn't speak to me, and now we are, sadly, mostly acquaintances. This friend has struggled with mental illness since high school (which led to the not speaking thing) and has recently taken a dive into the blog world about her journey. Here you might say, "but Stella, isn't it good that someone who also struggles with mental illness is posting her story? Can't you relate?" And my answer is yes. Yes I can relate. A little too much. And not for the reasons you think.
So you should go here and read the post first: The First Cut is the Deepest.
So let me start out by saying that after reading this post, I felt like someone had ripped out my heart, put it in a blender, and then just threw the remaining chunks into my empty chest cavity. You see, this friend-- this insensitive, awful, inattentive friend-- that's me. I sent it to a friend to read without divulging the information of who anyone was in this case. And her response "What an awful friend". I sent it to Sel because it really impacted my day. He said that I was a bad friend in high school. So this post is written in defense of my 14-year-old self.
Imagine for a moment, that you have this best friend. And you're both just starting high school and trying to figure yourself out. Imagine that in History class with Mr. Mistina, you get passed a note during a thrilling story of elephants and airplanes and the war. You open the note, and in it you find messages of despair, self-hatred, talk of suicide. And now imagine that note came from your best friend.
During our car ride home, I asked Sel what he would do at 14 if a friend gave him such a note. He responded (as if it was a stupid question with an easy answer) "I'd tell an adult." Maybe it is easy for most people when they aren't in the situation. When they aren't navigating high school and they aren't struggling to stay above water in an abusive home situation, and when said person doesn't try to cling to the only things in the world they have control over with everything said person has. But I was trying to find myself in high school and establish the right friend groups, and I was afraid to go home every day because of the beatings I would surely receive for less than mediocre reasons, and I was trying to keep the trust of a friend that I had made. We both had Lithuanian heritage, we liked sports, and we lived not too far away from each other. So when I got those notes, I didn't know how to respond. Was she being melodramatic? Was this the teenage angst I had heard of? And I feel like I should also mention that despite being a child (merely 14), as a victim of domestic violence, I had very little self-esteem and was struggling which (clear to me now) were the beginnings of my own struggle with mental illness.
Truthfully, I don't remember much from the night that my friend talks about. 13 years ago I was boy crazy. Who knows who that boy would be. And I don't really recall long involved conversation with whatever boy held my interest at the time. But regardless of the length of a phone call, I would like to think that I at least had some sort of tact. But I also know that when you NEED someone to pay attention to you, ten minutes can feel like an eternity.
What I do remember from the night is "Paperclips are sharp." That phrase still haunts me. I can't look at a paperclip without thinking of my former best friend trying to carve out her flesh with one, which is the reason I very infrequently use paper clips. And it wasn't too long after this event that the secret letters ended up with the guidance counselor and her parents. It took that moment to realize just how ill-equipped I was as a 14-year-old to handle the situation.
So as bad of a friend as I come off as in that blog post, I did love her. I still do. And even though we aren't really best friends anymore, I'll take that. Because she is alive. She is blogging today.
So to my friend, I'm sorry that I wasn't the friend you wanted me to be at 14. I was not on solid ground myself. I was stupid, and trying to make sense of what was going on around me in an environment that didn't make sense.
And to all of you readers, if you know someone is struggling, pay attention. Their call for help may be as simple as a shiny paperclip. I know I will forever be haunted by that statement. It serves as a reminder to when I failed as a friend...
