I'm feeling ... shocked. Sad. Guilty. Angry. Numb.
Our friend was - we weren't terribly close, but I knew and liked him. He was odd, and funny. He had this offbeat view of the world, a wonderful quirky perspective.
Things I remember:
- He used to live off bowls of yogurt and granola, exclusively, until he got what he called "werewolf hungry," when he'd take $20 down to the basement vending machine, buy everything he could, and totally go crazy on it.
- He once brought nothing to school for the semester except a backpack's worth of clothes.
- For the monthly variety show, he once taped a bunch of plastic tubing to himself, filled it full of water, and tried to make it look like he peed his pants on stage, but ultimately just dribbled water everywhere.
- He had atrocious handwriting.
- He had a sense of humor unlike anyone else.
- He had a really weird cadence to his speech which was entertainingly unique.
- He was embarrassed by how ripped he was. Skinny legs, crazy pecs. He refused to take his shirt off in front of people.
- I once made some chocolate truffles for my friends for Christmas. He ate his bag of a dozen in ten minutes and didn't believe me when I told him I made them.
- He could play the theme song to Beverly Hills Cop on his little electronic keyboard.
I have to wonder if I'm at fault here. He lived a short drive away. Nick and I always meant to get together with him, but never really bothered to schedule anything. Did we contribute to his suicide? Could I have helped prevent it?
The rational part of my mind says that there's nothing anyone could have really done, that I wasn't a close friend, that I didn't matter much to him one way or another. But then the other rational part of my mind says that's bullshit, that friendship always matters, that connection is the only way to fix isolation. Never having been suicidal myself, I don't really understand the motivations behind it. Does it come from despair, or relief? Does company curb the appeal of ending everything, or enhance it? Does it stem from an overwhelming sense of isolation, or from a sense of an insurmountable disconnect despite being among others?
All I know is that I'm left with useless regret, aimless guilt, and a vague sense of failure.
I've been seeing a sort of restrained grief on facebook. Some of our friends, mourning the loss. I know it's genuine sorrow, but I'm still a little bothered by the public preachy tragic noble suffering of it. "I'm so sad about this, we really need to reach out and love one another and hold each other close."
For some reason, the stuff on facebook bothers me more than standing up and saying a eulogy would. It seems more for the benefit of the person saying it, like it's a way to garner applause. Look how eloquent and heartbroken I am. Look how strong I'm being.
I know I'm no better, writing about it here on this blog. I could just process what's going on in my journal, privately.
But I do feel guilty. I feel at fault, like someone should accuse me of willful negligence. I need this to be seen, so I can be judged and convicted.
And even that feels selfish and self-aggrandizing, like I'm saying that I'm the reason someone got sick of life. That's not what I mean. I'm pretty sure I was more aware of him than he was of me. But I feel responsible, nonetheless, for just some small part of his decision.
I was right here, and maybe I could have helped.
But I didn't, and I can't change what's happened.
So now I just have to figure out how to deal with that, I guess.
I keep thinking about the last time I saw him, three years ago. He was happy then. The world was more interesting.
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| AK and Nick, at college just after graduation, summer 2010 |
He was a beautiful weirdo, and when he was around, he made me happy and gave me new things to think about.
As Nick says: we don't get a lot of time, but I'm glad I got to spend some of it with my friend.
