This is as much my story as it is Anastasia’s. She was from Ontario, Canada. Age fifteen. Young enough to be molded like water-slick clay, old enough to get herself into trouble, and so thoroughly trapped between childhood and adulthood that, with a few misguided decisions, she signed her death certificate. I met Anastasia online, through my support Twitter account; an electronic code angled towards saving her life had spawning the little block with her account name on my screen. The support account was created with the intention of helping those who struggled with depression, self-harm, eating disorders, abuse or assault, and those with suicidal inclinations. Every day, my feed would be swarmed with the four hundred-something people I’d followed, all of them in various states of decay, all of them reaching into the void in hopes that someone would grasp their outstretched fingers and lift them from the grave they were digging themselves. There were many, but I was closest to Anastasia.

When we first spoke, she had soaked a hand towel in blood. I flew into work-mode, as I’d done many times before: hold the injury above the heart, apply pressure, cover the wound. Raise blood sugar. I recommended orange juice after relapsing, but of course there was the problem of calories. I began to monitor Anastasia more frequently than my other “clients,” for lack of a better word. I’d made myself their cyber-therapist. When they messaged me after a rough night, it was an immense relief I can only liken to seeing a toddler fall into a pool and be rescued by a parent, only the toddler goes back to the water every time. I was too involved. They were friends, not patients.

She dealt with abuse from a boyfriend, rape, depression, self-harm, anorexia, bulimia, meth, heroin, alcoholism, and suicidal thoughts. I promised to message her every day while she was in the mental hospital. When she stopped responding, I assumed the staff had found her account. Every week or so, she’d pop by to keep me updated. Then... nothing. A week or so after this, I inquired about Anastasia while eating lunch with Amy. She simply mumbled a “You didn’t know?” Anastasia’s silence, as it was explained to me in a highly populated lunch room, was due to her suicide.

Anastasia’s death marked the beginning of the end of my support Twitter. After losing a friend, the support system became a void, sucking me in at the edges, each new tweet tugging my heart through the soles of my feet. My world had become a vicious vacuum, and I was merely a cluster of hair and potato chip fragments hiding beneath a table. I distanced myself, advised my clients to talk to Amy or Patrick, and locked myself out of my account. I had not expected a friend to die when I began the account. Amy hadn’t told me that this was how it ended when she helped me start. Anastasia. Fifteen, maybe. Ontario. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve searched in vain for her obituary, scrolling through withered faces I know would never match her youth, armed only with a city and a first name. Even writing this now, I had to check one last time. I have never found that form of closure. Anastasia. Dead at fifteen, maybe. Ontario didn’t mention her in their papers.

I was fragile, as selfish as that sounded. My friend was dead. The carpet was out from underneath my feet, and I couldn’t cope with the content anymore. They all took on her name. Would I be able to stop this one? Would they die too? I could not watch another person I’d grown close to disappear without a trace. I’ve learned to distance myself from that sort of pain, but even two years later, her name is a leaking faucet in my mind.

Anastasia, Anastasia, Anastasia.