Trigger Warning: I talk a lot about death.
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Mr Williams, we met only once, and very briefly. It was after one of your shows here in my home town. On stage you were full of fire – the audience’s shrieks and howls seemingly fuelling you as you dropped line after hilarious line.
“Voluntary Tourette’s” you called it. I called it “why are my ribs so damn sore”.
But after the show, outside the venue, you were more restrained, on edge, almost fearful of the handful of people around you. That could be hindsight, foreshadowing, or wanting to see things in retrospect. I don’t know. I just remember how nervous I was in your presence.
Now I’m feeling something. Not angry. Not disappointed. Just argh.
Mr Williams, I get by on my talents and skills and training and luck. Right now, in this space, my options are limited by funds and chance. At times it feels like my healthy existence is largely predicated by goodwill from a wide range of sources. And I am sort of at peace with this – most of the time.
I can imagine that you also had times where you were at peace with your lot, grateful for your experiences, content with your existence. You had options, same as I do. And family and friends to support you. Same as I do.
But depression don’t care. And if you were anything like me, Mr Williams, then at times in that place, that desert of depression, you felt out of options. Like every choice you could make would only lead to Shit City? I am familiar with that feel – I freeze with indecision and fear, then melt into apathetic boredom. And the people? I feel ashamed that they have to deal with me and my lack of options.
But here’s the kicker, Mr Williams. Here’s what I’ve learned from your death.
Self-slaughter is an end of options.
Self-slaughter isn’t a plan, not really. All it does is remove the chance of ever having any options ever again. No more plans, no more choice. Both for you and the rest of the world.
And that, Mr Williams, is what I’m taking from your death.
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I’m so sorry, Mr Williams. I just really wanted to talk to you. There, on that evening outside the venue, one on one.
I wanted to talk to you about the choices I’d made because of your work. I don’t know why. Kind of a selfish want, I know, wanting you to notice that you had made a difference to me. I guess it’s a human thing, wanting other people to know they matter – to extend their experience in some small yet positive way.
And now? Now I don’t have that option.