Tragic Tales of Lost Youth

I reminisce about late-night meetings, where burnt coffee filled styrofoam cups. The cold metal chairs formed a circle, and as I sat there, I found myself dissociating into the patterns of the church carpet. In those moments, I wondered if you would walk in. It had been six weeks since you left, but it felt like an eternity had passed.

You confessed that you couldn't stop, and I sensed it was more than a mere habit. While I managed to leave it behind, I couldn't understand why you struggled to do the same. The morning sunlight pierced through the blinds, a reminder of yet another night without you. I found myself repeatedly calling your voicemail, desperately hoping for a sign of life. Sleep eluded me, and my thoughts wandered, wondering if you were still alive and if you would ever find your way out of this situation.

I remember asking you if dying hurt, and you said being alive hurt more. That was when I realized how much pain you were in. I wanted to heal you, but deep down I knew I was just as broken. I hid in the bathroom, carving my own pain into my upper thigh as if it could help me cope.

In the short story of our missed youth, we found ourselves entangled in a web of failed attempts to fix one another. We believed that the 12 steps could provide the answers we desperately sought, but in reality, we had much more to grieve than we initially realized.

Looking back, we see how many things we thought were normal weren’t part of other people’s stories. Our experiences were filled with tragedy and loss, a stark contrast to the carefree tales of youthful adventure that we had hoped to create.

Each interaction between us felt like a desperate grasp at redemption, an attempt to mend the broken pieces of our own souls. Yet, despite our efforts, we remained lost in the labyrinth of our shared struggles.

We wanted someone to show us how to get out. But the truth is we had to face our own pain before we could really begin to heal.

Now, with the wisdom of hindsight, we see our stories weren’t just tales of missed opportunities and failures. They’re testaments to resilience and the strength it takes to confront our demons, the foundations upon which we built our present selves, scarred but wiser.

In the end, our missed youth became a catalyst for growth and self-discovery. We may have lost our way, but through all of it, we learned valuable lessons about ourselves and the world.

We did make it out. Not untouched, not unscarred, but here. I think about that a lot. How we learned, slowly, painfully, to choose living. It is not the ending we dreamed of back then, but it is real. And I am grateful we’re both still here to remember.