Sharing my love of writing and its therapeutic powers was one way of coping with my depression.
I remember it being the one thing in my life I could still feel good about.
But I quit the day I learned a college friend stepped off a Los Angeles roof and into a parking lot a few weeks before her twenty-third birthday.
Her death made no sense: she was in the process of writing a book and had plans to travel.
Her family thought maybe she had schizophrenia. Apparently, she'd suddenly “seen Jesus.”
Tears came to my eyes, but just like the day of 9-11, I couldn't let myself cry. Crying would mean it was real.
Instead, I wished I'd talked to her more after college. I heaved because I never finished reading that book she'd once lent me.
My friends made plans to go to the funeral. They were going to rent a car and stay for a few days. My stomach rumbled. I didn't have enough money to go to Georgia.
In my friend's Harlem apartment, we held a makeshift memorial for her.
We drank red wine and talked about all the times we'd spent together, huddled in a bathroom laughing hysterically and talking about social justice.
Then, I lay, sick with sadness, on the cool white-tiled kitchen floor.
This post is linked to Five Minute Friday.