On July 24th, 2013, I lost my best friend to suicide. In both appearance and personality, we were the same person. We met in Kindergarten and were inseparable ever since. We shared dreams of going to college in Boston together (admittedly, she probably would’ve gone to Harvard) and becoming lawyers. Right now, I am beginning to prep for the LSATs at Boston University. The hardest part of her death has been walking on our path by myself.

When she passed away in 2013, my world froze. Out of all of my friends, I am the most emotional person by a landslide. I will cry if I step on a bug or see a cute baby, but for some reason, I was the only one who couldn’t cry at the wake or the funeral. I felt like the worst person in the entire world. It took time to realize that the reason was that my body was in complete shock—and to an extent, I still believe that it still is. People can ask me questions about her death and I can answer easily without getting emotional. Other times, I cry without any stimulus whatsoever.

Based on my personality and our extremely close relationship, I would have assumed that dealing with a death for me would mean staying in bed for weeks and not speaking to anyone. In reality, I did the exact opposite. In order to cope with my loss, the only thing that made me feel better was to talk about it. I tried to put myself out there for my peers as much as I could and I was so happy when they took me up on the offer to talk about it. I still get occasional messages on Facebook from people at my high school telling me that they’re struggling and need someone to talk to. I want nothing more than to prevent this situation from happening to someone else, and I feel honored and comforted by others who seek my support.

The question that people ask me most is if I feel guilty at all; the honest answer is yes. As much as people can tell me that there was nothing anyone could have done, I will always wonder if maybe there was. Less than a week before her death, I texted her just to check in and see how she was doing. For the first time in a long time, her text sounded normal. She told me that things were going okay and asked if I could call her when I got the chance just to chat. I felt relieved and told her that I was in Canada so I would call her when I got home. When I got back to the US, I was sitting on the couch with my now ex-boyfriend and told him to remind me to call her when I got home. It was not more than twenty minutes later that I got the news of her death. In reality, I know that calling her would not have changed the outcome, but I don’t think I will ever truly forgive myself for not calling her immediately when I got home.

My other major source of guilt comes from the fact that we both struggled through an eating disorder at different times. In the final year of her life, we would talk on the phone for five hours at a time and she would cry about the same things that I remembered feeling a few years earlier. At the time, I really thought that I understood it because on the surface, we went through the same thing. However, after her death, I realized that the severity of my situation did not even come close to the severity of hers. In that sense, I hate the fact that I was able to recover and she was not. More than anything, I hate that I wasn’t able to see the urgency of her illness before it was too late.

With an amazing support system, I have been able to grow from this situation. I do not agree with people who say that each day gets better because honestly, some days it doesn’t. One day I am completely fine, and a month later I’ll get upset again. Grief has no calendar, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I am beyond thankful to have an amazing relationship with her family to the extent that I consider her mom my second mom. I can’t sit here and pretend that I have figured out the solution to dealing with a loss, but I can offer the best advice that I have. Focus on the good memories, surround yourself with the right people, and never live in the world of hypotheticals. Asking yourself questions about what you could’ve done differently is not only destructive to your grieving process, but preserves your loved one’s memory in only a negative light.

As I said, the hardest part for me has always been moving through life without her. I am approaching twenty years old and my memories with her stop at age sixteen. The older I get, the more unsettling it is that she is not beside me. Although I can’t live out our dreams of being lawyers in Boston together, the best way to honor that is to live it out for both of us. She may not physically with me, but every success I have in life will always be because I have her memory and spirit by my side.

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If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide, please call the 24/7 monitored hotline at 1-800-273-8255.