welcome to shecKiiville

A scared, pregnant friend lived with me. I watched her feel helpless, grasping for her life, eventually resorting to the only option left.

I checked a friend into rehab after relapsing, on the verge of killing himself after a morally questionable action.

I even helped a friend deal with his mom’s suicide, the only woman he loved.

In seemingly impossible situations, I always found the words and actions to deescalate it. Analyzing situations objectively was a personal strength.

Then came fall 2010, the week the baseball field flooded. For the first time in 25 years, no words came out.

Because how do you respond to, “(She) tried to kill herself after the guilt of having your baby aborted — and not telling you about it.”

Friends jokingly, and somewhat seriously, said, “You weren’t on Twitter for like four days. We were really worried about you.”

But school, friends, a social-media presence? Objectivity?! C’mon, man.

That flight, one I puked in for the first time, consisted of uncontrollably intense emotions, ranging from angry to depressed, from sad to happy.

But one lingered.

It’s being ashamed, because I let someone feel — let alone to go through — that.

The yellow roses at the hospital’s front desk still smell fresh. The father with an Angels hat and a daughter with a Dora the Explorer backpack look so happy. My sneakers’ squeak, one that still eerily echoes walking down Plassmann Hall sometimes, feels so real.

But that moment when I first saw her, oh it's so clear. I dropped down after literally losing strength, cried profusely, screamed — but actually just muttered — incoherently, barely breathed, wanting to die.

At that moment I knew. I knew the gravity of everything. Life, casual sex, suicide, regrets, being a man.

Everything.

None of my friends met her. In fact, no one knew about her until now besides my best friend. She was just a girl I randomly hooked up with.

We were never Facebook friends, and we’re still not. We talk once in a while, but we’re like strangers rather than ones sharing a bond so intimate.

But the conversations and, most importantly, the lessons will remain between us forever.

But I need to share one of them.

Negativity runs rampant at St. Bonaventure. So many people judge, say hurtful comments and act like their actions have no consequences. Superficial judgments, manipulation and deception happen every day.

In the school’s first week, friends who felt alone, maybe even as alone as Her, confided in me. Some people shared their deepest insecurities. A friend had her heart broken.

In 2010, a friend had her deepest insecurity turned against her by “good” friends. The kindest people found a spec of hatred within their hearts and let it run wildly on The Intrepid and everyone associated with it.

It led to me almost killing myself — but that’s for another time.

Statistically, someone from our class will die this year. Almost surely rumors will be spread. Relationships will cease. Friendships will shatter.

Ask yourself the ripple effects of your actions, one that you have made and that one you may make. We all know right and wrong, kind and mean, acceptable and unacceptable.

My pregnant friend now has a gorgeous daughter and is engaged to a wonderful man. The friend out of rehab moved up from minimum wage to a $30,000 salary job with benefits. The other one found a woman he loves and has never been happier.

Negativity has directly — and indirectly — led everyone down a path to a bottomless pit.

People at St. Bonaventure don’t realize how strong they are, but sometimes I wish they never find out — especially when it’s too late.