I started off the summer of 2017 with three friends. I ended it with two. Although all three of us were struggling with depression, Collin lost the fight. He killed himself on August 13th. A Sunday. I talked to him that day, and I didn’t notice what his last text had meant until I got the call from his sister. “Are you with Bailee?” “Yeah, why?” “You’re not alone?” “No. Why?” “Collin passed away.” “That is not funny” I said. I couldn’t hear what she said after that. All I could do was feel the pain in my chest. I thought I had been hit. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. All I could do was cry. I didn’t believe it. I still don’t believe it. I don’t know if I ever will. A few months after the funeral, Bailee asked his sister where his tombstone was. She answered with a cry for help. “He would still be alive if it weren’t for you two. I don’t want to tell you where it is and I want both of you to stay away from my family and I. You should have been more aware of what you were doing when you were around him because he would still be here if you were” I knew none of it was true. But it still hurt. When people are grieving, they’ll say just about anything to make themselves feel better. They’ll even blame others who are grieving as well. Her words, though immature, misguided, and completely false, felt like the truth at the time. I tore myself up inside just thinking that there could be even a slight possibility that it was my fault. My fault. My fault. I was called a piece of shit by this girl who I used to know as my friend, simply for being a friend to her sibling. She said my self deprecation killed him. She said Bailee and I were responsible for his death. It wasn’t suicide or depression that killed him. It was us. His friends. We were to blame. It no longer mattered that he would talk to Bailee every single day. Or that everyght when I would drop him off after spending the time I never knew I would struggle so hard to remember with him, he would thank me for getting him out of the house; for being a good friend; for caring about him, when it seemed to him like no one else did. Yes he was struggling, but so was I. We were struggling together. The thought that I could be blamed for the death of my friend because of my mental illness broke my heart. Not only was I grieving the death of a friend, I was also being blamed for it. I still have no clue where my best friend is buried. I still sometimes think that it could be my fault. I may have only been accused once, but I am blamed every day in my mind. Over and over again. Yes it was horrible what she said, but it could never be worse than losing him. I now understand that there is no way that my depression could have killed another person. It just isn’t possible. I doubt his sister understands that, or even understands how misguided her statements were, but at least I know. I know that I did not kill my friend. It is not my fault.
