On this day, eight years ago, a man I trusted, looked up to and loved took his own life.
He was a musician, he was a singer, a creative, talented, kind, caring, loving. He introduced me to Alice in chains, he loved that band, and I will never hear him sing Rooster again.
The year he took his life we’d played (me on guitar and vocals, him on vocals) Don’t fear the reaper, which I find painfully ironic in retrospect because he jumped in front of a train half a year after.
I’m not angry anymore, I forgive him, but every December I will remember him, and I’ll honour his memory.
You are still missed, people still talk about you, you were always loved, you will always be loved, we still visit your memorial site every year and drink your favourite beer while talking to you, about you, about our favourite memories with you. You were a kind man in a world full of the opposite, you saw me as an equal, no questions asked. My words were important to you even back when I was five-six years old.
I remember sitting with you til five in the morning one night, talking. It was the year you died. I was fifteen, and my anxiety was skyrocketing. I was scared about the future, scared of graduating school soon, you said you’d come to my graduation, you never did. You made me believe in myself, you made me think there was more to life than misery, you gave me hope, and then, six months later, you’re dead. By your own hand.
I hope you’re somewhere better now, I hope you’ve found peace, and I hope you know we all still miss you, even when it’s been eight years.
