In November 2014, three months before his death, my brother Paddy shared a post on Facebook in which he mused on the value of life. He begins the post with the hopeful declaration that life is precious and he goes on to note that there are times when life “throws shit at you [and] nothing seems precious at all” before insisting that one must “rise above… and not let the negative moments get you down.”
“I’m writing this because I was a guy who felt that he had nothing to offer or to gain,” Paddy explained in the post. “But thanks to those who care, they helped me rise above and I’m forever grateful.”
That Paddy would die by his own hand just over 10 weeks after writing those words makes them all the more resonant. They stand there in cyberspace as ominous relics of a moment when a vulnerable 18-year-old was desperately grasping for something to cling to. Was he was reassuring himself?
I bookmarked that post a few years ago and I have read it countless times since. The sporadic dispatches of a teenager on social media are not gospel by any means, but when sifted through meaningfully and put into context, they can sometimes give us clues – shards of digital evidence – about where someone’s mind is. A few days before his death, Paddy took to Facebook again and posted a notable quote from the movie Rocky Balboa: “It’s not about how hard you hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward.”
The very next day, late on the night of January 31st, he shared an emotional tribute to our mother on the 11th anniversary of her death. “Every day’s been so hard, but I need to keep trying my best to make you proud,” he wrote. “Nothing or nobody will come close to you. You were the best thing in my life and still are. Every day I miss you!” The following day, on the anniversary itself, he sent me a brief message, saying simply, “I love you, bro.” Two days later, he was gone. That was the last thing he ever said to me.
Paddy would have been 30 on May 30th this year. Even though the dates are etched into my brain and I mark them every year, grief has a way of liquefying time so that it becomes difficult to grasp. It means that I always have to double check how long it has been or how old he would have been every single year. On Saturday, on what would have been Paddy’s 30th birthday, I went to the Honan Chapel in UCC and lit a candle then sat quietly alone for 10 minutes thinking of him and everything really. Later that day I raised a glass to salute Paddy and all the lost possibilities that once lay before him.
Thirty is a milestone of significance in a person’s life. Life expectancy for men in Ireland is roughly 80 years, so, when you reach 30 you are heading towards the second half of your journey. So many of Paddy’s friends have now reached, or are approaching, that milestone. A few of them are already parents and they have all been expanding out into the world, sampling from the smorgasbord of life. They have carried his spirit admirably with them on their adventures, paying tribute to their fallen friend in their own ways, and when I see them grow it is easy to imagine Paddy living out similar moments.
I don’t believe that my brother wanted to die. It is clear from his Facebook posts that he was eager to persist. From the moment our mother died, he lived his short life in an endless vortex of uncertainty and upheaval, yet he continuously issued declarations of resilience and optimism, right up to the week of his death. I think that is a major part of why I find his demise so excruciatingly infuriating, even now. It feels hollow and dishonest to idly wonder why he didn’t say anything to anyone; he couldn’t have said it any clearer.
In his memoir, One Friday in April, the writer Donald Antrim rails against the idea that suicide is incomprehensible. It doesn’t just happen all of a sudden and it’s not always a mystery – how could it be? It can be understood and in order to gain a proper understanding, society must consider that a person who is inclined towards suicide is, on some level, trying to survive whatever it is they are going through. Antrim, who came very close to suicide himself and survived, describes it as a “social disease” and that is an important lens through which to view it.
“I see [suicide] as a long illness, an illness with origins in trauma and isolation, in deprivation of touch, in violence and neglect, in the loss of home and belonging,” writes Antrim. “It is a disease of the body and the brain, if you make that distinction, but its etiology, its beginning, whether in early or later life, in the family or beyond, is social in nature.”1
The truth is that, despite it all, Paddy was trying to survive. He had so many strong relationships that he cherished and people he enjoyed spending time with. He loved to watch Liverpool play and relished the repartee with friends who supported rival clubs. An avid wrestling fan, he would no doubt have wanted to see Wrestlemania live and he did have tentative designs on one day emigrating to Canada. He was generous and had an open heart. He had plenty to live for. Paddy wanted to rise above and he did so repeatedly. He kept getting hit, but continued moving forward, again and again, for as long as he could. Until he was finally beaten down. Paddy’s spirit, to borrow from Bukowski, was clubbed into dank submission.
“To the extent that the suicide acts,” says Antrim. “It is but a falling away.”
- Antrim, Donald. One Friday in April: A Story of Suicide and Survival, 2021. ↩︎
Nothing is written 