I don’t understand what happened. I’ll never understand what happened. I’m not sure I ever want to understand why you chose to leave this world behind, no matter how much I need to understand; it hurts to think about, but the penance of the living is of no consequence to the angels of the shadows.
I don’t want to know, but I need to know. I still blame myself to a degree. I always will. I cannot lay this burden down; I can learn from it, let it inspire me not to fail my friends and family again, but I can never leave it behind. I can never outrun memory and recrimination. I can never completely forgive myself. I know that if you were truly at that point of no return, there is probably nothing I could have said or done that could have made a difference, but I’ll never know for sure.
It is that shadow of a sliver of a chance that maybe I would have had the right words, the right actions, that maybe just knowing I was here for you would have stopped you from pulling the trigger; it is that shadow of a sliver of a chance that makes the memory and the grief such a killing thing.
Two weeks before you died, you called me and told me we needed to talk. You told me you were in legal trouble and needed my advice. We agreed to go out for beer and talk about things. Then stuff came up and I pushed it off until the next weekend. My life was so busy with summer classes, a relationship that was disintegrating, social obligations and work; I didn’t know it was so serious.
You shot yourself before I ever got the chance to go get a beer with you.
When I needed you, you were there. When I was going through my divorce, when I was going through crazy shit with Meghan, when I was doing too many drugs and getting caught up in the mess that was the Acworth house, you were there. When I needed help moving, when I needed help with Evolution, you were there. You dropped everything when I needed you.
When you needed me, I was too busy. When you needed me most, I wasn’t there.
Intellectually, I know that once someone reaches that point, you can’t talk them out of it. The part of me that is governed with logic knows I’m not to blame. My heart can never be so sure, my soul can never grant myself absolution.
I picture you in the driver’s seat of your Jeep, looking at the .45, flipping the safety off. Your two most prized possessions. I try to imagine what was going through your mind at that moment. Did you forget how many people loved you? Did you feel alone? What made you pull the trigger?
We survived everything together. We lived through the drug years, the rave years. What made you end it? How could you make that choice, and leave your friends behind to deal with the wreckage of your passing? You were there for Brett’s funeral. You sat next to me at Phile’s funeral. Did you not think you would be mourned?
I want to call you a coward. I want to tell you what I think of your decision. I can’t. You failed me. You failed the tribe. We made it through the fire and the light. We survived. We’ve been through hell together and you bailed on us.
We failed you. I failed you. You were at your lowest point and I was not there. I can’t take that back. I can’t fix it. I want to fix it, but I can’t. Some things can’t be fixed. Some mistakes can’t be erased.
I’ll never know if I could have fixed it. I never got the chance to try. I never got the chance to save your life. You saved mine. When I was drowning, you pulled me out of the water. I never even saw you sink below the waves.
Should I have? Did I miss a signal? Were you reaching out to me, drowning in the ocean, calling for a liferaft? That last time I spoke to you, when you wanted to get together and talk, did I miss something in your voice? Did I miss some inflection, some tone, some word choice that should have made me sit up and realize something was seriously fucked up?
You were my brother in all but blood. You were the best man in my wedding, and I would have been the best man at yours. I should have seen it. Should have recognized it. Maybe you would have done it anyway. You probably would have done it anyway.
I can never, ever know whether you would have done it anyway. I never made the effort. I can’t even say I had a chance to stop it, because I don’t know if I could have. All I do know is that I never made that chance. I never had a chance to save Brett’s life. I never had a chance to save Phile. I might have had a chance to save yours.
It is the missed chance that still keeps me up at night sometimes. It’s been a year. The grief passes; even wounds of the soul eventually heal. It’s that shadow of a sliver of a chance that I can’t get over. If I’d taken the shot and missed, it might be different, but the clock ran out before I got a chance to. I can’t forgive myself for that. You called me. You needed me. I put it off. Two weeks later, you were dead.
It is those two weeks that will haunt me for the rest of my life. It is those two weeks in which I might have had a chance to save you. It is those two weeks that I’ll never get back.
I know I’m not responsible. I know it’s not my fault. I’ll never know if maybe I could have saved your life.
Not Waving But Drowning
Stevie Smith
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
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