A dear friend of mine (one I talked about a few posts back) attempted to kill herself this week.

As you can expect, I am--emotionally speaking--a wreck.

I cannot begin to describe what I'm feeling now--mostly relieved that someone was there to prevent her from going through with it, but also (for lack of more civilized etiquette) shit-fucking scared out of my mind, because I know she is inches away from trying it again.

I sympathize with her, I rage with her at the forces that have brought her to this point in her life, and I want to shake her as hard as I can until all the marbles in her head fall into place . . . all at the same time.

Most of all, I'm unsettled by the fact that I had to find out about it secondhand--that she couldn't feel free to tell me herself that she was at the end of her rope.

What does that say about me, that she couldn't feel free to be open and honest with me about a degree of emotional pain that was so real to her?

What does that say about society, that she (and many other people I have known, including myself) have felt compelled to keep our deep emotional wounds hidden away from others, for fear they'll think differently of us? That she couldn't talk to someone who had experienced the same things and would understand, or at least not have a personal agenda with her? What the hell kind of world do we live in where someone can't feel free to say she doesn't feel like life has meaning anymore?

God, I feel so helpless--and so scared.