The girl who smoked

John Green once said, "The only way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to forgive."

I used to live by that. I used to not want to hold someone against actions that they committed that brought me sadness. I used to think that quote was pure.

Then I realized it was bull.

It was bull because even if you do in fact forgive those who do cause you harm, sometimes you can't forget. And if you can't forget, how is one suppose to even leave the labyrinth? The labyrinth of suffering is suppose to be a place where you dwell on your suffering, and forgiving someone doesn't take it away. The suffering, to be clear.

And I know for certain I will never be able to forgive my best friend, or let alone the action she committed that brought me a type of pain I didn't even realize was real.

I get it, she was in pain. She couldn't handle it anymore. But did it not once occur to her that I wouldn't be able to handle it with her gone?

No, you see, when she slit her throat in a very satanic way, she wasn't thinking of me, or what would be the effect of her action. No, all she was doing was thinking of herself. She was selfish.

And her selfish decision left me in the labyrinth of suffering, alone, trapped, and most importantly, sad.

My therapist told me I was selfish. She told me for thinking that my dear dead friend was selfish, made me selfish. She told that I was blaming her for something she couldn't control.

But I don't think my therapist understood. I don't think anyone did. You see, I get it, Lauren was in pain. She was in deep pain. But she hid it, and I think she selfish because of that. You see I told her everything. She should have told me.

She should have told me she was tired of being alive. She should have told me about the man in 7-11 parking lot. She should have told me about her thoughts on how to end it all.

But she didn't.

Instead, she decided to lash out a week before. She decided to cut communications with all of her three friends, one being very much me. She decided to get drunk every night that week. She decided to try to overdose every night that week.

She decided to write everything she never told me in a letter. She decided to let me know the truth after she killed herself She decided not to find comfort from me.

She decided to die.

And even though she is probably the most selfish person I know, I just wanted her to be okay. I would have done anything for Lauren to be okay.

The night it happened was a Thursday. Her least favorite day of the week, mainly because every Thursday she ran out of her weekly cigarettes.

She had three cigarettes each week. She never bought more then that from her dealer. One, she didn't want to become an addict, and two, she was broke.

Lauren used cigarettes as a coping mechanism. When she had first started smoking them, I tried to persuade her to stop. But she told me that if she didn't smoke, she would have to kill herself. She then proceeded to laugh, so I dismissed it as a joke. If I only hadn't.

She smoked in a way that made it look cool. I'm not saying nicotine is cool, she just made it cool. That was the thing about Lauren. She was cool. She could have easily been one of those kids. She could have dated the most popular boys at our school. But she didn't.

It's not that she didn't want to. She just had this personality that made her different. Different in a way that made her distant. And that she was, distant. Lauren never cared about her appearance, that's why she always looked like a Junkie on a High.

It was great.

It was great because even though she was distant and looked like a Junkie, she opened up to me. She told me her secrets and her hopes. And I know that sounds so cliche, but to have someone feel comfortable to share their personal desires is an amazing feeling. 'Cause it proves to you that you are actually like-able. It proves to someone that people like your company.

And that's what Lauren did for me. She showed me that I wasn't a waste of space. She showed me I was worth taking up space in the world. The tragic part is she never knew what she had done for me.

Sometimes I wonder if she had known would she have reconsidered the whole suicide thing? Or did it not matter. Did she really just want to die?

The funeral was two weeks later. Her parents decided to have a close casket, you know a slit neck isn't a pretty sight. They had asked me to speak. They told me they couldn't do it themselves.

I didn't do it either. I didn't even go to her funeral. I couldn't bring myself to go to a funeral dedicated to a selfish teenage girl. Instead, I stayed in bed. I didn't cry or express sadness. I just laid there.

It was kind of nice just to lay there for hours. It felt unreal. Then, my parents came in and told me we had to have a talk. In their talk they explained to me that believed I shared suicidal thoughts as well and wanted me to see a counselor. I tried to beg them that i didn't, which is true. But they didn't believe me. So, I went therapy. I mean, I go to therapy.

Therapy is the worst because all my therapist asks me is how my day was and how much did I eat. It's all stupid 'cause she's not going to do any fixing of me by asking these. I don't think she realizes that my days are the exact same. Every. Single. Day.

The therapy didn't do anything at all for me. 'Cause therapy didn't help me express my emotions, I did that myself.

The first time, well, second time I actually cried about Lauren being gone was a month later. The first being the night I heard. It was after school and I was suppose to go to therapy. But it was a Thursday and I had seen her dealer in the school's parking lot.

It reminded me of the times Lauren would see him and complain to me how he sold his cigarettes for too much. She would proceed to call him some rated r name and stick her tongue at him like an immature five year old. I would laugh, I always did. Lauren was funny. We would then hop into my car, turn the radio on, playing some Green Day or Harry Styles, there was no in between, and drive home.

I would drop her off at her house and should would give me a piece of gum. As if it was my payment, and I was okay with it. I liked gum. But haven't had a piece since she has been dead. It reminds me of her too much.

So, as I was standing in the parking lot, staring at her dealer, I realized she wasn't here to make a some snarky comment. So, I ditched therapy and went to the graveyard she was in.

It was the first time I was there, And when I saw her tombstone, I froze. I gently read her name over and over again, Lorraine Johnson. It felt foreign. I wanted to yell at her grave. I wanted to, but instead my lips began to quiver.

I slowly dropped upon the grass and began to sob. My legs were crossed under each other, but close enough to be appropriated. The school uniform skirts didn't share any shorts underneath them, and they were too long to were tights under.

My sobbing lasted a good ten minutes. Then my phone rang. I opened my backpack zipper and pulled it out, My mother was calling. I knew I was trouble for not going to therapy and not telling anyone where I was. But I couldn't deal with her then.

So I turned my phone off and stood up. I brushed my skirt down, pushing off the baby pieces of grass and hay that remained and placed my backpack on my back. I then turned to the grave,

"I hate you, you know. I hate you so much I love you. But in a sister way. No homo."