#rememberingyou

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Don't Turn Your Back on the People Who See You and Love You

I lost my best friend seven years ago. It happened during a time when we weren’t speaking, though it was much more complicated than that. Still, the regret—the anguish of not making amends—has haunted me ever since.

I turned my back on her. I blocked her number. I blocked her email. I thought I was doing the right thing for my family. My wife had given me an ultimatum: I couldn’t see my best friend anymore. And in that moment, in that state of mind, I thought I had no choice. I believed I was choosing my family. What I didn’t realize was that I should have chosen differently. That I should have gotten away from the person who was isolating me, not from the person who had always stood beside me.

The night my best friend took her own life, I’ll never know if she reached out to me. We had a code word—shovels. It meant that if one of us called and said "shovels," the other would be there, no questions asked—ready to help, to dig, to bury a body if necessary. We weren’t criminals… well, we weren’t murderers. But the meaning was clear: we would show up for each other, no matter what. No explanation needed, no hesitation allowed. That was the depth of our love. That was how much we had each other's back.

Through the years, when our romantic relationships failed, our friendship endured. We used to say, "My best friend was here before you, and they'll be here after you." And it had always been true—until it wasn’t.

I will always blame myself because I don’t know if she tried to reach out. Many nights, she sent emails—confessions, secrets, cries for help. She carried the anniversaries of trauma like weights, bracing for impact each time they came around. She’d do something reckless but always come back to me, to let me know she was okay. Or she’d send me a message, just to get it all out—the thing that kept her from pulling herself under completely. And I leaned on her in the same way.

Until I wasn’t there anymore. Until I cut her off. Until I walked away.

Now, she’s gone. My wife is gone too—the person who convinced me to turn away never loved me at all. And I abandoned the one person who truly did.

The grief is unbearable. And now, I’m starting to forget her. I don’t have people to talk to regularly who knew us both, who can hold onto these memories with me. It was always just the two of us, so the only person who could have corroborated our experiences is her—and she’s not here.

I have a few voice recordings, but I’m forgetting the sound of her voice. And that might be the cruelest part of all.

Don’t turn your back on the people who see you and love you. Not for someone else's comfort. Not for an ultimatum disguised as love. Not because you think there will always be time to make things right.