Leaving on a Jet Plane
***Trigger warning: Contains detailed references to suicide and death.***
My ability to recall dreams in waking state varies wildly, but this morning I was jolted awake by the surprising sound of a song playing in my subconscious. A phenomena I couldn't honestly say I'd had before. The song was John Denver's beautifully melancholic folk love letter to his then-girlfriend, Annie Martell, who of course also inspired another of his hits, "Annie's Song".
I spent a good hour or so pondering the significance of why would this song be trying to literally wake me up? Was I about to set off on a long-haul trip and be alone for a time? No, nothing as literal as that. Was it a premonition of someone leaving my life? I'd have to let you know on that one, but the conclusion that felt most appropriate was a connection to an old friend who did depart and arrive again in my life a few times.
My first love was a bright slightly-bookish lad who also loved music. We were together for five years before the strain of conducting a long-distance relationship while studying in different parts of the country rendered us a non-item.
He was one of three kids in a socially-active family, something I'd not witnessed at close quarters before, let alone actually be part of. I'll call him "A" as the eldest of the brood. I was already in the same class at school as his sister, "B", and quickly got to know his youngest sister, "C", who was a lot of fun, but always seemed to be trying to keep up with her older siblings' adventures - and then some.
A's Mam was warm, appropriately maternal and dramatically intense at times, while his Dad was cool in a distant, rather than the trend-setting way; very typical of the men of that generation where I lived.
It was A's Mam who seemed to be the musical influence in their house: Their modest semi-detached had a large sitting-room behind the main living room and it was here where the cosiest sofa, huge collection of LP records and well-used dartboard could be found. That stereogram was hardly ever switched off, and depending on who had claimed it first that day, you'd hear a whole world of different yet classic songs being belted out.
I swear that's where I probably started losing my awareness of what constituted "Too loud" for other neighbours, but I digress.
A's Mam was the fan of big platinum-selling names such as Neil Diamond, Barbara Streisand and - as you might guess - John Denver. She'd been a long-time fan of Denver's and still quietly carried a torch for his boy-next-door good looks despite being married for sixteen years at that point.
The first couple of years of me being with A were magical, as first love romances often are. When they come with an added instant family who mean so much to you, it becomes doubly difficult to move on, even when you're finally resigned to make the lover an ex.
Even when A and I split, I was still close friends with youngest sister C, who'd grown to see me as a softer, more sympathetic alternative to her actual big sister. She was a lot more grounded and pragmatic when it came to her "baby" sister's outlook and antics.
As with adult life when you grow up and have to move around to make your way, it's too easy to lose touch with people, but C was always someone I could easily pick up the thread with - or her with me - and the friendship always felt natural and mutually accepting.
One reason for this was an acceptance of C's fragility. My first experience of seeing this at its most visceral was about eighteen months into me and her brother going out. I lived a couple of miles away from their house, so on a nice day, it was a simple joy to walk or bike to theirs. Soon I started getting return visits to my parents' house from A's Mam, and then occasionally from the sisters.
It was on a blazingly hot summer day in the school holidays when I heard the door and answered it to a very distressed version of C. She had been involved in a very intense relationship of her own with a young lad who did wear his heart on his sleeve. It was a shock when he suddenly took his own life. The precise reasons behind it I can't actually remember now. However, this fatal twist then created a desire for C to go join him, and things became very tricky to manage for a while.
The visit to my house was C's way of finding a safe space to cry, talk and start processing what happened. Her Dad wasn't really equipped to listen, and her Mam didn't exactly approve of the now late lad, so she'd decided to turn up at mine. It ended up with her staying at our house for a night or two to help get her over the rawness of those impulses, at least for a while, along with my own Mam's support in the guise of home cooking and home truths.
Counselling did exist then, but it was generally clunky, basic person-centred approaches that badly tried to fit all and the quality varied more than the track listings on a ropey compilation released by K-Tel. Nuanced trauma and bereavement therapy weren't accessible, especially to young people in the back of beyond.
So we ended up dishing tea and sympathy tinged with 7" vinyl therapy until the small hours for a couple of days.
After that, C and I were firm friends for almost two decades until she did something to disrupt my own later long-term relationship, and we parted ways permanently after that.
We'd occasionally bump into each other, but it wasn't the same. Something important had irreparably broken.
It wasn't until April 2020 in the first Pandemic lockdown when I'd seen something about celebratory memorial plans for C. Though we'd been out of touch for a long time, I was still staggered and saddened to hear of her passing.
On reaching out to A's own long-term partner who I'd also known in the circle for years, she explained the tragic circumstances of C's demise, which was poignantly self-imposed. She explained that C had been very tired, with particular aspects of her physical health declining faster than one would assume from her years.
C's biggest battle, however was with her mental health: Yet again, she had resorted to thinking that she'd be better off not here, even though she had many people who cared about her. She had apparently meticulously planned a sequence of events to allow herself to check out in safe and comfortable isolation whilst taking care of details such as notifying police, and leaving multiple goodbye letters and instructions to minimise what she perceived would be the "burden" of her exit.
As someone who has worked in mental health and suicide prevention, I was devastated to learn that C had finally given in to her long-held self-erasure impulses. Part of my own connection to her was based on trying to make sure she was OK, as well as her being a lively and entertaining friend and fellow music obsessive.
In those circumstances, it's common to feel guilty and wonder if the outcome would have been different if we'd have stayed in the departed person's life. Would C have come round to my house at that crucial point to talk out the feelings that again pushed her towards the abyss?
It had become difficult to reconcile our friendship with some very hurtful actions on her part, so it felt right to part company when I did. I also believe that hurt people have a huge capacity to hurt people, as they can't often see their impact. Yet for all her ability to do things her own way, C was not some desensitised trauma victim. She had self-awareness and insight about others. She often took healthy risks to make the most of her life - until the point where she made a tragic irreversible decision otherwise.
There's a memorial point where I laid flowers and cried about happier times. I wondered how badly C had struggled with her existence to finally push her to the point of no return. It felt like such a waste, and wondered how much C had tried to silence her demons: Whether the help and support just weren't up to scratch or whether she yet again just took matters into her own hands for the last time, going out her way.
I couldn't help feel heartbroken, yet not entirely surprised about what happened. Does that sound callous or crass? People can change and grow from the sometimes life-long factors that pull them down, but we usually can't do it in isolation.
We all need help to do that, however strong or independent you may be in other areas of life. If not from counsellors or therapists, then get that support from genuine friends and caring family members. If we don't have those around, the battle to fight those demons get tougher.
If you are reading this and struggling to stay with us on our spinning rock, please talk to someone you trust. Whether it's a helpline or a mate. Please don't keep the pain to yourself. They may not have all the answers, but they can perhaps show you why sticking around - even for one day at a time - is a better option than letting go of everything you've ever had to check out.
Mental health help in the UK:
Samaritans 116 123 https://www.samaritans.org/
Campaign Against Living Miserably 0800 58 58 58 https://www.thecalmzone.net/