Alright, so this is going to be tough for those who feel obliged to read everything I write- please bear with me, it's the most boring story ever, but I seriously have to get it out of my system before it eats my head up completely.

I have to start right at the beginning. When I got to 7th grade, I was stuck into the coolest class of my school. We had people of every kind- the jerks, the potheads, the geeks (me included) and the shy people. I'm sure there were a hell more categories, but this'll do to sum it up. I wasn't really a geek, but it happened that I was the only one capable of languages, and maths wasn't so hard back then. I got all the good grades, and almost everyone around me failed.

I was also one of the youngest in class, next to a couple others. I was probably also the only one that thought that pot was boring. Why the hassle when there's acid? Exactly my attitude. Although, to clear things up, I was only an occasional drug-user back then. Not the junkie I was yet to become.

The potheads in my class were actually 8th graders who had failed the required classes and did an extra 7th. It's a basic school principle here, but to cut to the chase, they were simply set back to 7th grade as they didn't make it. They smoked joints and drank alcohol like nobody's business, which explains their grades in school. And they were the bomb, I mean, people looked up to them- greasy hair, dirty clothes, skateboards, oh man were they hot. I never fell for them that way because I considered them ugly and had begun masturbating to women, but hey, don't judge me, I was only a kid (Kidding. I still do it).

So in this class, there was this kid, let's call him H. This story is about him. I'm dedicating it to him because it's the basic example of what's so fucked up in our society, and it's what keeps me depressed every fucking day- and gives me hope to get on, all the time, every day and stop looking back. It's killing me because I was part of this game.

H. was the youngest in our class. He had ADD and everyone made fun of his uncoordinated, silly ways. He never listened and you had to shout his name up to 3 times for him to pay attention. You asked him a question and he almost fell apart stumbling to find the right words. He desperately tried to be cool and calm, but it was obvious that even the littlest differences in age could mean worlds: He was still a child at heart. I doubt he had even hit puberty at that time. And like all the other kids, he looked up to the cool guys.

The Potheads were eager to punish him for this devotion. They treated him like crap and laughed about him, but he didn't care as long as he was part of the group- which part he played, unimportant. They were his Disney land, and pot was his entrance fee.

One year later, I was pretty much at my low-point of drug use. I never told anyone, I was in hospital twice without anyone but one good friend knowing, my parents never talked to each other unless shouting and screaming and when I came home I went online pretending everything was fine, basically building up a second identity. Maybe I should mention all those people I lied and betrayed, tell them how sorry I am, but nothing could substitute the feeling of regret- I made it up to most people already, but the truth is, I am still devastated. Every now and then I'd let a word of truth slip out to my friends, wallow in self-pity, hate my life, especially my father, then drown again the next day in another dose of drug, all kinds of drugs. I'd never admit it, though, because I knew it was my weakness. I knew I couldn't, shouldn't do it.

I looked at all the other kids with disgust. Pot? Pot was my recreational phase from all the synthetic shit I pumped into my body. I didn't use it to get high, I used it to get down.

But still, I was in the same group of friends as H. We were a relatively large group of people, drug people, alcoholic people, stupid kids wanting out of this reality. H. had a hard time. We'd use him to get our pot, take his money, laugh about him, send him here, send him there. Get us beer, get us pot, move your ass- and he'd always come back because he had noone else. His family was too busy taking care of their newborn, his parents hating each other. Of course, I didn't know that back then. No one knew, he'd never had anyone to tell.

In 9th grade, I was still friends with these people. I was still smoking pot and I was still drinking alcohol, but things had become better. Every now and then I'd take a pill or snort a line- but it was minor shit.

In 10th grade, it started getting worse for me again- with all the bullshit at home and school being harder every day, I looked for a solution to my problems- and I found my boyfriend. A new group of friends. New interests, new problems. Well, things still sucked but at least I had some good loving and I didn't need the drugs to substitute that anymore (although I still smoked a joint every now and then and basically got drunk whenever I could).

But H.? He never made it out of there. Everyone around him started taking greater care of school. They were still Potheads, still assholes, but so what- they could deal. H. couldn't. He entered this whole thing as a kid- he developed a habit, an addiction, and by all means I can't tell you whether this addiction was to finally have some attention, or the drugs themselves. I'd vote for the first option if I had to.

And so it went on- my boyfriend broke up with me and I started the bad drugs again, ace, ecstacy- not telling anybody, as always, and not as bad as before and I had some control of it, but it put me in a really bad state of mind. My depression was vast, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat. I hated my school.
But things were different now. I wasn't a child anymore. I got myself back together, and although I'm still not completely over all these things, at least I don't even feel the urge to drink alcohol anymore.

H. lost his grip during 11th grade. We were still in the same class, but he hardly showed up. The Potheads split up, probably still got drunk and smoked shit all day, but they had enough will to continue school, to be responsible, to earn some money- basically deal with their lives like everyone else does. We now look back and call it "The rebellious old days"- aww, don't give me that crap, I know. It wasn't rebellious, it was stupid, and I'm the first one who'd tell you that.

But still, H. didn't see it that way. H. still wanted to prove how cool he is. Nevermind that everyone else already thought it was uncool, he continued trying. Continued smoking. And somehow, someway, I lost all touch to him. Only heard rumours every once in a while- he's selling now, or he's completely drunk again, or he's taking synthetic drugs now.

I didn't care. I was laughing along. What a stupid, stupid guy. But only now I do realize what happened.

He hardly showed up this year in classes. People started talking. Where is he? What is he doing? He wrote me a message the other day, "You weren't my friend, but you were not as bad as the rest of the pack. I just wanted to say goodbye, I'm going to die tomorrow".

I panicked. What the hell? He just can't go and.. do that, can he?
Shit, I really don't know how to tell this story.

We started IM'ing. I didn't convince him not to do it- in fact, I pushed him to do it. I said hey, look, get over it- do it or don't but don't bother me with this shit. Three weeks later, now, he's still alive, still talking to me. I visited him the other day- he has signed off from school, been to rehab, is drunk every day, his parents beat him up, he steals money, is sentenced for robbery, has no plan of his life, still wants to die, spends money on prostitutes, goes to stripclubs and look like your junkie-next-door.

He offered me coke, ace, ecs, I still don't know how I declined. I bought him a bottle of water, a pack of cigarettes, met him at home where I could witness the gruesome situation at home- wealthy parents that don't give a shit, H. high on whatever he's pumped into his veins, it killed me. What can you do about someone who's never learned to grow up? Who's stuck in a body of a 18 year old, but inside, is still a 7th grader?

It's really not his fault. He was a naive, nice boy. Not necessarily the man of your dreams, but a friend, with manners and morality. And hell is he intelligent. Now he reads from the bible, cites Jesus and calls everyone around him "his angels of sins". Waits for God to come and rescue him, and the next day he calls me up, crying, about how he's had a traumatizing dream- and the following three days he won't talk about anything else anymore. Traumatizing things.

Shit, I really don't know how to tell this story. It hurts me so much to see someone die this way. Die from the inside. Die from drugs, die from his so called friends to whom he always bounced back, out naivety, unknowingly of his own destiny. Scared of being along, scared of not getting enough attention. H. is not human anymore, he's just a shadow of a human being.

We all made it out of the jungle. All the other kids went by pretty well, some better and some worse. Even the best fall down sometimes, but they get up, and who didn't do shit when they were young?

But he was too young. And now these are the consequences. I give him another 2 years, max. If he makes it until then, it won't be a pleasure, and if he doesn't, if he really decides to kill himself, then everyone's going to remember him as the junkie, the jerk, the stupid silly naive shitty little boy that smelled.

I can only shake my head when I look back. What I would've done differently? I don't know. I'd tried to tell him once before, in 9th grade, that he was going down, steep, but he never wanted to hear that. I wanted to be the hero, the one that rescues him. But what do you do when you conclude that there's no other way out but suicide?

If I was him, I'd do it.