three years

Three years. Three years. Has it really been that long? Three years ago I was sitting in a room at UW, taking a subject test. It was a beautiful day. A beautiful spring day. And I didn’t know. I didn’t know that an amazing, wonderful, beautiful life was ending at that very moment. At the moment I walked out of that room. I didn’t know. I remember looking around the gorgeous campus, at how pretty of a day it was. A beautiful day. But I didn’t know.

What were you doing? What was going through your head? I was stressed from bio. So stressed. If I would’ve only known. But how could I? It was a beautiful day. So beautiful. You were beautiful. You were probably still at home right now. Or maybe you had already left. I don’t know. I don’t like to think about it. But it haunts me.

Anniversaries. I hate and love them. I don’t love them at all, actually, I hate them. But there’s a time and a place for everything, and anniversaries have their purpose.
Pain. That’s what the anniversary. It allows pain to resurface, pain that’s been hidden for the rest of the year, besides birthdays. The pain stays hidden; it creeps up the sides of your soul, but you don’t let it out. Not until this day. And that’s when it boils over the insides of your soul, bubbling out and dripping all over you, covering you entirely. That’s what anniversaries are for. That’s how the pain comes out.

Pain. There’s still so much pain. I don’t think about it. But on this day I let the redness of my soul ooze out. And how can I not think? I hate remembering, but damn for remembering every detail. I remember. I didn’t find out until a whole day from now. That still baffles me. How did I not know? God I remember. Going to the game. Stan sitting us down. Is he crying? No, why would Stan cry? Jumped … what? The bridge that night. The gathering. All crying. So much love for you. Why? Then that whole week. Hiding in Mr. Bachhuber’s room, crying. I never imagined I would say what I did. You jumped. Why?

I want to erase that whole week from my memory. But I can’t. You in a box. Your face. It wasn’t yours. I hate remembering. Why does memory work this way? When something terrible happens, you remember every single damn detail of it. Every single one. If I tried to remember something that clearly, I don’t think I could. I went to Jamba Juice that day, before our game we were supposed to have. I called Matt as soon as I got back to my room and broke down. My mom came in crying. Should I go tonight? Yes, you should. Shoot my AP Bio exam … who cares. Who the f*ck cares. I didn’t any more.

It would be different if you died in a car accident. You know that's the first thing that came to my mind? But no. You didn't. It's the fact that you chose to end your own life, you made the CHOICE. That's what hurts most of all. Because we don't know why. We will never know why. We can speculate, we can postulate, we can wonder. But we will never know.

I think about you. Still. How can I not? I realize more and more you were like me. So much like me. I’m sure you had some of the same problems I did. We were so alike. I now realize that. I wish we could’ve been better friends; we would’ve made good friends. You were so kind t o all. You did so much, academically and athletically. How did you do it? Ha I still laugh at your insanity. Track then soccer then gymnastics … craziness. And your crazy hair and piercings. My last image of you … that was not you. Your face was soft and cold. It looked like wax. It didn’t look like you. It wasn’t you. It couldn’t have been. I won’t believe it.

Pain. Still so much. How to forgive? How to forget? I didn’t know you well. But I still hurt. This day will always hurt, I think. Because it brings it all back. Every single detail of that terrible, terrible week. Everything. I want to forget. Not you. But your death. I want to forget it all. But I can’t.

I miss and love you. I always will.