Eulogy
What is strange, digesting your death, Andrew, is that I have been doing so, in a way, since just after we drifted apart. It was in 2006, perhaps 2007, when you told me that you’d tried [drugs]. I told you that I was scared of it and didn’t like it, but we weren’t hanging out every day anymore, and weeks and even months were going by without spending any planned time together. Yes, I bumped into you in Chelsea, but so did everyone. Yes, we kissed hello, and our touch indicated our care for each other, but you were slipping away, and every time I saw you, that became more and more clear. The glassy look in your gaze, the flippant answers to my questions; you weren’t of my world anymore, but how could I ever think that once you were?
When I began to worry about you, I put you out of my thoughts for a while. I was starting a new job in an exciting new universe, again, more yours than mine. I moved, and so did you; I didn’t really know where you were, so I tried not to think about you too much.
But I watched you - how could I not? - from afar. I saw your face begin to shrink, your body change, first by the half-attractive definition of your muscles, then by the eerie protrusion of your bones. I talked to my cousin - your friend - and some mutual friends, anyone who would listen, really. Not many people wanted to play the speculation game that soon began to consume me. You never knew how it took me over. I made sure you didn’t, but I guess you sort of knew. You found that mention of you in my old blog - “I spend a lot of time thinking about Andrew E———— … I am scared for him and I worry about his health” - and I guess a few friends of mine told you how I’d worried about you. A few close friends still can recall, almost as vividly as I can, the worst nightmare I’ve ever had: I had to crawl down into the depths of the earth, under Manhattan, to search for you in the flames and molten rock. You were there, dark and bewitched, and all I could do was try to drag you out. I don’t remember the end, but I don’t think I succeeded.
On my birthday in 2007, I broke down in hysterical tears - I was drunk, of course - dining on the sidewalk outside Mare on 8th Avenue when an acquaintance dropped in to say he’d seen you moments before in bad shape only one block away. Part of me wanted to go bang down your door and not leave until you admitted your problem; the part of me that could still think knew you wouldn’t be home and wouldn’t listen.
But I’d already begun the effort of my last resort. Fearing something - retribution? more distance? guilt by association? These all fall short, but any excuse would - I created an anonymous email and wrote to your mother. I told her about my suspicions, but of course she’d already seen the website you set up, a cry for help. I told her that nothing was worth anonymity, that I’d do whatever it took to get you help, that I missed the electric boy who made me feel as if the sun was shining on me alone. She answered me immediately, telling me that you rejected help, that she and your uncle and your cousin could not intervene.
About a week later, I wrote you the card, the one with the quote from Emerson: “What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” I told you that I would always love you and would always be your friend. You answered me the day you received it; I was so surprised. You asked to get together, I think that day. And we did.
You were getting help, going to rehab, and you were leaving in less than 5 days. We hugged. You looked horrible; your teeth were just heartbreaking. But we laughed - more than I expected to - and you made fun of me, which I loved. We parted with promises to stay closer that weekend, after you got back. You emailed me the next day saying that you spoke about me in therapy; I never found out why.
When you died two weeks ago, my heart broke. I lost a lover, a friend, and someone for whom I held a candle for years. For five years. Although we weren’t close, I saw you get better, start a new life, with new friends, and embark upon a career that exhilarated you. You needed exhilaration. The devil in you needed it. And this was perfect for you, a healthy and productive and fulfilling exhilaration that you got. It was great to see.
We texted, emailed, ran into each other. Every time, I felt better about you; I’m not sure how you thought of me. But there was happiness and love every time; I won’t forget that, Andrew.
I reread every single email, every Facebook message. I have memorized the names of your friends and family, the dwindling few who you kept informed when you were struggling. I wrote to Dorianne and Yasmin when I heard about you; I explained that I’d written to them to try to help when you were hitting bottom, but I guess I didn’t have to. In the briefest of emails, Dori told me that my emails had helped get you help back then, that my action had made an impact. I cried, and still cannot fully grasp the emotions I feel coming to understand this fact.
I could not save you from your extreme and intense life, Andrew. But I am so relieved to know I could help you with one of its most difficult peaks.
Yours will remain one of the most significant influences I have ever known. (Fitting, no?) And I will owe my confidence - the confidence that allowed me to intervene in your life - to you and our brief, close time together.
With eternal love and gratitude,
Matthew
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