|Photo by Kat J on Unsplash|
I remember that at her funeral, I had to not talk about how I met her. While her other friends talked about how they knew her from church, or from school, or from her epic travel adventures, I kept silent, even as we were asked how we got to know her.
No one from her church knew that we all met at a support group for same-sex attracted Christians.
None of her friends she was close to knew that part of the reason why she died was because she couldn't stand being gay.
No one knew that she had a failed relationship with a guy the year before she died.
No one knew.
And my heart breaks for the fact that if someone had loved her, if she had a partner, female or male, to be there for her, to hold her when her cat died, when her mom died, when she was in the midst of her darkest depression, perhaps she would not have felt so lonely, perhaps she wouldn't have felt that life was not worth living.
I know, because I've been there.
Just days after she passed, I had the recurring thought of ending it all with the help of a coat-hanger. It might have been because of the Christmas sermon. It might have been because I felt like I wasn't worth much in the eyes of my senior pastor. It might have been because of all the homophobia I'd internalized for so long.
But life is worth living. For the sake of my partner, for my family, for my friends.
But most of all, because I know I am loved.
Did she know that she was?
Which makes it even more tragic.
The largest hall at the crematorium was filled and overflowing by the time the first service ended. All these friends and she felt none of the love. All of whom remembered her, close to none knew the secret that she kept to the grave with her.
Why was it her and not me?
I miss her.
The vivacious, fun-loving, funny, inspiring friend that I once had. That I once knew. Now in a pile of ashes in an urn.
Good thing I'm seeing my counsellor tomorrow. Maybe this is something we can process together.
Well, that's about it folks. Good night.