A friend of mine committed suicide today.
I don't use the term "friend" loosely here; we spent a great deal of time together over the course of eight or so years. If I were more eloquent, I would probably say words about having connected with her soul, about how I was her beacon in the darkness, but that would just feel meaningless and hollow.
I did everything I could to help her through the rough times, and there were many. Late nights on the phone or in a car or on a roof, listening to her pour out all of her troubles, her worries, her doubts, or just listening to her cry into my shoulder. If anyone asks you what it is to love someone, tell them that it is watching the sun set and then rise again while they pour their heart out to you.
I held her hand twice while she checked herself into rehab; once for alcohol and once for harder drugs. She never talked about the experiences, and asked me not to visit her during her stays, but I have never seen her happier than when she walked smiling across the parking lot to meet me after being released.
I even introduced her to this place. She was a noder here for the space of one writeup, gone now, entitled "slut." If you are clever, that will tell you some of what to think of her. She never wrote for e2 again, before or after, as far as I am aware, but she spent a lot of time here, and loved a lot of you. Loved your words. Lots of nights she would call me, drunk and crying, over something she read here. In a weird way, I think some of you helped her more than I ever could have, and for that I thank you.
She called me last night to wish me a happy new year; I jokingly told her that she was early, and she replied that she would be going out of town to see her mother and wanted to catch me before the phone lines got all tied up. She thanked me for helping her hold her head high, and hung up.
Her roommate called at ten o'clock this morning to give me the news. We both cried.
Callie, I'm sorry. You are a beautiful soul, and I will miss you.