So it's 2 years tomorrow.
2 years since I destroyed your life.
2 years since you have refused to speak with me, for something I couldn't control.
I was a severely depressed 18 year old girl. I had no-where to turn to, no-one who understood me. The week before it happened I was desperate to die, I skipped lessons to hide in the toilets and cry to escape the world. My depression had completely overtaken my life, and in my life all that existed was complete nothingness, darkness, and failure.
I really hope you understand how much of a dark place I was in to want to harm myself in that kind of way.
You'd seen my self-injury before. You'd sit with me endlessly for hours, throughout my anorexic days, spending ages trying to persuade me to even take a sip of water. You'd be the first one to notice if I wasn't eating properly, when I wasn't doing so well. But most importantly, you was always honest with me. You'd tell me when I needed a reality check, give me a virtual slap across the face when I needed it, told me the brutality, the honest truth. I never believed I was anorexic until you told me, straight.
You were the only person who understood what I was going through. I never understood why. But you did. I went through a period of hating you for telling my parents I was bulimic. It killed me. But I got over that, in time.
It's weird to think that I first begun speaking to you when a girl spotted me self-harming in a science lesson, and told her form tutor who went to you about it. And I'd never spoken to you properly before and you asked me if it was true whilst I covered up my arms with my PE jumper, as that was the lesson I had afterwards. Of course, as a typical self-harmer does when she first gets found out, I denied it. That was way back when, when I was in year 8. 12/13 years old.
We spoke weekly, if not twice a week from my GCSE years, just for general updates and chats if I was doing okay, or tears of depression and frustration if I wasn't. We went through so much together, you told me things about your life that I had never, uttered a word to anybody else. And still, I never have.
I will still never remember the things I said to you on that day.
But I will remember the impact it made on your life.
Two weeks after that, whilst being incredibly cold with me, you told me you had begun seeing a psychotherapist. I burst into tears.
I felt responsible. I burdened everything onto you that day, and not even just then but way, before that. It was my fault. I shouldn't have been so reliant on you. I should have known not to even have said anything to you about that. And I'm sorry. I've been trying to tell you I'm sorry for the past 2 years. And you wrote me a letter saying that everything was fine, and I knew full well that it wasn't. You refused to speak with me.
At the moment I guess I'm not living the life I want to. I never went to University, I'm in a job that I dislike, and quite frankly, I let you and that school down, who all believed in me.
I just hope that you'll never forget me, but try to forget that day. My depression isn't a part of me and the side of me you saw that day was not me. It will never be me, and will not define me.
2 years on from that day and I'm still bloody crying about it. Sounds silly but that's what these emotions do to you.
I'll never forget you and the positive impact you had on my life. I'm so sorry, once more.