It has been seven years since the suicide of a dear friend. Dare I use the term best friend, but indeed she was. We were kids together — I have pictures of us as pajama-clad toddlers, from there growing and remaining close.  Like most other postings of late, I don’t know why I’m writing this, other than she’s been on my mind. I miss her during the holidays and remember all those we spent together. Mostly, still, I wish I could have helped her. 

She was bi-polar and spoke of her illness remotely, plainly, like it was under control and behind her. No one really understood how far that was from the truth.  Certainly, her behavior was sometimes unusual, but not so much that it would cause alarm, mostly like someone trying desperately find herself and her place in the world. Aren’t we all doing that in some respect?  

Additionally, I find it utterly abhorrent that someone she trusted is using her name and telling an inaccurate internet account of her life and death.  There, my friend is quoted saying things she never did, the author providing embellished pieces of her death note and funeral high points.  This is all to mine profit from some sort of creative-intuitive venture that she calls God-View (truthfully, I don’t know what it is, I only hope it fails miserably).  Shame on her. I have to believe there is a special place in hell for those who profit from a tragedy like this, and hopefully an extra-hot vat of oil for somehow tying it the Almighty.