Age 19, Los Angeles, California, USA

I was desperately in love with you.

We were both nineteen, born only nineteen days apart. You were my first boyfriend. I was your first girlfriend. I was a mess — very soon to be diagnosed as bipolar, too, with a dash of anxiety, endometriosis, and an eating disorder. But for the first time, I was loved. I was desired. And I had the power to hurt because of it.

You tried to give me everything I wanted. You did an amazing job. But it wasn’t enough for me. And when I got manic — when I got cruel — I did the most horrific thing I could.

I tried to cut my wrists. The stupid steak knife wasn’t sharp enough, but I called you and told you anyway. I sent you pictures of me trying.

To this day, I still hear you sobbing on the phone, begging me, asking me, “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?”

I will never forget that. I call up that memory every time the manic part of me whispers how easy it would be to hurt someone.

You and I are still friends. Somehow. We hurt each other to the point I never thought it would be possible, and yet we still talk, still respect each other. Yet I’ve never apologized for the depths I sank to that night, never begged your forgiveness for the horror I put you through.

I love you, my friend.

And I hope you forgive me.