So here goes.
When I was sixteen my best friend’s parents took their own lives. I’m not talking high school best friends, I knew this girl since the fourth grade. We would sit on the playground and talk about Dragon Ball Z and make snowmen and do whatever we wanted to until the bell rang.
We would sit up on weekends until the late hours of the morning sketching and watching terrible home recorded episodes of the latest Adult Swim anime. We did homework together, we made stupid stories together, we even dressed up stupid together.
Ever since that day in 2006 I have not been able to tell a single soul that I truly love them. I guess something inside me just shattered. My entire safety net was cut from beneath me and I was left to plummet into the unknown. My mother took me in and they put me on Prozac. One pill a day, until God knows when.
I didn’t take them.
I hated them, so I flushed them.
My father took me to a therapist. He didn’t care much to get to know me. He talked in rhythmical metaphors that shaded the intent of having a government official come in and make rules for me. He told me to write him a poem full of hope and happiness. I did. He never read it.
I’m okay now, though. I really am. The years have been kind, though the fear still sits in the back of my mind. I cannot tell anyone who truly means anything to me that I love them.
But I think it’s time to start. You only get one life. You only get one real chance at making yourself what you want to be.
I think I’ll start with my parents, my grandparents, my family, my friends, and finally with my best friend. The one I’ve always been the most frightened of to say those simple words.
I love you, and I don’t regret it.