No one told me.
No one told me that suicide would come without warning like Santa Claus.
But instead of bearing gifts and joy, it bestowed the heavies burden I would ever be expected to carry.
No one told me that grief would become my new best friend.
That I would snuggle up close every night with a companion I would never have asked for.
No one told me that I would have to become a feeble dam against the depression, having to brace myself against the inevitable, overpowering, sudden rush that would leave me with water damage that is irreparable.
No one told me that it would take what seemed like an eternity to get out of the veritable quicksand of depression your death dropped me in.
No one told me how the emptiness would resonant in my very marrow when I had to force myself to talk about you with “was” rather than “is.”
No one told me how immobilizing your absence would feel like.
About how I would feel like a quadriplegic, unable to move because of the weight that was impossible to displace. 
No one told me that I would have to force myself to not think about you.
If I did, I would be nothing but a pile of bones made wet by the saltwater that stems from the ocean in my very molecules.
No one told me that you would start to seem like a figure of my imagination, that you never were.
No one told me that you would never say goodbye.
That I would never feel the embrace of your chocolate arms wrapped around my small, pale frame.
No one told me that I would never again hear the hearty sound of your laugh make its way to my ears.
No one told me that our bodies would never again gather around a midnight bonfire to share dreams, and regrets to each other.
No one told me that after the pain started to ease up, I had to find out how you died.
That you hung yourself in a barn, that your neck didn't break, that you hung for 45 minutes before your boss would find you, that you suffocated for far too long before you would go unconscious. 
No one told me that my prayers weren't going to get answered.
That the 0.01% chance of you living wasn't enough.
No one told me that the melodramatic phrases that irritable people say such as “I'm just going to shoot myself,” or “I'm just going to kill myself” would take on a whole new light, and that those words would never pass my lips ever again.
No one told me that my last text I sent you won't get a reply from beyond the grave, and that I wouldn't “feel” you with me as I go about my days.
No one told me that conversations I would have with people who knew you would be overshadowed by the constant reminder that we are talking about someone who no longer exists.
No one told me that you would be the person I wish I could talk to about things because you knew just how to make me laugh, and crack a smile in the midst of my tears.
No one told me that I would wish almost every night that, even if just for a moment, I could be the woman I was before you were gone. 
No one told me that I would become a chameleon, slowly being able to blend in to a scenery that does not include you.
  No one told me that the ache of knowing you are no longer gracing Earth with your presence would become a new part of my personality.
No one told me that through the shaking of my very being I would come out stronger, because if they did, I would most certainly not have believed them.
No
one
told
me.