Suicide.

This is not the post that I had planned for today. This is not the laughing, happy post, filled with smiling faces that I was intending to publish. When I awoke this morning, I checked Twitter, like I always do. It told me that today was World Suicide Prevention Day. I tried to forget it. But it's too important. Their message is too big to hide it away. I'm not sure I've ever even shared this story properly with my Husband.  I've always found it easier to write something difficult, rather than speak the words out loud.

This is the story of Fraser. My lost friend.

Many people said that you either loved Fraser or you hated him. He was loud, brash and always ready to party. He'd be shouting his catchphrase "It's all good!" across the room at you if he saw you lingering around the edges, reluctant to join in. Then he'd insist that you drank tequila. Protesting that you hated the stuff would make no difference. You WOULD have fun. The phrase "life and soul" was invented for Fraser. 

He had another side too. One he rarely let out. His younger sister had been killed in a car accident some years before. He couldn't talk about it. We left it. It destroyed his poor Mum, and I know it broke his heart. Her funeral broke mine. I hated seeing him there, falling apart, but still trying to make sure everyone else was ok. I wanted to grab him, tell him to just stop.

I'd known Fraser since school. In Sixth Form we bonded over music. We'd travel to gigs together. I'd drive, he'd act as bodyguard to quell my parents fears of dark lonely streets. I'd pick him up in my Metro, with a stereo on the backseat and we'd turn it up and shout conversation at one another over the music. I saw my first gig with Fraser. Elastica at the Corn Exchange, somewhere in the early 90's. Right at the front, in the crush of the crowd, my watch strap broke. Foolishly, not knowing "the rules" I bent down to find it and couldn't get back up. People were woven together like a net, I felt panicked, claustrophobic, fearful, no one could hear me shouting over the rush and noise of the music. Then I felt Fraser's arms lift me (he was never a small chap, even then he was an imposing figure) he pulled me up towards the lights. Pushing right to the front barrier he plonked me down and stood behind me with his arms either side of me, holding onto the bars at the front, forming my own little pocket of safe space. 

2006. The last really hot summer I remember prior to this. I was 29. The relationship I'd been in for eleven years was coming to an end. My ex was in a band. We'd travelled to a slightly bigger town, slightly further away than normal to watch them play. It was Fraser's town. I'm not sure who let him know about the gig, probably Noir, but he turned up with a big group of his local mates to show support. 

I'd not seen him for a while, but somehow I didn't want to tell him about Noir and I parting. I didn't want to spoil his night. I knew he'd be concerned, want to make sure I was ok. Another time I thought. Only that was the last time I saw him.

He was wearing one of his trademark loud shirts and I remember smiling at him whilst he danced like a loon. We left, I hugged him, promised we'd catch up. In Tesco's car park on the journey home someone had a voicemail message from him. He'd loved the band so much he'd arranged a gig for the lads at The Monkey the next month. What a great guy. Everyone said it. A great guy. 

The following month I'd moved back to my parent's house. It was a Tuesday, my day off from work and I was sat on my bed when my phone rang. It was Sarah. It's a cliche, but I think part of me knew what had happened as soon as I saw that screen. 

A serious voice, "Had I heard about Fraser?" I answered "What's the old goat done now?"  Hoping against hope that he'd just buggered his knee again playing crazy sports. No. He'd driven to a bridge.  Walked to the middle and jumped. A dog walker found him. There was no doubt. He'd sorted out his life insurance to make sure his Mum would be alright. In financial terms at least. I remember saying no. Not accepting, not listening. The brave, stupid fool.

His funeral was just awful. We stood, in the same place his sister had been before him. His poor Mum was understandably heartbroken. 

I never found out "why" he chose to end his life. There were rumours. Gossip. Nasty little tales that I refused then, and now, to believe. 

Of course in the wake of something like that everyone is left with questions. Most of mine remain unanswered.

I just wish I'd questioned him more. Told him how much he meant. Told him I'd always be there. Always have his back like he always had mine. Made him listen. 

There are so many things that I would change, if I could.  But not one thing that I actually can change.  I feel as though I should have realised, should have thought more.  No one is happy all the time, of course he had times when all he felt was the opposite of what he showed.  Instead of being self obsessed and young and stupid I should have been there.  I should have been there.

I have no photographs of him.  I gave them all to his mother, so she could remember him.  So she would know what a good friend he was.

I still miss him. I still remember him. Fiercely and proudly.

If nothing else, in life, and in death, he taught me to enjoy the moment, to question everything and live for today.

More information can be found about World Suicide Prevention Day here.

Love,