Jason was my first love.  I started hanging out with him at camp the summer before seventh grade.  He was a 
few years older, and I felt so cool being buds with an older guy.  I had a bad experience with a guy at camp,  
and Jason was totally there for me.  To cheer me up, he pickeda bunch of wildflowers and brought them to me.   
That was the start of our friendship.             
     Since we lived in the same town, we kept in touch after camp.  Icould always tell him anything about 
myself.  After about a year, Jason asked me to be his girlfriend.  At first, our relationship was awesome.  We 
were so in love.  
     One day, about a year after we got together, Jason and I were hanging out with a bunch of his friends.  
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jason with one of the guys, snorting this white powder.  My heart sank and 
I felt dizzy.  I wasn't sure exactly what they were doing, but I knew it was a drug.  I didn't want to look 
stupid, so I kept quiet.  But my mind was racing a million miles a second.  I was so confused.  None of my 
friends did drugs.  Jason knew that I thought drugs were bad.  I thought he felt that way, too.
     I called Jason that night and told him what I saw.  He admitted he was doing cocaine.   "I didn't want you 
to know," he said.  "I've been doing it for a while."  That blew my mind.  I thought I knew everything about 
Jason, but obviously I didn't.  "You should stop," I said.  He laughed.  "Susan, the only way I can stop doing 
cocaine is if I die." 
     From then on, my relationship with Jason changed.  when he was high, things were great-he was funny and 
charming, the Jason I knew and loved.  But coming down from a high, he was crazy-angry, jealous, insecure, just 
a horrible person to be around.  He got super clingy, too, and we were together practically all the time.  But 
I never dreamed of breaking up with him.  I loved him, and he needed me.  
     When I started high school, I was so into it-I was elected class president and got great grades.  But 
things with Jason were getting worse.  He flew off the handle about the smallest things.  We were out one night 
when I asked a guy what time it was.  Jason flipped out.  He yelled at me, "You don't want me anymore, do you?  
You want to be with that guy?  Admit that you don't love me!  Come on!  Tell me!"  People were staring-it was 
horrible.  I ran to a pay phone and called my mom to come pick me up.  He was still yelling when we drove away.
     After I calmed down a bit, I called Jason and said, "I can't deal with you anymore.  The drugs are making 
you crazy."  He asked, "What are you saying?  You hate me, don't you?"  I said, "Of course, I don't hate you.  
I just can't be with you anymore unless you stop acting crazy."  He begged me not to break up with him, saying, 
"If you leave me, I'll kill myself."  I was so angry, I snapped, "Fine.  Whatever," and hung up.
     I didn't call Jason for a whole week, and I wuldn't return his calls.  Then one day I had an uneasy feeling 
and dialed his house.  His mom answered hysterical.  "Jason's in the hospital," she said.  "He ODed last night."  
I didn't know what to say.  Jason's mom told me she'd found him lying unconscious in the bathroom.  He'd done a 
bunch of coke and then passed out, hitting his head.  She was pretty sure he'd done it on purpose.  I couldn't 
believe it.  
     I told his mom to let me know if there was anything she needed.  She freaked out and told me to stay away 
from her family-I'd done enough damage already.  "Why didn't you just call him?" she asked.  Then she hung up 
on me.  I was dazed-could she really be blaming me for this?  Then I remembered my last conversation with 
Jason-I'd practically told him to go ahead and kill himself.  His mom was right-it was my fault.
     The school day dragged on forever.  I couldn't eat or talk or think clearly.  That afternoon, the principal 
called me into her office to tell me Jason was dead.  I can't even describe the pain I felt.  On the outside, I 
was numb, but there was all this anguish deep down inside.
     I went home, took a blade out of my dad's razor, and sat on my bed.  Maybe dying was the only way to stop 
the hurt.  And I deserved to die-I was a horrible, disgusting person who had just killed her boyfriend.  I sat 
there for a long time, but I couldn't cut myself.  I was too scared.
     After Jason died, school didn't seem to matter.  My grades dropped from A's to F's.  I got kicked off 
student council.  I cut class and stayed out all night.  My parents tried grounding me, but when they did, I'd 
just stay away for a few days.  And I even dated a guy, Lou, who was a total druggie-way worse than Jason. 
     I started using, too-I didn't care anymore.  At first, I just smoked pot.  Then I tried cocaine.  I thought, 
"So this is what it feels like."  Now I knew what it had been like for Jason.  It was so essy to shut the world 
out.  The more coke I did, the less hurt I felt about Jason.  All I cared about was getting more durgs.
     My parents couldn't take it.  I came home one day at 5 a.m. to find a couple of cops waiting for me.  They 
handcuffed me and whisked me off to reform school.
     Feform school sucked.  The worst part was going to therapy.  The counselors wanted me to talk about my 
feelings and cry and hug people.  No way!  I was suffering from coke withdrawal, too which made me angry and 
agitated.  I lashed out at the counselors, teachers, and other kids, yelling or starting fights.
     I felt like I was in hell, and the only way out was to take my own life.  I got up at 5:30 a.m. one 
Saturday, went into the bathroom, and used a razor to slice my wrists, deep and precise.  The dorm head found 
me, and she and a counselor bandaged me up.  They told me they'd called the police and I was being taken to 
the psych ward.  I didn't understand.  Why couldn't they just let me die?   
     Al, the cop who picked me up, was very calm and gentle.  He warned me that the psych ward was a horrible 
place and said if I promised to be good, he'd turn around and take me back.  I told him to f*** off.  But he 
was right.  The psych ward was so scary.  I was put in a padded cell next to a guy who screamed all night.
     The next day, Al visited to make sure I was okay.  He said he wanted me to have a good life, and he 
promised that if I went back to reform school, he'd come to my graduation.  I was like, "Yeah, right."  
Graduating seemed impossible.  Besides, why did this guy care?
     After 72 hours, I was sent back to reform school.  I couldn't skip school, so I started going to class 
regularly.  It actually wasn't so bad-once I really tried, I did pretty well.  Al wrote to me all the time, 
telling me not to give up.  It ment so much to me that this person I barely knew took the time to look out 
for me.
     Group therapy turned out to be okay, too.  I learned that other people had some of the same hopless 
feelings I did.  I talked about how I felt responsible for Jason's drug habit and his suicide.  Ever since 
he died, I'd believed I was a terrible person who caused the death of someone I loved.  But in therapy, I 
finally realized that Jason's death wasn't my fault.
     My parents were there for me the whole time.  I kept getting letters from Al, too, and his support 
and my parents' kept me going.  And on graduation day, they were all there in the audience, watching me get
my dipoloma.
     Now I'm focused on the future.  I plan to go to college, and I'm toally off drugs.  Sometimes I still 
feel sad about Jason-I probably always will.  But it's okay; I know healing takes time, and I'm lucky-I've 
got all the time in the world.