*I wrote this May 12, 2018, the day after Scott Hutchison, the lead singer of the Scottish band “Frightened Rabbit,” committed suicide. Initially, I wasn’t sure if I’d share it. Sometimes I write just for me but then I thought, if it helps one person to know they’re not alone in their struggle, it’s worth any discomfort I feel in sharing a very personal story.

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I’m struggling to understand why I’m so emotional about the death of man I never knew.
Actually, that’s a lie. I’m not struggling with why I’m emotional, I’m struggling with the need to explain it, and whether or not I have the courage to face the demons rising to the surface, in the wake of this news.

The body of Scott Hutchison was found on May 11, 2018, in the Firth of Forth; an inlet that brushes up against the city of Edinburgh, Scotland and flows out to the North Sea. Scott was the singer and songwriter for Frightened Rabbit, a Scottish band I was introduced to by one of my best friends, Billy Crawford, during a 2009 visit to his home in Scotland.  

“Dip a toe in the ocean, oh how it hardens and it numbs
The rest of me is a version of man built to collapse in crumbs
And if I hadn't come now to the coast to disappear
I may have died in a landslide of rocks and hopes and fears

So I swim until you can't see land
Swim until you can't see land
Swim until you can't see land
Are you a man? Are you a bag of sand?”

Swim Until You Can’t See Land, the song that made the strongest impression then, returned to me as I read about Scott’s decision to end his own life. The situation transported me back to May of 1999 and an incident I’ve never spoken about publicly. That day, much as Scott must’ve done 20 years later, I stood looking down into the rolling black waves of water.

It was a day that began with excitement. I had arranged for the band I was playing in to appear on Breakfast Television in Toronto. We were just a local blues band, but we had some talented players; a guitarist who could take any song to a higher level and a charismatic singer who people naturally gravitated towards. Because it was Breakfast Television, we had to get up in the middle of the night and drive three hours to Toronto. We arrived at the studio for the 5:00am load-in but something wasn’t quite right. As we brought in our equipment, the floor manager was whispering to somebody else and looking our way. She asked us to pause while she verified something. When she returned, it became clear that I had messed up. I had the dates wrong. We were actually scheduled to appear the next day. By the time the mix-up was evident, the other band had arrived, looking understandably confused. I spoke to them, explained that I’d screwed up and begged and pleaded with them to trade for our time slot the following day. They refused. My band was furious with me. Some of the guys had taken time away from work, others had rearranged plans; not to mention that all our friends and family were planning to get up early and watch. Now we would have to explain our absence, suffer the embarrassment and humiliation my monstrous scheduling error would undoubtedly create, and try to do it all again one day later.

As I write these words now, I realize how trivial it all was. It certainly wasn’t life or death but, in the moment, it felt that way. My mental health in those days was significantly compromised and one of the things that depression does is coax you into isolation. It lures you with a come-hither finger into the shadows and away from everyone you love and trust. It convinces you that no matter how bad you feel, you must keep it to yourself.
I packed my kit into the van in silence and went round to the driver, “I’m staying here,” I mumbled.

“Gordo, you fucked up, but you can’t stay here. How are you gonna get home?”

“I’ll get a ride or something,” I said. “I have to work this out.”

“You sure?”

“Yep. I’ll call once I have this resolved.”

I had no intention of resolving it or working anything out. I was convinced no resolution was possible. We would never get another chance to appear on TV, and as soon as we got home, I would be fired from the band. Neither of those things happened, but it’s what dominated my thoughts as I watched the van drive away and I started walking down towards Toronto’s waterfront. With each step, the black clouds gathered inside my head, invading every corner of my thoughts and refusing to give way to the light. I don’t remember the path I took or how long I walked, I just remember that after a while, I found myself on Queens Quay in Toronto. I had a friend who lived in that neighbourhood so I guess I gravitated to that area. I stood staring at a phone booth on the corner of Spadina and the Quay, thinking about calling my buddy in a last-ditch effort to avoid my own demons. The demons prevailed. Instead, I walked towards the water and found a quiet, unattended pier. I stood staring into the black, churning surface of Lake Ontario. The sun had just begun to peak out over the horizon as I stepped over the fencing and leaned back against it. It was early May and while the sky was warm, ice had only been gone from the lake for a few weeks. I could feel the frigid water from where I stood. I thought about the numbness that would envelop me. I wondered how long it would take until I gave in and started drifting below the surface. Even if I changed my mind, nobody was around to save me and, in my state, that felt like a good thing. I stood in that same place for what felt like hours contemplating the only end I could see, the only end the black dog wanted me to see. Around me I could hear the city beginning to wake up and somewhere through the sticky fog of depression, I was reminded of another day; a day in my youth when life was full of promise. On THAT day after an entire night of parties and conversations, my best friend Ron and I had walked through my hometown at dawn watching the town come to life. I could still see beauty back then. Beauty in the commonplace. Beauty in friendship. Beauty in the life that stretched out before me. That one, single fading memory of beauty and friendship saved me. It stirred my survival instinct, and I stepped back over the fence. I walked away and wandered the city for a few more hours before finally catching a bus home.

I was lucky that day and perhaps not as deeply affected by depression as Scott Hutchison or the hundreds of others who give in to the blackness.

I don’t know if it helps for others to understand that you can rise above it and you can keep the black dog away from the door. I DO know in isolation without the comfort of friends or family, it’s easier to allow yourself to be swallowed up.

If you know somebody that is suffering – don’t give up on them. Reach out even if they don’t or won’t engage. Keep reaching, keep talking, keep loving. It helps even if it feels like it doesn’t. It gets through even if it feels like the walls are impenetrable. It can save someone even if it feels like they are beyond redemption.