The second time you saved my life

The second time you saved my life, it wasn’t as romantic. On the 2nd anniversary of my suicide attempt, you held my face in your hands and told me, “I know what today is and I am so happy you are here.” You then kissed away my tears. Two months later, you wouldn’t even acknowledge my existence. You cut me off with no notice, no explanation. I had called asking you for help. I was sinking, the voices were getting louder, I was plotting again. And you forgot to meet me. And then, you stopped talking to me, stopped calling, stopped everything. And it saved my life. I was a mess. I didn’t know what to do with myself, but I was damned if I was going to have you at all linked to my impending destruction. Nights were the hardest. In two years, hardly a night had gone by when I went to bed without talking to you. The silence was brutal. But being in public was worse because we kept up some sort of appearance. We would stand near each other and not speak. Once, on the street, you kissed my cheek so that your friends didn’t suspect anything. I was a mess. I didn’t know what to do with my anger, my disbelief and my anxiety. I started running to try and channel the energy. And every day, I got a little stronger. But, I loved you just the same. It would be a few months before you actually spoke to me. It was late; we were drunk and alone outside of a party. You said, “I care about you, you know. Funny that I actually care about something.” And with that, you slipped inside. It would be another two years before we actually talked again. Another year before we could call it friendship. The day I knew that I was no longer suicidal, that things had changed within my brain, I called you. And even though I didn’t say it, you knew. I haven’t seen you in two years now, or talked to you in one. But I still love you just the same.