In the past month, I've tried to leave this planet three times. I was incredibly frustrated that it didn't work.

But then, I found out that a friend of mine did leave, back in October. I didn't know because I've dropped away from social media, and isolated myself from my friends and family almost completely in the past several months.

And when I found out that my precious, hilarious, brilliant, dark friend was gone, I wept. I was angry. I felt like I went through all of the stages of grief at once, and then they started all over again. And I was hit with such shame for feeling that way. I felt like the world's biggest hypocrite. I've been talking to that friend a lot these past few days. Riding alone in my car, I'll ask,

"Why didn't you call me?"

And almost immediately, my own depression answers back.

"You know why."

I am devastated. I am decimated. I am destroyed. And my friend, however inadvertently, did that to me. I love him to pieces, and I always will, but I will also always, always be angry. And hurt. And lost.

So now, for the sake of the people who love me, I'm going to try to stay.