Four years ago the best friend I made in college committed suicide.

He had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder just a few months before, but prior to that he was prone to violent mood swings. I remember how he'd tell me "I hate these meds. They don't make me feel anything", and thinking on it after his passing, it wasn't difficult to deduce that he had stopped taking them.

I was the last person he talked to before he died, at least according to his roommate that had looked at his phone after his body had been taken away. His roommate found him about 45 minutes after he made the call to me. Nothing about our final conversation was out of the ordinary, either -- him asking me a question about a class I'd taken previously, and us just talking about our days. Knowing I was the last to hear his voice screwed with me heavily, and I'd often rake over that conversation wondering if there was a sign that I missed, or any indication that he was going to commit. There simply wasn't.

For about two months after his death I couldn't properly function. I couldn't sleep in my own bed. I went from needing complete darkness and silence in order to sleep, to having every light on and the television's volume cranked up. I'd even violently flinch at my own reflection in mirrors when I passed them. I regularly had nightmares, and sobbed daily. I went through all the different stages of grief, but most of all, I was angry at him for making the choice he did. He was so young and talented, and so, so many people had loved him...but nobody, not even I knew the sort of battles he was dealing with inside his head.

It got easier. The first year was hard, but the pain dulled. I still think of him often. To this day I still consider him the one friend I had that I was able to really be myself around, and I miss that I haven't felt that since with anybody else.