My only real friend , Candy, loathed Grand Rapids as much as I did. She had moved there from Lansing when she was six. She visited her grandparents in “the capital” on holidays. Lansing was bigger, she said, and her family had lived in a house there. Now, she lived with her father and sister in one apartment and sometimes stayed with her mother in another. Once, after Candy and I got high on Robitussin and came home still tripping a little, I wrote in my diary that I was finally happy, which was sad. It was as if all the miserable things that were happening to me were so bad, they were forming a protective barrier around me , I wrote. Does that make me less sad, being happy about being sad? I’m thrilled to be so incredibly, inconsolably sad, and I don’t want to end up getting happy because of that. Does that even make sense? I don’t know. I was waiting for someone else to feel the way I did and at the same time hoping it would never happen.…