I just learned my chidhood friend died.
Seems he overdosed on methadone.
Methadone.
FUCKING.METH.A.DONE.
What the fuck?
This makes no sense.
I thought the whole point of this drug was to help those that have a drug problem stay off of drugs. How can you possibly overdose on this?
I can't put two cognizant words together to express my sadness and my anger and my disgust and my sense of loss.
What the fuck.
This guy was supposed to be a decade clean of this nonsense. Clean. He went back to school, got his masters in music engineering, reunited with his high school sweetheart and life was coming up aces and now he fucking died in his sleep, overdosing on a drug meant to help people ween themselves off of a drug he was supposed to have been off of for ten years.
I want to throw up.
I can't cry.
I want to break something.
Asshole. You were supposed to come to us if you needed help. We knew you'd had problems. We wouldn't have judged you for relapsing, we would have helped you. We're older now, we're more equipped to deal with these things. Emotionally, financially.
Goddamnit.
My entire transition from teenager to adult was with this guy.
From 19 to 27 we were inseparable. Spent so many night drinking jugs of shit wine or cheaper beer discussing philosophies, histories, theory. Chasing ladies. Chasing dreams. We were going to be rockstars but it was all a pipe dream, more me than him. He is, fuck, was a brilliant musician.
He played bass better than anyone I've ever known.
But not anymore. No.
No.
And I kicked him out of my apartment ten years ago because he was a drunk and I was tired of it.
And I haven't talked to him since except to trade short messages across fucking Facebook or Myspace. Gee, how good of me. And I stayed at a distance because I had grown so tired of his drunken nonsense, slightly embarrassed that he never seemed to grow past his dependence on some type of vice.
FUck.
Maybe if I'd talked to him more or been more involved in his day to day affairs I could have seen this coming.
I don't even know why I'm typing this. I don't know what to do. They need pallbearers. How the fuck do you learn how to be a pallbearer?
Where is the pallbearers class?
Do you have to learn how to walk a certain way?
Do I have to wear a suit?
What the fuck to you say to someone that does this to make peace with them?
"Hey sorry I haven't been around and I'm sorry you had a monkey on your back that you couldn't kick. Hope there's something better than this, although we always used to argue that there never was/"
Nevermind.
I can cry now.
I'm going to go hole up and drink cheap wine and more than likely break something and probably rant and rave at inanimate objects for a while.
And then things will be hunky fucking dory in the morning because the walls go back up then and the sarcasm takes back over.
Fuck you, Jason Wilson. Fuck you for dying.
Seems he overdosed on methadone.
Methadone.
FUCKING.METH.A.DONE.
What the fuck?
This makes no sense.
I thought the whole point of this drug was to help those that have a drug problem stay off of drugs. How can you possibly overdose on this?
I can't put two cognizant words together to express my sadness and my anger and my disgust and my sense of loss.
What the fuck.
This guy was supposed to be a decade clean of this nonsense. Clean. He went back to school, got his masters in music engineering, reunited with his high school sweetheart and life was coming up aces and now he fucking died in his sleep, overdosing on a drug meant to help people ween themselves off of a drug he was supposed to have been off of for ten years.
I want to throw up.
I can't cry.
I want to break something.
Asshole. You were supposed to come to us if you needed help. We knew you'd had problems. We wouldn't have judged you for relapsing, we would have helped you. We're older now, we're more equipped to deal with these things. Emotionally, financially.
Goddamnit.
My entire transition from teenager to adult was with this guy.
From 19 to 27 we were inseparable. Spent so many night drinking jugs of shit wine or cheaper beer discussing philosophies, histories, theory. Chasing ladies. Chasing dreams. We were going to be rockstars but it was all a pipe dream, more me than him. He is, fuck, was a brilliant musician.
He played bass better than anyone I've ever known.
But not anymore. No.
No.
And I kicked him out of my apartment ten years ago because he was a drunk and I was tired of it.
And I haven't talked to him since except to trade short messages across fucking Facebook or Myspace. Gee, how good of me. And I stayed at a distance because I had grown so tired of his drunken nonsense, slightly embarrassed that he never seemed to grow past his dependence on some type of vice.
FUck.
Maybe if I'd talked to him more or been more involved in his day to day affairs I could have seen this coming.
I don't even know why I'm typing this. I don't know what to do. They need pallbearers. How the fuck do you learn how to be a pallbearer?
Where is the pallbearers class?
Do you have to learn how to walk a certain way?
Do I have to wear a suit?
What the fuck to you say to someone that does this to make peace with them?
"Hey sorry I haven't been around and I'm sorry you had a monkey on your back that you couldn't kick. Hope there's something better than this, although we always used to argue that there never was/"
Nevermind.
I can cry now.
I'm going to go hole up and drink cheap wine and more than likely break something and probably rant and rave at inanimate objects for a while.
And then things will be hunky fucking dory in the morning because the walls go back up then and the sarcasm takes back over.
Fuck you, Jason Wilson. Fuck you for dying.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
ribbonsundone:
My deepest condolences for your loss. Recovery is so hard. My father is a rare success story, and he loses recovery friends on a far too regular basis. Remember to take care of yourself. 
kirin:
I am so sorry. One of my friends committed suicide in high school. The last words I ever said to him were shut up. Albeit jokingly but still. It was the first time since we met that we didn't have classes together and we kind of lost touch because of dating and whatnot. I saw him online a few days before he died and decided not to talk to him because I thought there would be a next time. I tortured myself for YEARS over what I could have changed if I hadn't been such a shitty lazy friend. In the end though sometimes there is nothing you can do to help people. He had it planned. He cleared everything on his hard drive. He locked his bedroom door and left the TV on so his family would think he was home. He and his step dad's gun went to a park by our houses and he made his choice. The hardest part was coming to terms with the fact that I could never go back and change anything. The roses on the back of my neck are for him. He helped me through some hard times and I want the permanent reminder that I need to make sure I don't take my friends for granted.