Nov 21 2021
A year ago, a childhood friend of mine killed himself. He jumped in front of a train at Spadina station.
To this day I don't think my body understands what has happened. His death is mostly a verbal fact floating in my head. To this day I still occasionally “see” him walking on Dundas West in the cold, wearing an old red beanie.
I've cried about him many times, but only briefly. I've had to lean into the tears too. Like catching a big wave that rarely arrives.
When it comes, the sorrow is never overwhelming. This disappoints me.
It would be simpler if the feeling was strong enough to flatten me out on it’s own. Instead I have to bias myself towards weeping because I want to have an “appropriate response” to this tragedy. My default response seems frighteningly calm.
Who knows why. Perhaps it's because we actually lost our brother a long time ago (his mental health had been declining for a long time).
Or perhaps it has to do with something beyond this particular situation. Something socio-cultural. Something to do with “the west” or “modernity.” Something you might be able to relate to.
In any case, at least as a verbal fact, his suicide is devastatingly sad. There were 5 of us. Now there are 4.
—
I used to not understand why people committed suicide. I also didn’t get why young people harmed themselves. That all changed during my first bought of depression in the fall of 2012. On a couple occasions, I felt so numb about everything that I took a blade to my forearm.
It wasn’t an attempt on my life. It wasn’t a cry for help (I didn’t want anyone to know). It wasn’t even an impulsive, spur of the moment thing. It was a calculated shot at feeling something objectively real. The hope of encountering reality in a visceral way, through pain in the body.
A lot has changed since then. I don’t get depressed anymore and I’ve never felt the need to hurt myself again. But I still have trouble crying for my dead friend.
I sense I’m not alone in this affective miscalibration. My guess is a lot of people would adjust their emotional dials a bit if they could.
May you want to feel less frustrated when sitting in traffic or when reading shitty takes on twitter. Maybe you’d like less anxiety with public speaking or when talking to strangers.
But perhaps you also want richer sadness with heartbreak. More profound sorrow with loss. Or in general, more vitality and dramatic range with the story of your life.
Last week Andrew Taggart told me that modern man has a limited scope of emotionality. His highs aren’t that high and his lows aren’t really low. Something tragic happens but his life quickly chugs along. Distractions and political events displace his feelings. Grief for his lost friend dissipates with his fading memories.
This leads to a domesticated disposition that’s desirable for offices, but not for funerals. It’s that workplace cult of “maintaining composure.” That naive, techie-form of stoicism.
But I think real stoics cry at funerals.
“What need is there to weep over parts of life? The whole of it calls for tears.”― Lucius Annaeus Seneca
I’m not sure what I’m trying to say here, but I’m definitely not advocating for a culture of emotional hypersensitivity. I think we have enough of that. It’s more about building emotional capacity and attunement. Having the capacity to weep, and doing so for the parts of life that call for tears.
—
Two days after my friend’s death, I went to see Alex on a rainy afternoon. My Uber ride to her place was eerie.
I walked into the car and noticed a rough looking white dude with a dark skull scrawled on his right hand. Around his surgical mask, I could make out the inky ends of face tattoos. I think he had a teardrop near his right eye.
Despite the thuggish appearance, he was very warm and well-spoken. We made small talk. I asked about his day. He asked about mine. I told him it was pretty shitty. I told him a close friend killed himself on Friday.
He looked up at me and somehow seemed to say all the right words.
After a quiet moment, he told me that his wife killed herself on the exact same day 3 years ago. He's been mourning her all weekend. He has a 20 year old daughter that he's very concerned about.
In the frame of the rearview, I noticed his blue eyes were damp. I started tearing up too.
The ride was too short. I didn’t get his name. We had an awkwardly paced goodbye as he dropped me off on Alex’s busy street.
Later when I saw the Uber receipt, I noticed he had the same name as my now deceased friend.
Daniel
"I think real stoics cry at funerals."
I love this line. I've been finding this - and increasingly practicing it - in myself over the past few years. The capacity to really feel and express something, to throw myself into an emotion fully, without a harness. I love feeling sad and moved from reading your essay. I love being smothered in in maternal warmth by my mom's love. I love this feeling of pride when I do a good job at work. I love feeling disappointed with a colleague I know is capable of doing better. I love wanting to protect something so deeply and instinctively in a new relationship (which I'll have to tell you about in-person!). I don't want these feelings at 80%. I want them at 100%. They make life feel so textured, vivid, so personalized, so "mine." It is as though my heart is a tuning fork operating on a different frequency than my brain's, and when it resonates with the world, that's what makes life worth living. I love my brain and I love the way I think, but I see this as more operational. I never think thoughts are "real". For me emotions are real. Thoughts instrumentally get me more of what I want, and I spend a lot of time thinking about how to do so. But I recognize emotions are the end goal, the real thing, the good stuff. Thanks for having me reflect on this.
Thanks, Daniel. I was touched by your post. I can feel the love you and your friend shared. I'm grateful for the opportunity to witness it.