LC was my daughter Hannah’s close friend. Technically, her name was Louisa Caroline, but no one called her that. (In fact, for months I thought her full name was Elsie). LC was an open book, a skinny frame wrapped around a grin and a cigarette, and even though she could be trouble, she was the kind of trouble Hannah embraced. She was the bumpy ride, the whitewater rapids, the maybe I should rethink this. She loved life but she struggled with loving herself. Her worst flaw was her impulsiveness, which on this day six years ago proved fatal. I am convinced that if she was in a position to reflect on her suicide, her thought would be, damn, why did I do that? I’m an idiot.

Fearlessness was another one of LC’s qualities, which didn’t mix well with her lack of impulse control. Then, when you toss in the need to love and be loved while not liking yourself at all, the combination is toxic. In many ways, LC was suicide waiting to happen, hiding behind the skinny, pretty blond with the crazy laugh, the first to arrive and last to leave the party, with that amazing knack for falling hard and bouncing back, except for that one last time.