Real Life Things That Touch Me: Depression

I think we forget sometimes that we're all different. That different things touch us in different ways and we react differently given how we've grown up or been taught too. I want to start this segment because it's a real thing. Every hardship is real and it shouldn't be sugarcoated or ignored. There are many hardships that surround me in life, and I'm lucky, really lucky, because I have the privilege of growing up the way I have. All the same, I want to recognize that my friends may not be as lucky as I am. In fact, almost none of them are. I know I have only a simple, outside view, but that doesn't take away from what I know and what I see. The names of everyone I write about will be changed to keep their privacy just that: theirs, but the stories are real and they start here, where I am and they are all around me. Here is the first of many, my friend with Chronic Depression.

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I start here because, although I have many other stories to share, I just found out about my friend Zylar's today. We met last year in Spanish class, and had a love-hate relationship of sorts (he teased me, I teased him. He stole my bookmark, and I threw a marker at his face). Since then, we've become friends, we call each other as such and we were drawn together again by having the same off-hours and both being in DECA, a marketing and business club that you are required to take a marketing class for.

We have a trip this weekend, and we sat together on the bus on the way up. He claimed it was because I'm quiet and he can rely on the fact I'll probably read the whole time. (He can.) We sat together for orientation and he followed me to the workshops of my choice and, slowly, things were revealed. Things he hadn't told me before.

A car accident that rendered him color blind (blue's and green's), and with metal in his leg, and fake skin on his arm.

Someone joked about depression. I don't even remember the context, but he commented "Actually I have Chronic Depression." Then, later, we were huddling by the fire because we were cold. He started dancing his fingers side by side with the flames. I scolded him and told him not to do that. He later brought out a lighter and lit it under his arm. I yelled again.
"Do I scare you?" he asked.
"Not as much as you think," I said. "I'm more scared for people than of them."

This is true. I never forgive myself when things happen to other people when I knew what was going on. I always think I could have stopped it. People scare me, but not in the way they think. I'm scared for their fears and their hardships. I care too much, and not enough. I know too much, and never enough. I care too much and know too little.

More and more was revealed throughout the night. How he tries to commit suicide. How he wishes he could through himself into the fire we're huddled around. Others were with us, but they seemed to miss the seriousness of it. It hit me hard. He had this phone call with his mother where he seemed near tears. I hate myself for not knowing how to help. Not knowing what to say.

But you know what I wish I said and I still want too?
"Zylar, please, promise me you won't kill yourself. Because, if you do, I won't forgive myself."
Because, as selfish as it sounds, I won't. I never will. Not if he happens to commit suicide. Never.