To honor my friend, I wanted to revisit our Facebook messages. However, I found only one message remaining from her account, and it wasn’t from her. Her long-term partner, Alex, had written: “Dear Jamie, this is Alex. I wanted to let you know that Emma’s funeral is tomorrow at 12:40 PM UK time. I thought you’d want to know. With love, Alex.” Beyond that note, there was nothing left. I’m not sure if Facebook deleted my messages or if I did it myself, but I can’t fathom why I would erase everything except for Alex’s final message.
I never met Emma in real life. She was in the UK while I was in the U.S., and we connected through Facebook as members of a global mental health support group. This community was created “to provide support for those grappling with depression, anxiety, and other mood disorders.” I viewed it as a place where we could share the struggles of mental illness.
Admitting to being part of a social media group makes me feel uneasy. Online friendships often carry a stigma; they imply that “my friends are just digital images,” and suggest I might be vulnerable to deception. At that time, however, I was aware of the risks and accepted them. I wasn’t worried about being labeled a loser. When you deal with severe depression, your real-life support system tends to shrink. You weed out those who simply can’t grasp what you’re facing—often because they haven’t experienced significant mental health challenges themselves. What you’re left with can feel inadequate, like a self-help book that offers little comfort. People may empathize with physical ailments like heart disease or cancer, but mental illness? There’s no one organizing a meal train for us.
The combination of social isolation and the tendency to withdraw during depression can be crippling. Thankfully, I found a lifeline in my iPad.
According to Robin Dunbar, an evolutionary psychologist, Facebook “friends” aren’t “real.” (I probably didn’t need an expert to tell me this; most people already think that.) He points out that there’s little connection between having friends online and being able to rely on them or talk to them regularly.
If Dunbar is accurate, then how does one explain Emma? An exception to the rule? From the moment she first reached out to me, Emma and I communicated daily for about eight months—often multiple times a day. We didn’t delve into the past, as it can be painful to compare who you were to who you’ve become. I didn’t know much about her career, just that she was unable to work anymore. I wasn’t aware of her hobbies, but I learned that she swam for up to two hours daily to keep her “demons” at bay. She didn’t share much about her friends from before, but I knew about her mother, sister, and partner who took turns caring for her. Our conversations centered on the present and how to endure—those were the meaningful discussions.
I was slowly emerging from my depression at that time, while Emma was struggling more than ever. I tried to empathize and offer hope, which can be scarce after a mental breakdown. We explored journaling, meditation, new treatments, and anything that might provide relief.
Together, we mourned how depression could reduce us to mere shells of ourselves. We celebrated small victories and shared tears. Dunbar argues that it’s “extremely hard to cry on a virtual shoulder,” but I would argue that sometimes, a virtual shoulder is the best kind to lean on.
Emma’s passing was devastating for me. Our friendship, which was incredibly intimate and raw, ended abruptly in a way I had dreaded. Like many who die by suicide (about 700,000 each year, which is roughly one person every 40 seconds), Emma couldn’t hold on to life tightly enough to stay connected. I understood—and still understand—why.
I never truly got to talk about Emma when she was alive—not with tangible people. They often half-listened when I mentioned my struggles; they’d plug their ears when I brought up “my friend from that depression group on Facebook.” After her death, I chose to remain silent about it.
The Kübler-Ross model of grief is what most people recognize. It includes denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Sandra Silva Casabianca notes that these stages should serve merely as a guide, and that individuals may process their loss in unique ways. At the time, I mostly felt sadness (distinct from depression) and a profound sense of loss.
By writing about Emma, I’ve finally found a semblance of acceptance. If you’ve read this far, you know more about my friendship with Emma than anyone in my physical life does. It feels fitting that I can best remember and share my dear friend only in this digital space.
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In summary, I lost a close friend to suicide and found myself unable to share that grief with anyone in my immediate life. Our friendship blossomed online, and while it was unconventional, it was deeply meaningful. Writing about it has brought me some measure of acceptance and relief.
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