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 he stuck out. I hate to get cheesy and philosophical... Okay, just kidding, I LOVE to get cheesy and philosophical, but there are people in your life that end up making an impact on you and in the moment, you don't really know it's happening. But a subconscious part of your brain remembers it.

When I met him and every time afterward, he was able to make me feel incredibly seen and understood. People like that are hard to come by, but those small, simple interactions with those types of people can have a massive positive effect on your well being, in a world that often feels cold, confusing and lonely.

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 story. 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 bringing 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 an incredible conversation. We bonded 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. They were both such warm and thoughtful people, I understood right away why my friend wanted us to meet.

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 spring 2023, I finally finished it. I got it printed at my marketing job, which conveniently happened to have a giant high-end printer and cutting machine, everything I needed in order to self-publish a double-sided, full colour-printed 24-page, 4x6 inch graphic novel. 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. 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 one of the brightest, most genuine people we'd all ever met. He was another one of those people that made everyone feel seen. Whenever I'd seen him, he was joyful and candid and hilarious. His funeral was packed with people. People who had only met him once showed up. He just had that effect on others, and it's so unfair that the world didn't get to experience more of it.

I wished I'd had more time with him and his partner. I wanted to be a better friend to them, to all of those friends in that group, but it's hard to be present for people from a distance. I struggle with deep insecurity and some trauma around abandonment, so I tend to disappear, as many others did after the pandemic happened. But I think that's also just adulthood. Life is busy, and we have other priorities, and our friendships are usually the first thing to fall by the wayside.

In the evening, I approached my friend's brother, unsure if he would remember me. He not only did, he remembered my graphic novel. 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 my friend's brother died, it was through another friend. I asked her which of her brothers had gone, I knew she had two. She didn't know which one, but in my own mind, it couldn't have been the one I had met. They told me that my friend may need some space right now, so to maybe hold off on reaching out. I completely understood, and respected that. I truly cannot imagine the catacalysmic grief her and her family must be dealing with. I mentally buried it for a while, and ultimately chose to believe that it wasn't the comic book brother. But I would learn to regret that assumption.

Within a few days on Instagram, that's when I found out it was him. 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 a huge 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 story on his showcase stream. That meant that her brother hadn't simply stowed my novel away after I gifted it him, like I had done with his... He'd been sharing it around.

That kind of support and kindness through this little action, choosing to pass along my work with other people, it says so much to me about the kind of man he was. He championed other artists, he saw the value in helping people get seen, in spreading their stories and messages. I felt awful that I hadn't read his comics yet after what he had done for me.

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 also 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, it turns out that I had shelved them in my living room next to all my other unread comics. I had not discarded them absent-mindedly, they were right in front of me this entire time.

When I was ready to read them, it was a quiet night after my partner went to bed and I readied myself for the emotions. And I was truly blown away. I understood on a deeper level why he and I were so alike now, and why this loss hurt so badly, despite my few interactions with the guy. 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 is full of violence, war, genocide, white supremacy backed by economic hierarchical dominance, unimaginable suffering and little to no earthly justice for those who are born into it. What we had in common was that we are deep feelers and shock absorbers. We are willing to look at the atrocities of the world and sit with them, but it's emotionally taxing to do so. We understand that it's people like us, priveleged people, who have start waking up our friends and neighbours to what the world IS, not what we were raised to believe about it. And with our creative minds, we try to envision something better. Try to show the world that human beings, different cultures, animals, ecosystems, the planet... It's WORTH saving. We want to be like the superheroes of more conventional comic books, but for real. We want to believe our stories can move others, that they can have positive effect in the world because, well, if it doesn't, what's the whole fucking point?

Maybe that's why people like us are drawn to graphic novels 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 stand in awe of it's beauty and try to preserve it. Most of us do a little bit of both. Artists have to do both. In order to make something new, we have to destroy something.

That balance between creation and destruction can be hard to juggle. Some of us swing between the two extremes. Deep feelers don't just feel all of the good things, they feel all of the bad things. And the bad things can feel like too big of problems to tackle. That's what a lot of powerful people would like to have us believe. That our art and good deeds doesn't make a difference, that our dreams for a better future can easily be squashed. Deep feelers are going to be very susceptible to the darkness. I've had my own moments of despair and hopelessness, and they are not nice places to be.

I don't know exactly what happened for him. All I know is that he did make a difference, for me. His life left behind some absolutely beautiful, priceless treasures, things that need to be held, and shared.

At the celebration of life, I was able to meet more of his friends and family, and see how much he'd mattered to them. They had funny stories about him, how inspired and deep he was, how impulsive he was about ideas, and how he pushed them all to do things that they likely wouldn't have done otherwise. It had seemed that he poured a lot into other people's cups.

I also got a glimpse at more of his private drawings. Some of them were hilarious. Some of them were completely tragic. He didn't publish much of the work he drew, particularly some about himself, and his mental health struggles. But it was truly incredible, I was flabberghasted at the storytelling and detail of his drawings, it was gorgeous and incredibly moving.

I wish I had the chance to tell him about my new story idea. The idea came to me after talking to him at the friend's funeral. The idea is a memoir merged with music analysis for one of my favourite bands. A band that just so happened to end when the lead singer died by suicide. This band's music, 7 years later, still brings me hope about the future, about discovering your own concept of the meaning of life, and has made me want to leave the world better than I found it, as they did.

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 it's for that very reason that we are needed. So just know, 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, helps their community, leaves a cult, passes a law, falls in love, chooses to keep going... You don't even know what you are capable of, and perhaps, you're not supposed to know. If you think about it, that's actually kind cool. There's a quote that I keep coming back to, that makes these sorts of devastating events feel less tragic, and more magical, actually.

Nothing is permanent, not even the terrible things.

Love, Fanny