I won't ramble - I hate ramblings.
I don't even know what's that something gnawing at my insides and making me post this. I don't like these things. No one should read my journal entries. But I guess this is different. Because, for a change, I really do want to have a shitload of strange people taking a peek into my personal life. Don't you think that it's a bit against the laws of nature to feel more relaxed talking about these things with a bunch of strangers than with real people who know and supposedly love you?
I'm sick of keeping my mouth shut. I've heard too many suicide and cutting sob-stories that I lost count slowly. Now I just watch and pretty much don't give a flying fuck anymore. I don't know any of those people, I knew one and I let her slip away.
They keep telling me, that little people who actually know, that I can't keep blaming myself for what happened to her. That it wasn't my fault. That no one could have saved her from the hole she had dug underneath her herself. That she was a fuck up who managed to mask it.
God, I have no idea what's stopping me from screaming at them and swearing my gut out at their ignorant faces. She was your daughter for fuck's sake.
She lived in fucking NJ, where a better part of my family now lives. I visited from Europe. Met her, fell in love with her brother. Then discovered what an amazing friend she was. Fell out of love with her brother and fell in love with our friendship. I got to see her for only a month every year and we never drifted apart, ever.
She seemed so happy; sometimes tears would cross her path, but even then she'd still know how to muster a genuine smile. My ramblings, of this sort, she'd listen to because I would be forced into telling her.
She'd frown and I'd stare at the maul above her right eyebrow as it would wrinkle. We'd both burst into laughter and our confessions would start. A whole year was supposed to be told about. Every heartbreak, gossip and cute buns were supposed to be talked over. She was crying with me the night I told her about the shipwreck of my first serious relationship. I was smiling with her when she had told me about her latest crush and how her dad promised to take him down with a shotgun for having a pierced nose.
Then one night it all stopped abruptly.
I can't remember exactly.
Her brother called - yes, Jase called, choking on his own words.
I ran down the street and stormed up the stairs to their apartment.
He was a fucking sobbing wreck and sirens were howling outside.
The in-between I can't remember.
Her body was carried out on a stretcher and I blacked out.
Fuck you, Kat, fuck you for bailing on me like that.
I read her e-mail days later, as I returned home, or no, I think I was still there, but never mind. I read it too late. I couldn't believe...
She thought taking a fistful of her mother's Xanax was going to save her if she gulped them down with the liquor we bought together to sip on it at our midnight ramblings.
Just fuck you, Kat.
So yes, kiddies, let's talk suicide, it fucking hurts.
It stops hurting for you and starts hurting others.
It's a goddamn chain reaction.
You die.
And then your loved ones die of grief.
Fucking fuck off, Kat.
I love you.
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