Sitting By The Pond.

I sit here watching the soft Lily-pads dance amongst only a few beautiful, purple, half-open little flowers. It reminds me of what you once said.

"Life is for growing, learning, and living. Like flowers, life flowers grow, life grows when it is nourished in the right way."

We had only just met when you said this to me.

In 1998, your life was stolen from me; taken from me by suicide.

I still sit by a pond watching the soft Lily-pads dance today, just like we used to when we were young. When I was upset, you would sit with me and let me rest my head on your shoulders until I was comforted and smiling again; then you would turn on your portable stereo, the one that you always carried around, and play this song.

Video courtesy of Youtube: Accessed by Author, 14/12/2022.

Whenever I sit by a pond where the Lilies dance, I hear this song and I think about you.

I am not angry with you. I know how much you suffered with your mental health because I sat with you most nights while you heard voices saying those horrible things to you.

I want you to know; I tried hard to convince you that those voices were telling you things that weren't true about yourself, but they were too loud and they drowned out the soothing sound of my own voice.

You were a gentleman; someone who was caring, had a heart of gold, and despite your troubles; you always tried to live life to the full. You always managed to retain a piece of your heart for me; there when I was broken, there to pick me up when I was falling apart, and there when I had no one.

You were suffering from Schizophrenia

Many people would stigmatize you. They believed that the voices in your head weren't real, that your violent behavior when you heard those voices meant that you were a violent person and that everybody should stay away from you because you were crazy and dangerous.

I never listened to those people, because I knew the real person underneath the illness. I saw a side of you that many people cannot distinguish from mental illness.

You were not your illness.

The illness was something that you suffered from, though it was never who you were as a person.

I saw a friendly, warm, chatty, person who loved music, dancing, art, reading, and computers. I saw a person who had a big enthusiasm for learning and helping others whenever he could.

Of course, there is no denying that you had your bad days too. On those bad days, you would try to hurt yourself and get lost, and you would talk to many people who were not there. It pained me to see the mental illness torment you like that.

My friends were the ones who told me what had happened. Do you remember them? Jenny and Craig. The only friends who stayed friends with me while I tried to help you.

When Jenny and Craig told me; I fell to the floor, and I cried as I had never cried before.

I lost myself in a lonely world of grief, and sadness. I didn't want to talk to anyone, because I was angry with myself.

I blamed myself for your suicide. I blamed myself for letting you down.

Today, I still miss you. I miss you every day, though I'm not blaming myself anymore. It is hard, and some days I just want to cry, but I am doing exactly what you would have told me to do:

Living my life, loving again, enjoying my studies, reading books, and writing.

I try to do these things with a smile on my face, but I still cry when I think about the good memories that I shared with you.

My dear friend Rob,

I am married now and settled down. I still miss you, though I understood that you would want me to be happy. Thank you for being there for me, despite your own problems. I never wanted your life to end the way it did; though I hope that you are out of pain now and that the angels in heaven are looking after you.

You will always be my best friend.

Your Angel,

Carol.

Note to the reader:

Schizophrenia is a horrible mental illness that took my male best friend's life. There are many misperceptions about the illness, and while a person can behave violently during an episode; it is the illness that makes them behave that way, the illness is not the person themselves. My friend suffered from stigma because of misperceptions about this illness; he felt lonely, sad, and often, unlovable. Time and time again, I was the one who was left in tears while trying to soothe him as the horrible voices in his head made him feel like a bad person and often caused him to behave in ways that were not really him.

My friend took his own life in 1998 after he threw himself out of a window during a mental breakdown.

I have written this story after spending a long time in grief, guilt, and severe upset over losing that friend, whom I lost at a time when I was friendless and going through a lot of grief myself.

My friend struggled hard with his illness, but despite that; on his good days, he was always a willing listener, a warm friend, and a very good companion.

I know there are many others out there who are looking after friends and family in the same boat, and many who have also lost loved ones to this horrible condition. I want to say that you are not alone; I am with you.