At only fifteen years old, I was faced with a grief like no other - the loss of my best friend, Vilsen, to suicide.
Following Vilsen’s passing, I often found myself trying to imagine how he was feeling in the final moments of his life. It made me crumble to think of how alone such a tenderhearted individual like Vilsen felt. For a long time, I was riddled with guilt for not directly engaging with him about his mental health, convincing myself that losing him was my fault. I see now that by not asking, I wasn’t acknowledging a crucial part of his life - and I wasn’t giving him the chance to share it with me.
For a long while after Vilsen’s death, I lived in denial and believed that I could love him back to life, that the universe would realize it had made a mistake and would send him back. My eyes would dart around every room I entered, hoping to see him standing there and smiling at me. I’d be so elated that I’d forget he had even left, and I would hold him so tightly that he could never try to take his life again. Of course, this never happened. Instead, I was left with pain that felt like ocean waves: sometimes these waves of grief would be so massive, that I’d get knocked over, other times, they would be small ripples that followed me throughout the day.
I soon came to the realization that I could not continue to live my life in this state of denial and guilt. I am not entirely certain why, but it was this morbid conviction that led me to wholeheartedly mourn and reflect. I reached out to my school’s guidance counselors, close friends, and family to find some form of remedy. Therapy sessions, daily words of affirmation, and antidepressants began to help to some degree but didn’t completely alleviate my grief. I came to the conclusion that the deeper-rooted issue was that I never told Vilsen how much he meant to me. There was the occasional ‘thank you’ and ‘you're the best’, but even these are rare pleasantries, as it seems that niceties have an inverse relationship to a growing friendship. Thus, disregarding the hasty and superficial, I never really expressed my gratitude. The thought of this haunts me because I realize we were always abstaining from communicating our true emotions. To this day, a chilling irony shrouds me like a mist, a constant reminder that it is too late now.
As a result of Vilsen’s choice to take his own life, my perception of the world has entirely transformed, as seemingly insignificant actions now have much more value. Learning that although grief does not have a deadline, time is all I have, and I want to spend my time nurturing myself and others every day. This principle of spreading compassion followed into my daily activities. From actively participating in local food drives for the Student Council and teaching Sunday school to children at my temple to simply posting empowering notes on all the mirrors at work, I can ensure at least one smile a day and live with a newfound pride, knowing that this is what Vilsen would have wanted for me.
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The Death of My Best Friend and How It Affected Me: Essay.
(2024, March 19). Edubirdie. Retrieved December 22, 2024, from https://edubirdie.com/examples/the-death-of-my-best-friend-and-how-it-affected-me-essay/
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2024 Mar 19 [cited 2024 Dec 22].
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