I met you on a crisp May evening last year, the spring breeze intertwining with hints of the coming summer. We hit it off instantly; your easy-going nature complimented my Type A personality in an almost perfect balance. Our initial conversation turned into hours of talk and banter as we marveled at the similarities in our lives. Over time, I came to know you almost as well as myself.

So I know you thought you were hiding it well, but you weren’t.

I saw the shadows under your eyes, the weight you'd lost, how reclusive you'd become. The quickness of the transformation was especially jarring. You looked tired, weary beyond your years.

I remember the night I found your drug of choice after you asked me to get something out of your bag. I remember clutching that orange bottle in a white-knuckled grip, wondering how something so small and unassuming had such a key role in slowly destroying the person in front of me. Flushing the contents down the toilet was my choice. Shoving me against a wall and not speaking to me for two months was yours.

You became as toxic as the substance you relied on, but not hearing from you felt as if a part of me was missing. I yearned for the person I met almost a year ago, upbeat and positive with a smile that came easily.

When I heard your parents finally sent you to a rehabilitation program, the feeling of relief I experienced was intense. Keeping your problem under wraps at your behest wore on me in ways that had turned physical. I was losing sleep. My anxiety was through the roof.

I know you’re going to see what I did as an act of betrayal, and maybe in some form, it was. But I don’t feel guilty for doing what I think is best for you.

You feel that you’re alone in this. You think no one has ever felt the pain, the self-hatred, the utter despair you’re experiencing. You’ll meet people that have been dealing with the same things you have, and I hope their stories have the power to steer you away from this destructive path.

There is a light at the end of this tunnel if you choose to see it, but no one can help you unless you’re ready to help yourself. You have to be the one to flush the pills, to stop chasing the high. You have to be the one to realize that it’s not just yourself you’re hurting; every one of your friends and family is aching along with you. Know that I will always be there for you, we all will, but we’ve done our part.

Now it’s your turn.