Damn, life has been so serene recently, I have literally had to pinch myself to tug my mind back to reality. A mate dragged me back into the real world fiercely and abruptly today.
And that was because the mate died. It was not completely unexpected. Some might say it was God’s will. He had come close before. And had survived multiple bouts of cancer.
Vexastiously, things had spiralled downward this year, though. And maybe even futher back. I realized that even though we had shared some of the most intimate details of our lives on an almost daily basis for more than a decade, I obviously didn’t know him as well as I thought at times.
I met my mate over a decade ago and shared some common background traits and records, most notably that we were both born and grew up on the outskirts of Melbourne and had studied and worked extensively in Japan. We basically hit it off and remained in close contact without ever really being close. We were friends, undoubtedly, but bound by a common struggle more than anything else: we are both recovering addicts.
During the ensuing years, we shared rises and falls, and frequently reminded each other of how fortunate we are, sometimes if it didn’t actually seem to be the case. We trudged through life together.
This year was a tough one for my mate, literally from the outset. He was visiting family in Ishikawa Prefecture when the Noto Peninsula Earthquake struck on New Year’s Day. It rattled him, not just in the obvious way, but mentally and emotionally. Perhaps it was the portend of things to come? It also resulted in an in-person meeting, our last as it turned out. Time limitations meant we met for only a few minutes, coincidentally just meters away from the workplace where my life now feels to have turned around unbelievably. We hugged and parted, but remained in almost daily contact as we always had.
Some months later, as my life was looking terrible amid a career crisis, my mate’s apparently stellar professional life came crumbling down in a very public manner.
My mate’s clients were rich. He liked shiny stuff and had the brains and professional qualifications to get them. People were willing to pay handsomely to have him fight for their freedom. But he got caught in the middle of a battle between organized crime and authorities. Threatened by both sides, he sought the relief that would be most instinctive, and picked up a bottle of vodka.
After more than a decade and a half of being clean and sober, he relapsed. It’s never nice at any time. And it’s often said that the worst fate for an addict is to have a headfull of 12-step messaging and a belly full of booze. So it appears to have been.
I’m seething. My mate had repeatedly displayed a superhuman resilience and faith, amid emotional, financial and professional bankruptcy. I guess it all became too much? I last heard from him earlier this week. He was as pompous and annoying as always, so there was nothing to suggest that things were lower than they usually were.
It would be nice if my mate has found the serentiy and peace he so obviously yearned for. I’m eternally grateful for having known him, but even more so for the final lesson he taught me: use and lose.
