A Dear Friend Lost

My phone rang today. I thought it was my dear friend, and answered with my usual greeting for him "What up G-Money!".

It wasn't him on the phone though. It was his wife, who sounded weary and sad. Before she said it, I knew that had killed himself.

Chas was a bright and shiny ball of energy when he was happy. But PTSD and other, never fully diagnosed, mental illness had crippled him for the last year or so. Last time I saw him he had elaborate plans for escaping the country. He was in so much pain that every thought was a torment. He loved his kids and his wife, and worried what his illness was doing to them.

Chas is the reason I started blogging a million years ago. He's responsible for this pile of digital words. We wanted to seceded from the Bushwhacked country. He was protective, like a big brother, when he was healthy. He had these little idiosyncratic insecurities that made him adorable, like a teddy bear that is missing its button eye (though the missing part was lower, and I've been told that since he kept it in a jar after surgery, it will be cremated with him).

Chas tried to get help through the system. The VA failed him. The only thing that calmed the constant anxiety was smoking pot, so the VA labeled him a drug addict. He was intensely pissed off that trying to make himself feel normal made him a criminal. Other drugs failed. Lithium failed. Multiple cocktails of pharmaceuticals just made him groggy and tired and sad. Therapists failed him. I failed him. I should have called. But I've been wrapped in my own cocoon of worry and fear.

I will miss you terribly Chasito. And so will everyone who ever met you and your gargantuan spirit.