"What's depression like?" He asked.

Broken plates and unfixed hearts

If you try to put back together a broken plate, you must always be careful that you don't cut yourself on it. 

It's a thing I used to always say to my friends. When trying to help someone you dearly care about, you need to look out for yourself. Always. It's in some people's nature to sacrifice themselves for the good of the person that is sick, mentally, physically. 

I am doing a bit better nowadays. Picking up abandoned hobbies, travelling, working here and there, looking for a study I might be interested in. But there's something I cannot shake off. Something I cannot stop thinking about now that things are looking up for me. 

How much did my hurt, hurt my friends? 

As you all know, my family has never helped me in the journey nightmare that was my depression and everything else that came with it. If anything, they made it worse. No, they sure made it worse. My friends however were always there for me. They have supported me through good times, bad times, worse times and worst times.

Alex drove me to the hospital twice. Matt once. Riley called 911 the most. It almost sounds like fiction. It almost sounds like a movie. A bad one. About a teenager gone of the rails, lost in depression, on a mission to end his life. I know it does, I wish it was, it is not.

So how did the things I do affect my friends? I have always found it hard to ask them, because I could mostly see it in their eyes. The hurt, the tears. The pain, whenever they came to visit me in the hospital after one of my failed attempts. It was the only thing I thought I was good in, failing. 

Lately, I have convinced myself that I have to ask them. I have to know what I did to them. Did my broken pieces cut them? If so, how deep? Did they bleed a lot for me? Will their wounds ever heal, or remain visible scars like mine?

I have talked to them. The conversations weren't easy, they really weren't. We cried, I am not afraid to admit that. Crying isn't a bad thing, regardless of what people say about men crying. We cried like babies, all of us, during every conversation. We talked at dinners, after movies, during our travels in the car - which is not safe, don't drive and cry - and next to large campfires. We talked about what my pain has forced them to go through. 

None of them called it forced however. It was their own decision to be there. To not give up on me, and I couldn't be more thankful. I will never be able to repay them for the fact that they didn't give up on me. Not after my first attempt, not after my sixth. They never left. I hated them for it sometimes, because I just wanted to be alone, but they never left. 

But I did hurt them. 

Their wounds are scars now. Scars that might fade, scars that might remain forever. The fear is still there, they told me. After all those years of seeing me go through something so dark, they are still afraid I will get lost. That they will lose me. 

It was something like a wake-up call. I always found it selfish, the things I did to them, but leaving them would be the cherry on top. I cannot leave them, not after everything they did for me. Not after all the sleepless nights, haunting days, protection, support and love. 

You cannot fix a broken plate without cutting yourself. The thing is, you must be there together to try and heal whatever is hurt. Whatever was hurt. Whatever will always remain hurting. You need to talk about it, what bad times to you. Not just to you, but to your friends. Those who were there to witness you. Those who protected you. Those who stood by your side as you tried to destroy yourself. 

I am not destroyed. I am still in quite some pieces, but some don't have to be put back. Because winning a broken heart, doesn't always mean that you have to put it back together. A heart is still a heart when it's in pieces. A person is still a person, when he or she is not fully complete or healed. 

Remember that. 

- Ky