In loving memory,
Forever in our hearts.
The unimaginable happened. I was rushing to work, through the veins of Mayfair, contemplating how much I really needed this job, if I should get coffee, and if so, I didn't want to buy one for everyone and texting them would be too late? No, it's still early, maybe my boss is there already. So, I need coffee, mum, its 7am, ugh its hot and I hate my job, I'm so tired, mum is so ignorant sometimes, she knows I'm on my way to work, I told her yesterday, why is she calling me? By the end of the thought I'm at the corner, roll my eyes looking at the Lucky Fish and head to the office. I scan my card, I am really not feeling like myself but I think I will be fine as soon as I get to my desk, right? Third floor, gold, glass, marble, suits, phones, meetings, polite smiles, desktops, in darkness, in rows, alone. That place was a world of its own, with so much business tying everyone together, it had developed into its own organism and I was the latest microbe to the game, really not fitting in.
I get to my desk, my boss is there, greets me, probably with a joke, I apologise and say I have to call my mother, she's been trying to reach me for some reason, I probably curse again to show how angry I am about it. She picks up and mumbles something about sitting down, everything being okay, this morning, my uncle and the fact that he had chosen to leave this earth.
Numbness.
And then replies, to my mother, that she shouldn't worry about me, I'm fine, take care of yourself and gran, I'll help in any way I can. Next line is directed at my boss, I say that I am sorry, but I just received some horrible news, I spare him the details but pretty much straight up say what happened. He tells me to leave, I don't remember if I protested or not. I probably texted people on my way home, my boyfriend, who had been through hell with me already, not knowing whats in store next. I broke the news to my father, my uncle and him had been old friends, that's how my parents met. I dreaded the call to my grandmother. I don't have much memory of that, I assume its deeply suppressed.
"Pre-Christmas London is ridiculous. Decorations worth more than cars, everyone measuring Christmas trees like penises, who's got a bigger one. I suggest they donate that money to good cause, not their friend's money laundering scheme." That's probably what I thought passing through London, on my way home to deal with the mess that is about to follow. I honestly had no idea what would be the end of this butterfly effect. On so many people, like his son, his previous girlfriends who loved him for his pure heart, his friends, his family, my mother, his mother, his father, brother, me.
He was the soul. He loved to hide behind big muscles and funny lines, making jokes without any boundaries, he moved a lot, partied, made horrible decisions, developed addictions, healthy and less healthy, loved, and I mean, had a whole garden, loved plants and food and had allergies to certain animals but still would take in every stray, every four-legged soul like they are his own. He understood them, they understood him, it is something that I think I've inherited too.
For me, he was my uncle, my godfather, the guy who never really new my birthday, usually missing it by a few days or weeks, but always being sincere, then sarcastic and then telling me not to get in trouble, but if I did, he knew everyone, I'd be taken care of. I mean, for a multitude of reasons I won't explain why I am certain, but I am, he lead an interesting and tragic life, the most pure kind. When I was younger, he was around a bit, I remember pictures and rare glimpses of his face somewhere, but most of the time, he was a story. It would be a story about him, his troubles and tales of crazy parties, but I didn't mind. He was more part of me than my godmother, she didn't exist in any way. They were never together; She was chosen from my then-father's side, more or less a random person within the family, at least to me. I often thought about other women I wanted to be my godmothers instead of her. There is a long list. But I will tell you about them some other time.
Our relationship was fairly distant, especially in the last few years. Although we lived closer than ever, him in Ireland, and me in London, we were very disconnected. Much had happened, guilt, misplaced anger, and misunderstandings were the basis of much of our conversations. His glee and happiness was wrapped in a thick veil of drug induced passiveness, irritability, and paranoia, all circling closer and closer to him. He had isolated himself from a lot of people, slowly losing the line between reality and imagination. The people around him, his friends and chosen family had no idea how to react, many ignored actions, so many tried to save him, many chose to leave to save themselves, other gave him another chance. I do not hold any anger or blame towards any of them, I never have, I am incredibly thankful to the ones who helped, you will always be dear to me.
He called me to say farewell around the beginning of Autumn in 2019. I was having pints with the locals at the pub I worked at in Westminster, a place where people like to indicate their associations, family histories and other interesting characterisations of a certain lifestyle. I was friends with everyone, the regulars, their mates, their families, the single morning alcoholics, usually public servants, the evening alcoholics, always in groups, the engineers, the project managers and other parts of society. I knew a lot of them. It was not too busy, but some key people were in attendance, keeping the flow of my drinks going. My mother warned me about my uncle being weird. I half-ignored the message, still half following conversations around me, I text my uncle, tell him to call. Some sips later, he calls, I ask what the fuck. Not much is needed, but also I'm diving in without context, I have no idea what's happening. He tells me that he's in danger, he can't sleep, eat, he looks really worrisome, I start asking about who is involved. My mates pick up on the tension, follow me outside, I feed them half words and noises from my conversation. My uncle tells me to stay out of everything and that I should take care of myself. Stunned, I half explain what happened, my friends are ready to mobilise their people in Ireland, ready to move him, store him in London. For this to develop in 30 minutes is impressive, but probably partially made up and in reality, not necessary. I thank them for their support and I continue long debates with my mother and gran.
Shortly after, he is flown out of Ireland to Latvia, he stays in my childhood room, it has pink and purple wall paint, as well as white little rugs and a Snoop Dogg poster inside one of the doors of the wall-long, white wardrobe. He probably smoked weed looking at that. The Hello Kitty painting near the door looks possessed, it's time to part with it, in my opinion, he probably thought the same.
The horrible art apart, my uncle got better, he started working with his friend, he is working in the garden, my gran is making many beautiful memories, he seems to be recovering. They arrange a visit at a psychiatric hospital, he should be admitted on Monday. Before my gran and him leave Monday morning, he goes out to his work to pick up a navigation device. He never returned. There are many details to this that fascinate me, but I won't include them due to their graphic nature and extremeness.
His death was a black hole. With him gone, everything had shifted, it's like he took so many things with him, that every relationship, life story, decision, thinking, reality was affected, anyone who was lucky enough to have been brushed by his presence, his dark body and light feathered wings. Looking back, it seems more clear that he was suffering from depression since a young age, that he probably used his humour as a defence mechanism all his life. There are many root issues that have to do with his upbringing, the upbringing of his parents, the life, the environment, the society, his individuality, it's all important in this. No one thing caused his life to end with such a tragedy, it was headed that way even before, he new. When I was around 8 years old, he came to visit, claiming he could tell when people will die. He said he had predicted the age for a hot girl at a party the night before, he said he hasn't got that much time himself, but refused to tell me my death-date. If he was delusional, lying, on drugs, a saint, enlightened and aligned or it was the red flag to sedate him and shock his brain into dysfunction, I don't know. But what it tells me, is that he had been thinking about it for a long time. His suicide was a result of everything and he ultimately made the decision, however consciously or not, in order to protect us, the people he loves, his mother, his son, his friends. He was afraid that his actions would hurt us, he ended the cycle with him, lifted the curse, paid the debt, found release, followed an obsession, had a psychotic break.
His diagnosis included mentions of manic depression, psychosis, schizophrenia, trauma, PTSD, and many many more. It was never properly treated or for that matter, diagnosed. He had had enough just before that could happen. And our family suddenly became one that writes on the dotted line following a question about mental disorders and suicides in the family history.
It puts things into new terms for everyone. I see my family struggling to live with these new symptoms they have developed, and not that they chose to, everyone has been affected differently by his passing, there is no right or wrong. I just wish I could convince the people I have left in my life to take their mental health seriously, especially the effects of suicide. I write, I speak about it, I am in therapy, actively seeking more clarity about myself and my emotions.
There are many things I wish for, I wish I could have helped him, I wish I spoke to him more, I wish I had the power to save the world and change his faith. All I can do is tell my stories, be open, vulnerable, and learn from every experience in my life. I owe it to him, he did the same.
I love you,
Klimpa*
(*dumpling in Latvian, he would call me that)
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