Oh, Heather.

If you’re reading this, I probably have Heather Armstrong to thank. And you probably know that Heather took her own life on Tuesday night. 

It’s been a long time since Heather and I were friends. For a while, there, boy did I feel like the luckiest person. When Heather focused her attention on you, you believed you were the wittiest, the most charming, the most insightful person around. Heather made me feel like I was in a sacred inner circle with her. I loved her, and I loved our little group of friends. We had so much fun. 

(Thanks, Maggie, for the picture.)

One thing you may not know about Heather was how fragile she was. At one conference she asked me to walk with her, she felt too exposed. Her big eyes darting around, she matter-of-factly told me about the latest threat to her life. She attracted a tremendous amount of hate. I could never quite understand it. 

She focused too much on the hate, I thought; I wished she would notice all the love instead. But then I received a smattering of the kind of criticism that was directed her way and to say I didn’t take it well would be an understatement. I had no clue how to handle it. Someone who hated you could reach you directly and tell you how and why you were the absolute worst. And I was minuscule compared to Heather. To deal with that volume of criticism when you’re already suffering from depression is a torment. 

She was so talented, oh my god, so funny; her writing was so sharp. And yet. And yet. She could be awful. Can I say that? Our falling out, when it came, was spectacularly bad. As good as it felt to be in her circle, it felt singularly terrible to be cast out. For a while after that we were civil to each other, we checked in occasionally, but I distanced myself. She turned into someone I didn’t recognize. I worried from afar. She posted increasingly incoherent rants. I texted with my other blog-friends about what was going on, did we need to get her help? Was she safe? But I never reached out directly. Would it have made a difference if I had? Would anything have changed? 

I don’t know how to do this. How can I sum her up? Why should I? It’s impossible. She was so complicated. I’m so furious with her. I always held out hope that someday we’d grow old(er) and laugh about what utter jerks we were. The possibility of that conversation is gone. And I miss her — I have missed her — will always miss her — so much. 

I am thinking of her kids right now, her beautiful, amazing children, and I hope they know that there is an entire army of people out there who want nothing more than love and beauty and peace for them, forever and ever, amen. I am thinking of Liz and Jon, who I have no doubt will love and protect those kids in the way that I know the best part of Heather wanted to do. 

And I’m thinking of you. I am highly aware that suicide can be contagious. Please get help, if you’re struggling. Look at all the love and adoration pouring out for Heather. She had no idea, just like you have no idea. You have no idea how loved you are.