tribute to a friend

This past weekend I went to the celebration of life for a friend of mine's brother. I only met him a handful of times, but that was enough to leave a mark.

He was in the comic book community I had been wanting to be a part of since 2013. At that point, I didn't have a comic out. Over the next decade, I would try and fail repeatedly to finish a comic. I had so many ideas swirling around in my head. I'd get a few pages out but then ultimately, it would become too daunting, and I would lose motivation.

My problem was that my ideas were far too grand. I needed to start small and give myself a really achievable goal. Nothing too difficult to do, nothing that would take years. I would be doing all the work myself. Writing, drawing, colouring, printing... I knew I could do it, being a graphic designer with decent print-shop experience. It was just a matter of pushing through the gruelling middle part of the work. But all of my story ideas weren't working in a shorter format and I just didn't know how to end them in a satisfying manner.

It wasn't until my first queer breakup in 2021 that I finally had something. A story that was real and easy to tell, because it was true. I spent about 9 months developing the artwork, to varying degrees of motivation, but the idea was solid enough to maintain my drive for it. Not to mention using the process of bring it to life as a means to deal with what was one of the most painful breakups I'd ever endured.

Before I finished, my friend decided to introduce me to her brother, who she'd said I had a lot in common with. She had a party at her house, and just before the majority of people showed up, he, his wife and I had some incredible conversations, bonding over graphic novels, being an artist, and how to tell a good story. He had lots of great advice, gave me encouragement, and offered to help me get my project printed.

I saw him again at a zine festival that I had applied to vend at, but was thankfully rejected because my book STILL wasn't ready. I bought a few of his comics and met his friend and comic book partner. I bought a LOT of stuff there that day, but I'm ashamed to admit, I hadn't actually gotten around to reading any of the comics I bought. I carried them for 3 moves in boxes, knowing that someday I was going to eventually sit and absorb their hard work.

In summer 2022, I finally finished it. I got it printed at my job, which so happened to have everything I needed to self-publish a colour-printed 24-page, 4x6 inch comic book. It even had a massive cutting machine. I made sure to do it all after hours when no one was there. I printed 26 copies.

I sold it at a couple of markets, made some sales of it online from Tiktok, got it into a local book store, and put a preview of it in my online work portfolio. It felt amazing to finally have it done, and physically in my hands. To hold it, open it, smell it, it was special. I proved that I could finish something, and I was so proud of myself.

I didn't think it was possible because I had been making myself these promises and then breaking them, my whole life. I found out that I have ADHD only a year prior. It all suddenly made sense why I kept failing. It's always been difficult for me to maintain focus and dedication on difficult tasks, especially when there's no one forcing me, dangling a carrot, or holding a stick. Just the will to follow through or not. It's only ME that I'm disappointing, except that, when you repeatedly disappoint yourself, you end up also hating yourself for it too.

As time went on. The excitement of the book slowly dimmed and I got into other creative projects, like starting a business selling crocheted items, stickers, cross stitches, greeting cards. I fell in love with someone. I was doing a lot. We moved 2 hours away, back to my old hometown. By then, I only had less than 10 copies left. I didn't really want to sell them because I didn't think I would be able to print any more in as good of quality as I did at that job. I would only give them out to friends who really wanted it.

I forgot to let my friend's brother know it was done and ready to read. To be honest, I didn't think I'd ever run into him again anyway.

It wouldn't be until winter of 2025 that I would see him again. But it was under devastating circumstances. My friend's partner had passed away. I drove back to that city for the funeral.

This was the first time someone in my extended friend group had died. As a 33 year old, that's pretty lucky. Up until this point, all the deaths I'd experienced were that of family members in their 60s or older. This friend was in his 40s, and it was a completely unexpected tragedy. I was shocked by my own heartbreak over it. I wanted to be a better friend to the person who lost him, to all of those friends, but it's hard to be present for people from a distance, and when all the other life things get in the way.

In the evening, I nervously walked up to my friend's brother, unsure if he would remember me. He not only did, he remembered the comic. I told him it was finished. He said I'll have to send him one, but I was already a step ahead. I assumed he would be at the funeral, so I packed it in my purse and gave it to him on the spot. He was pleasantly surprised and super thankful. We had a deep chat about the loss, about my friend, about how fucked this whole situation was. I was just really glad that he was there for her.

Only a few short months later, he wouldn't be. He didn't want to be here anymore.

The day I found out, I didn't want to believe it. I assumed it wasn't the brother I'd met. I knew she had another brother, and I just couldn't fathom it being the one I actually met. The person who told me about the death couldn't confirm for me which brother, and was told that my friend may need some space right now, so I held off on reaching out, since it was so fresh.

Within a few days on Instagram, that's when I found out it was the one I had given my comic book to at the funeral. The guilt and shame I felt for being wrong, for not digging deeper... I was furious with myself. I went home early from work in tears.

I ran to his website. A digital time capsule. I read through it quickly, trying to see if there's something there that would somehow give me answers to my burning questions, as if the answers would ever be satisfying, or any of my business.

Then I found his friend and comic book partner's website, which he had linked to from his own. I skimmed through it, and found a discord. I reluctantly joined, even though I felt insane for doing so.

I just said quickly that I was a friend of his friend's sister, I'd heard the news, and I was devastated. He responded right away and let me know I could talk to him at any time.

I didn't say much else. Here I am, having an outsized reaction to his friend's death, someone I probably spent less then 3 hours of my entire life talking to. Now I'm in here, intruding on his discord server, how could I ask for anything else?

I grabbed my drawing tablet and got to drawing again. I wept, and I drew a half alive potted plant in my backyard in the setting sun for hours, in silence, just listening to the quiet of the world. It was really peaceful, despite my heart aching with regret and sadness.

It took me a few days to finish it, but I decided to share the drawing in the discord in the channel called "show off your creations." I had signed it with my Instagram username.

He said he remembered meeting me. At the zine fair. He said he likely shared my comic on his showcase stream. That meant that my comic hadn't simply be stowed away after I gifted it to her brother, like I had done with his... He'd been sharing it around. I felt awful.

I would have to find his comics, but I wasn't sure if I still had them, if I had downsized them in the move, if they were in a box in the crawlspace, being swallowed by the stagnant air. I was afraid for some reason too. Afraid of what I would find after I opened and read them. Truthfully, I didn't even look for them for a few weeks.

When I finally did, I understood on a deeper level why he and I were so alike. He wrote about the history of Canada, about Indigenous people, residential schools, the foster care system, the immigration system. He didn't write much about himself at all, because he felt there were more important things than himself, that people needed to know what our education system had failed to tell us.

This very thing has also been a source of pain for me too. The world was full of violence, war, genocide, white supremacy backed by economic hierarchical dominance, and unimaginable suffering and little to no earthly justice for those who are born into it. We want to stop it, to save the world, like superheroes of more conventional comic books.

Maybe that's why people like us are drawn to comics as a medium. We see the power that they are capable of. They aren't just little doodles by overly-sensitive art-obsessed weirdos. Stories can have weight, if you're willing to sit and hold them for a while.

As a non-religious person, the concept of death is VERY heavy. I don't have a comforting post-death belief system. I don't believe in heaven or hell, and I've never been able to be convinced that ghosts are real either. I can play pretend that there's some sort of cosmic recycling, that maybe we get reincarnated, that there's more lives, or that we get to come back in some other form, but realistically, I just don't really know. Death just totally terrifies me.

All I know is that there's existence, there's a planet, there's a bunch of different life forms, and we all have been given a chance to experience it for a little while. Some of us see this world and try to destroy it. Some of us want to preserve it or make it more beautiful. Some of us destroy it in order to make it more beautiful.

At the celebration of life, I got a glimpse at more of his private drawings. Some of them were hilarious. Some of them were completely tragic. All of them showed me more about who he really was than what I've ever been able to get to know about my own dad, and honestly, the majority of men in my life. Sure, maybe we hadn't gotten to talking a ton, but after seeing those pieces, I was still able to feel closer to him, even though he's not here anymore.

I wish I had the chance to tell him about my new story idea. The idea came to me after the friend's funeral. The idea is a memoir and art analysis about death, remembering, finding meaning, coping with pain, and trying to leave the world better than you found it.

I wish I could tell him that he left me better than he found me. I wish I could tell a lot of people that, but it's hard to. How do you even approach the topic of gratitude with your friends, mentors and heroes? How do you get those words out without embarrassing yourself AND the other person? I don't think I'm as good as I'd like to be in letting people know that they really mattered to me. That I'm thankful that they existed.

So I'm going to do that with this story. I've conquered the short story. Time for the big one.

To anyone else struggling with your mental health who might be reading this, don't be afraid to reach out to your friends, family, a therapist, maybe even a stranger online, about what's going on for you. We are living in a fucking weird ass time right now, but just know that you fucking matter, that your life has a ripple effect that spreads much larger and wider than you will ever really know. The things you do with your life have the ability to save other people, an animal, an ecosystem, a far-flung future that you might never actually get to see, but still played a hand in.

If you need a reason to stay here on this planet for a bit longer, the reason is, you can make a HUGE difference in someone's life in a positive way, even in small, 10 minute conversations, simply by being kind to someone else. You might be the reason someone else chooses a career path, finds hope and meaning, stands up for themselves, helps their community, leaves a cult, passes a law, falls in love. You don't even know what you are capable of, and perhaps, you're not supposed to know. Death is only the end if you assume the story is about you.

Nothing is permanent, not even the terrible things.

Love, Fanny