The Musical Schizo

Let me tell you a story about a really nice guy I met that I was friendly with but never quite got past the acquaintance stage.

I first became aware of him in the “scene” when he fronted a rather successful U2 tribute band here in town. A local morning show I used to listen to on my commute was making fun of the singer, calling him “Not Bono” and teasing him, and he took it with excellent humor, so decided to check the band out at Fado (which would later become a home base for my band before it closed). They were a lot of fun. Met him briefly between sets, he seemed like a really nice guy. Decent singer, good performer, did a great job as the Bono in the band. Not much progressed from there, as I was busy with my kids and life in general, so I didn’t “hang out” much and didn’t see him again after that.

Cut to about nine years later and we’re both at a mutual friend’s summer jam/block party that they put on in their driveway. We finally connect and we hit it off right away. After about an hour of chewing each other’s ear off about music, life, New Jersey, pizza, politics, all kinds of stuff, we decide to get up and play a few 90s rock songs with another fellow Jersey guy*, as a trio.

* In case you didn’t know, I lived in NJ for almost three years, and apparently that was enough for it to count – I’ve always carried a little Jersey with me because they were such formative years for me – ages 12-15.

So we play, and I sing, and his eyes get HUGE. He was impressed, and showed it, and it was such a lovely confidence boost for me. He was always generous with his fellow musicians, finding ways to lift them up or give them positive encouragement. I was no exception. He used to talk me up in front of other musicians, and it was nice.

Now, every time we saw each other for the next two or three years or so, if we were at a jam, we’d play some music together. We’d talk about collaborating and I’d pick his brain about the best strategies for booking gigs as a solo act. Our bands swapped headlining on the stages for Fado’s last St. Patrick’s Day block party.

But our collaboration never happened, unfortunately, and now it never will.

My almost-good-friend took his own life this past weekend.

This is the first time someone who I felt a fast kinship with succumbed to their mental illness in this way. I didn’t realize he was a depressive, too. He was so gregarious and friendly and “up”, I almost feel like I should have known he might have been overcompensating, hiding that darkness like I do when things are rough in my head.

There are so many things that have gone through my head, ways I might have helped, I could have been there for him to talk to about the dark thoughts, all that. But since I was just on the periphery of his existence, I have to be fair to myself. I couldn’t do anything. The darkness won.

And the world is more dark without his lovely soul in it anymore. The tributes to him on his Facebook page have been lovely. He was truly beloved, and I’ve learned so much more about him that I can carry to keep his memory alive thanks to his loving friends and family.

I’m sad I didn’t get to know him better or maybe even write some songs with him. Depression is cruel like that.

If you have the opportunity to do something with someone or simply to get to know them better, don’t waste time. Find a way to do it. Now.

And if you have a friend going through anything like this, call 800-273-8255. They can help.

Rest in Peace, Patrick Fleming.

And Peace Be The Journey.
TMS