Distance, Death and the Loss of Physical Possibility

Six years ago today, I lost a friend. 

That phrase seems so innocuous, so vague. Like I misplaced a glove on the way home. It took me a long time to say it to myself, that he died. Longer to really grasp that he had not only died, but that he had chosen to die. He had attempted repeatedly to end his life, and in the end, he succeeded. I can’t pretend to understand what that is like, because despite my own thoughts at times, and despite some mercifully half arsed efforts, I have never been in the place which would influence me to not only try, but try again and again, until one stuck. 

I never will. Not necessarily because I am certain that I will never feel like that – although I hope against hope that I do not – but because I have watched how it shatters the lives of the people nearby. It took me a long time to come to terms with my conflicting emotions; the guilt I felt at not having been there, the blame I felt towards the people who were there, the sorrow at knowing I would never see my friend again, and worst of all, the rage I felt that he had done it. Anger at someone you can’t speak to about it is unpleasant enough, but anger at someone who had been so low, so unhappy, so deeply finished that he considered suicide his only remaining option, that’s fucking unbearable. I withdrew from the group of friends I associated with him, I mourned him silently and at my own pace. In short, I pushed away anything which could link me to those feelings, but I couldn’t escape my own guilt, anger and shame. 

I can’t say when that went away, but it did. Other than knowing it was around this time, I didn’t even remember the date until a mutual friend mentioned it. It’s not etched into my conscious mind like it was the first couple of years. I’m not angry anymore. I don’t feel guilty anymore, either. I will never understand, but I have had to accept it, because my life has gone on, and the world keeps turning. I will always regret not saying goodbye, but I have never been great at goodbyes. I do remember the last thing I said to him: ‘laters’. Just a throwaway remark, a casual attempt at goodbye from a person who is uncomfortable with farewell. Later. I had meant it, in my own way. I had never imagined that it would be the last word I ever spoke to him. 

I read something yesterday which hit me pretty hard in the thought department, perhaps because all this was already on my mind. An excerpt from a social media post, quoting an author:
“I miss you”
“That’s stupid” she said. “I saw you this morning.”
“It’s not the time,” Levi said, and she could hear that he was smiling. “It’s the distance.”
       – Rainbow Rowell

In some ways, it put me in mind of a song I heard as a teenager. The last track on an album, it ended with a sampled recording of the error message you heard when a phone number was no longer in service. I remember it bringing a lump to my throat because of the insinuation. You can no longer connect with this person. This person is unavailable. The idea at the time was, to me, amongst the worst I could imagine, and even now in the age of constant connectivity, being able to find nearly anybody with just a few keystrokes, it still stings. 

It’s not the time spent away from someone but the distance placed between us, the physical impossibility of contact. Touching, talking, an exchange between two people. The response, the interaction, or at least the possibility of it. That’s what we miss. That’s what we mourn. 

Rest in peace, mate.