I didn’t understand the meaning of death until junior high. I’d spent most of my time playing video games, watching movies, or reading books where characters die in some form or another— yet the concept of someone disappearing from your life forever seemed fake. No matter what happened, the people I knew would always be there… at least, that’s what I assumed.
            Not many people know of Morgan, the girl I used to call my best friend. She was one of the first people I met as a result of the extraordinary amount of free time given by my homeschooling regimen. I remember how happy I felt just to talk to her on now-archaic chat logs, casually enjoying what little time I had left. Over that brief year, however, I began to learn the unfortunate cruelties of life. Morgan, as I’d come to learn, had been diagnosed with ADHD and General Depression early in life, among other things. Through our conversations, I learned about the relentless destruction mental illness causes— and how I’d unknowingly suffered the same way.
            As the year dragged on, Morgan shared the quirks and struggles of her life as we played video games. It started out as brief self-deprecation; small remarks would soon lead to pseudo-therapy, however,  where I’d awkwardly console her. I felt needed, yet I grew exhausted just the same. These conversations acted as my experimentation with adulthood: learning the grim realities of teenage life empowered me in a way, even if the guilt surrounding this behavior still pervades my mindset today.
            Nearly half a decade ago, after a year and 11 days of contact, Morgan passed away. As cliché as it sounds, things truly haven’t been the same ever since; for better or worse. Soon after, I learned from an offline friend of hers that she’d taken her own life, losing to an invisible enemy. That was the first time I’d ever experienced any true loss—as a result, I took up her sword and battled my own form of this specter.
            Since that day, I mostly kept to myself. I’d always been unpopular, yet now it was by my own design. I spent every day as a slave to my own conscious: going to school, talking to no one, coming home, and playing video games. I was a shadow of the happy-go-lucky, nerdy child that my family raised me as. They never knew why; all they saw was their own flesh and blood secluding himself.
            These feelings carried on for most of my high school experience. I surrounded myself with the idea that “it will all be over soon” or “eventually I’ll just move on,” praying for salvation without ever attempting to find it. That hypocrisy dominated my perspective for a tiring 3 and a half years.
            All it took was a casual invitation to crack the hardened persona I’d established for myself. It was nothing major in retrospect, yet the significance of being invited to someone’s house to hang out changed my life. The man I’d later call my best friend asked me if I wanted to join him and his group of friends at our school’s football game. To call myself ecstatic would be an understatement: I’d finally attained the one-way golden ticket to escape the chasm I’d buried myself in.  Over my junior year, I’d establish a tight bond with these friends, spending every other weekend goofing off and enjoying what life has to offer.
            I’m proud to say I stand where I do now. I’ve gotten on anti-depressants and have truly found my love for life again. Getting here was a rough journey—being a teenager has its own ups and downs, after all— but I’ve learned how impactful friends can be on one’s psyche. Even in the worst of times, I feel loved; something I never thought I’d experience all those years ago. While the events that unfurled during and after Morgan’s passing completely reshaped my viewpoint and perspective, I’m extremely happy to say that my friends have saved me. Even if my worldview has massively shifted as a result, it’s all okay. Regardless of how much time passes, friends are there to pull you through. That, more than anything, allows me to move on.