I stood there. Just stood there. For a second it seemed like my whole life had revolved around that moment. Like I had been conceived, born, raised, meant to be there in that moment, so I could see her, see her, on the floor, back against the wooden door side paneling. See her cry; hear her tell me what she was doing. What she was on.

Before that I used to think people who talked about betrayal and heartbreak, who talked about the physical hurt that went along with it, were just exaggerating, or suffering from some kind of condition. Then it happened to me. It felt like I had been hit in the chest by a wrecking ball. I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what I felt, besides shock, besides hurt. She was crying and I tried to comfort her, but we both knew I was reeling in pain and was just pretending to be okay. When she told me, my face went numb; I had no idea what I looked like. Sad, dismayed, horrified probably was on the top of the list.

My five stages of grief went like this:
1.
Betrayal
2.
Horror
3.
Sadness
4.
How the hell did this happen
5.
Acceptance

I tried to understand why she does it, to help myself move on. I thought about what makes me feel better than anything else in the world, and that’s writing. It feels like I’m cleaning out my soul and creating something wonderful at the same time. I wonder what she feels, where she goes.

The other night I had a dream, I was doing it too. It felt warm and gooey, sort of like I was in the middle of a giant brownie, and I was happy, and she was there too. When I woke up and remembered it all, I was scared. For a second there I wondered what it would feel like to try it, and that temptation scared me.

I’m just sad now; I wish she had something like writing. I wish she had something, had a decent home life. To be honest, I always felt like something like this would happen. And now I’ve got that feeling again. I don’t think she’s ever going to stop, I think she’s going to end up in an early grave somewhere, overdose, killed by some druggie. I just wish I could take her, lock her in a room and make her go through withdrawl, just so she could stop it. But then it’s always back at home, her sister’s a dealer.

We always joke that we make the weirdest pair of friends, no one would put us together. But I think what we have in common, is that no one seems to understand us, and we know what it feels like to be really lonely, and to feel depressed. I’m not so sure anymore, that we’re alike. Now, all I see when I look into her eyes is a pit, an emptiness. Can you hit rock bottom, and not know it?

When I was in fifth grade, I had chronic insomnia for two weeks, and I know that doesn’t sound like a big deal. I mean, you miss a little shut-eye, what’s the big deal? But it’s horrible. I seriously considered killing myself, just to end the pain, the constant migraine.

After that, for a brief stint in sixth grade, I went to therapy, but that was a huge waste of time and money, I never opened up enough to tell the therapist anything.

Maybe I should have considered writing the therapist letters. Writing is my therapy, just as weed is hers.

I’m still her friend; I just don’t go to her house now. I’m still her friend even though one day I’m going to have to walk away, from a grave, a drug-addled lunatic, I don’t know, but it’s coming, fast and hard, and it’s going to hurt like hell.