Goodbye, Brandita

Aside from a few mentions on social media, I’ve held off on writing about you. Your suicide still seems unreal to me, and yet, expected. Since our rekindled friendship in 2003, I can recall a few situations where you expressed wanting to die. Granted, those sentiments were much more abundant during the later years of your life, but they existed nonetheless. Over these past four-ish months, I’ve wondered if a scenario exists that results in me somehow saving your life.

It doesn’t.

I cannot begin to fathom the demons of your sickness. On the surface, you were one of the most gentle, caring, and compassionate human beings I had the pleasure of calling my friend. Your baking was unparalleled, your humor was dry and dirty like a dive bar martini, and your love of animals rivaled that of the late Steve Irwin. I’ll miss that until the end of my own days.

However, I will not miss the anger or the sometimes-terrifying person you had a tendency to morph into during an episode. You would do and say some of the most hurtful, destructive things. Friendships and relationships fell victim to your unbalanced fury, leaving a trail of sadness in its wake. Hell, even in your death, you managed to physically hurt somebody you loved. I wish I could have helped you, Brandi. Everybody did. However, the truth of the matter is, you never took the initiative to help yourself. Everybody has their own reasons for being afraid of psychologists, therapists, medication, whatever the fuck. Aside from the negative stigmas that surround these three methods of help, I’ll never understand your reasoning for turning a blind eye to something that could have saved your life, but to each their own.

I’ll never forget you. From the moment we bonded during weight training class in senior year to the final conversation we had about airline tickets to fly Xavier’s children down for your wedding, we shared fifteen years worth of memories. Your death has left a strange void in my life. At times, I miss you until it hurts. Then, there are times when I’m angry at you for the things you did to those who did nothing but love you.

So long, my friend. Thank you for the library of wonderful memories. I may not believe in an afterlife, but if there is one, I hope it’s full of ponies, cherry RC Cola, thrash metal, and the father you spoke so fondly of.