I haven't published anything new here in over a year. Radio silence through 2017, and maybe you wondered why. Maybe not. I hope you didn't care. I hope you were too busy living your life. I hope you stay busy living.
Today, is a friend's birthday. Mostly, I'll grab a drink with someone on their birthday. Sometimes, distance means I'll just send them a message. Not necessarily the horse's head in the bed kind of message, but just something to let them know I'm about, thinking of them....watching them. Often, I'll leave them some caustic acknowledgement that Facebook has reminded me they're a little bit older now.
So, let me tell you a little bit about Sam.
That Bruno Mars looking motherfucker was a pain in the arse. He was sarcastic, quick with a put down, and never let me forget his promise to replace me as a better version of Deebs. He was an Arsenal fan, and fuck knows he deserved many more years of suffering through that. Sam knew too much. He knew the girls I was into, in spite of my denials. Of course he knew- he had that bloody camera with him at all times to document every drunken misstep I made. He worried that, if he ever made it in film, history would record me as his first muse. He was a pain in the fucking arse, and just a really good dude.
A lot of people miss Sam.
Sam's not here to hear it, read it, or know it. How do you tell your dead friend that you're thinking of them on their birthday? I can't, can I? So, today I can only hope to speak to someone else.
If you're reading this, I'm speaking to you.
The theme tune to M*A*S*H. I couldn't imagine a worse song than that to get stuck in my head when it recently did. If you're not familiar with the lyrics, let me tell you the title- "Suicide Is Painless". Just the worst, supremely bad timing. It's never painless, by the way. Never.
If you've ever thought about it, or if you ever will, know that it is never painless.
On September 5th 2012, I was sitting in my room in Edinburgh's scenic Tollcross, on a two-seater "couch" thing that may have kicked off years worth of back pain. I was scrolling through Facebook when I saw that someone had tagged Sam in a picture, and my eyes caught those three hair-raising letters- an R, an I, and a P.
"Huh, that's weird."
I clicked on Sam's name, and went to his profile page. A second picture jumped up. An R, an I, and a P. My eyes widened, and my body went cold. I felt like I could feel a separation between my body and my legs. My upper torso was no longer mine, and my legs turned to chalk. My head was swimming, but it was the only part of myself I could be sure was still me. I shuffled across the hall to my flatmate's room.
"Hey. Do you know what's going on with Sam? Did you hear anything?"
We sent some messages to Dublin people, they sent some messages too, and eventually it came back as we feared. An R, an I, and a P.
"If someone comes back and tells me this was suicide, I'm not going to believe it. He wouldn't have killed himself. There's no way."
My flatmate may have been trying to convince himself, but the tallying was going on in both our minds. At that moment, I was pretty sure what Sam had done. I think we both were.
I stayed in my room. I just stared ahead. I'm not sure how long for. My back didn't hurt for a while, at least. I was cold. The other flatmate was in the kitchen having a drink with his cousin, who'd just arrived that day. I shambled in there eventually.
"You OK, man?"
"My friend just died."
"Shit."
"Yeah."
"Do you want a drink?"
"Yeah."
I went back to my room with a beer. I think I drank it over the course of an hour. I kept staring. I think I sent messages to some mutual friends. I think I let people know. I just kept staring. I think I had more to drink as the night wore on. Fuck.
I couldn't make it back home in time for Sam's funeral. From what I gather, a decent amount of people who likewise knew him from various festivals managed to fill out the church quite well. Hearing his family talk gave them a bit more insight into the kind of person Sam was. The picture of a troubled guy became a bit clearer. How could we have known, when he didn't want us to. There's no question mark there. It's not a question. We couldn't have known.
I can only try to imagine how it was for Sam's family. How it is. Fuck.
Some of us put up pictures of Sam in the days after, and maybe we'll think of him every now and then. Maybe a Bruno Mars song will come on, and we'll remember him. Maybe Arsenal will get knocked out of the F.A. Cup by Forest, and we'll remember him. Or maybe, as today, a Facebook reminder will pop up to tell us that it's another birthday he's missed. Maybe we'll leave a nice Facebook comment. It all seems so pointless, doesn't it? He still exists as a Facebook profile. Sometimes, I've seen people wish him a happy birthday, and it's apparent they have no idea he's dead.
"Happy birthday dude! Hope all is well with you!"
Life goes on without you, and so does your pain. Everyone has a little piece of your pain to carry now. It sucks you had to carry it alone for as long as you did.
Suicide is never painless.
Between 1937 and 2012, an estimated 1600 bodies were recovered of people who had jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge. That jump is not something that many people survive. This is a quote from one such survivor, Ken Baldwin, who jumped in 1985:
“I instantly realised that everything in my life that I’d thought was unfixable was totally fixable- except for having just jumped.”
I haven't published anything new here in over a year. You may have read some stuff elsewhere, and there have certainly been plenty of times I've tried to write, but it all just stopped. I couldn't finish anything. These posts tend to be anecdotal, entirely personal and subjective, and I simply couldn't open myself up enough to put my own thoughts out there in 2017. Even the attempts at lighthearted stories kept veering into really dark places. I wanted to write about JoJo's spaghetti and her gay boyfriend, but I just couldn't do it.
It was not a good year.
I posted a piece once about depression. I don't think I've ever suffered from depression, but I've seen the damage it can do. I mentioned Sam in that post, talked about him pretty similarly to how I have above. I'd lost one friend to suicide, and I hoped I'd never have to lose anyone else to it. I hoped that anyone who saw my post would know they could talk to someone if they were in a bad way.
I don't know if they read that post, but I'm sorry to say that there's another Facebook profile on my list of friends that has outlived its owner.
I don't know how to write this part.
I was there when someone else got the call. I didn't believe them. I waited to ask them to repeat it, because I'd misheard them. I had to have misheard them. No fucking chance I hadn't.
I spent time with the family of a person who had just committed suicide. Travelling to be there for them, for the person who wasn't there anymore. A person who had everything going for them. A person who would never do that. A person who did that. An R, an I, and a P.
It took forever to travel there. Focusing on as much monotony as I could take, all the minutiae of travel. It's easier that way. I had to be there this time. Fuck. I had to think about it, but first I had to think about anything else for a while. For as long a while as I could, before everything would be real. I had forever not to think about it, until forever ended and I was there. With the family.
I never want to see that much anguish ever again. I never want to hear that pain. All the bargaining, and the guilt. The tears, and the glassy eyed stares. That pain. Every inch of my spine seizing when I think about their pain. Fuck.
I tried to console, and to just listen. I silently cried a few tears when nobody was around. This wasn't about me. Unfair to cry in front of anyone. Fuck. I excused myself to check up on friends.
"I know this is out of the blue, but if you ever need to talk...."
I came back for the funeral. I tried to talk to people the way people are supposed to talk to people at funerals.
"I'm sorry."
I patted people on the shoulder. I shook hands. I felt like an impostor in amongst all of this loss, and despair. I shook more hands. I raised a glass, and drank in memorial. I got up in the morning, and carried on. One person didn't. For all those fractured people, a part of them was lost forever.
I wished that was the last time I'd see that anguish. It wasn't.
That much pain doesn't go away. It doesn't leave with you. I cannot fathom the depths someone must have reached for there to be no light. I can't imagine how they could have felt. I never want to be able to imagine it. I don't want to experience one bit of the suffering that sees that as your solution. I'm so sorry for anyone who has felt no way out but that.
And I wish they could realise that there is hope. There always is. It might not seem like it, but there absolutely is hope.
And if you can't feel the hope, then consider the pain. I was just a tourist in other people's grief, and I couldn't write. I drank for a month and a half. I mean, I was drunk for about a month and a half. Any bit of money I had saved was exchanged for alcohol. Vodka mostly. Not social drinking, but sitting alone drinking to pass the time at the expense of friendships drinking.
Your pain doesn't go with you. It passes on to those who love you. All the people who wish they could have the last conversation back, to tell you how much you are loved. To hug you for an uncomfortable amount of time.
You can fucking do this. You're stronger than you think.
Please keep fighting. Please keep talking.
