The Bus
This is a repost I wrote about my friend’s brother during a mental health awareness campaign.
Warnings about below content. Distressing, suicide, mental health, General bad vibes and potential male genitalia ahead.
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This post deals with suicide. Trigger warning
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Here’s a little book a friend of mine made. I always buy things from my artistic friends. Their books, their paintings. I go see their shows, listen to their music and hire them to build my website. That last one is because I just don’t like doing that stuff. The others are because they mostly make good stuff. If you don’t do all of the above you’re a bad friend.
Chris, the author of this compelling and haunting (sic) collection of poetic meanderings, dedicated the book in part to his brother, Ben. Ben, Ben, the big fat hen, as he referred to himself in artistic circles. Ben did all the artwork in the book, the illustrations, from whimsical to nonsensical, Dr Seussical to Tim Burtonesque. He was quite talented. Ben took his own life earlier this year, before this project was completed. Not long after Chris told me a story about Ben, one I think you all should hear.
As a talented artist, Ben had a lot of annoyingly talented friends. How do you celebrate an artist’s passing? With artwork. The plan was to turn Ben’s coffin into its own canvas, everyone would leave their signature creation as a goodbye to Ben. One of Chris’s friends who had driven up for the funeral wanted to draw a cock. Chris thought this was disrespectful and said no.
As people arrived to pay their respects, stories about Ben were told. One showed Chris a scar on his arm. Ben gave him that scar. Ben and this friend used to ride the bus to Christian Youth group. On long rides they would take the bus apart, but by bit. Peel away the seat covers, expose the springs until they were poking through, strip the rubber from the windows. On cold mornings Ben would draw his creations on the condensation inside the windows. His friend wanted, as many a boy has, to draw a cock on one of Ben’s masterpieces. Ben objected to this and swatted the hand away, impaling it on a rusty spring poking through the seat. Ben’s friend still has this scar. He never got to draw that cock.
During the funeral Chris and others carried Ben’s coffin in the procession. Solemn faced, serious, somber. Some people might have interpreted the shaking shoulders and barely restrained emotion one way. The pall bearers set Ben down and slowly turned it around to face the crowd.
When you’re gone, the people who love you will miss you.
When you’re gone, people might dedicate artistic works to you.
When you’re gone, people might draw a cock on your coffin.
https://www.mentalhealth.org.nz/get-help/in-crisis/helplines/
