annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Fritz The self portrait I did is part of a project against suicide - I'm not sure how it's going to work because I haven't had it in me to talk suicide with strangers but I want to write about the three friends who took their own lives. All men. The first was Fritz. I knew him when we were both in our late teens, both from families that didn't want us, both renting rooms in a bungalow, from a woman I can now see had severe mental health problems, but who we then just thought was weird. We worked for two blokes who were in the town's rugby club - one of their mates in the club had won big money on the football pools (the big gambling thing like the lottery where you attempted to find the matches that would be draws each Saturday) and had set each of them up with a shop. I worked in the record shop, Fritz worked across the road in the hi-fi shop. I wasn't up to much at this point in my life - I was stoned and/or drunk all the hours I wasn't at work, promiscuous, untrustworthy, not very aware of other people having their own problems and points of view. Fritz and I weren't particularly close as he wasn't much better than me - we rubbed along, sharing rizlas, that kind of thing. After a while of being neighbours I had the chance of living in a proper flat. As most of the rest of our crowd still lived with their parents, my flat became a place to hang out. It was part of a big house out in the countryside, a mile from the nearest bus stop, though buses didn't run after 7 in the evening or at all on Sundays. One Sunday afternoon, Fritz turned up, having walked all the way to my place, probably four miles. He was upset and wanted to talk to me. There were loads of us there, all tripping, listening to Pink Floyd, not available at all. Fritz wandered off and took his own life. He'd been to someone else as well, who also didn't give him any time. Terrible. I felt terrible for what I'd failed to do for many, many years. This was 1973, almost fifty years ago, so it's all very vague in my memory, apart from the feeling of utter horror at how casually, indifferently we'd let him walk away, unsupported. He didn't die because he couldn't ask for help - he asked for help and didn't get any. Kreaen, oh man, Kreaen and I met on the big recovery course I did back in 2009/10. I'll write about him tomorrow 12:40 a.m. - 13.12.22 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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