My best friend took her life. A natural beauty with a smile that could change even the biggest pessimist into an optimist, even if for only a minute. A person that, unless someone told you, you would have idea she was battling depression hard. In her last few months, I was busy being a new mom and struggling to keep my head above water in my toxic relationship with her father. I was wrapped up in my jumbled life that I didn’t really ask her how she was. She begged me to bring my baby girl over. She said they’d lay around and watch Sex and the City on repeat. A few nights later, I found out I was pregnant. A day after that, I received a call I never thought I would get. My best friend was dead. Her boyfriend, a sweet man and so much better to her than her previous boyfriend, came home from work to find her hanging from the ceiling fan.
No one knew how hard she was hurting. Everyone blames themselves for it. It helped me to make sure to check on my friends, no matter the pain I’m currently enduring.
I named my second daughter after her. I was struggling with her middle name and one night I dreamt that my best friend told me to give her the middle name Grace. When my friend’s mother came to see my youngest after she was born, she burst in to tears after hearing her middle name. It turns out, my best friend kept a journal and the very last entry in her journal was dedicated to thanking God for his grace upon her. I knew my dream was no coincidence.
I miss her every day. I could have used her during this rough year. We could have used each other.