A few years ago, my friend Mike committed suicide.I’ve gone through a lot of terrible and sudden loss, more than anyone should, but this was the first time someone so close had taken their own life. I’ve spent the last couple of hours trying to put into words how it felt, and remembering... everything. Where I was when I got the message. Debating what kind of flowers would be the most appropriate. Speaking at his funeral. Clinging to my friend Fudge for dear life as we both stood in the rain, crying, still in shock that this could ever be happening.
Needless to say this feature has not been the easiest to write.
I can’t pretend to know anything that Eddie Kingston has gone through, but looking in his eyes, I can see it. I’ve seen that same look too many times; in my family, my friends, and staring back at me in the mirror. It’s the sadness that comes with loving someone so dearly and then realizing that you’ll never see them again. The look of someone who, when they see something funny, will reach for their phone to text their friend about it, but then realize no... not anymore. No longer can you pick up the phone and call them, or email them, or talk to them about... something, anything. And anything is exactly what you’d give to have them back in your life for just a few minutes. To hear them talk or laugh or tell you that no matter what it is, it’ll be okay. It’s a grief that is so maddening, and cuts so deep that it’ll never, ever leave you.
But through all of that, there’s something else. Something that endures, no matter how sickening and painful that grief is. And that’s love. The other day I was puttering around on Facebook, and somehow ended up watching a video a friend had posted of Mike. It was just a dumb video of him and some others playing a drinking game, but it was totally jarring. It was the first time I had heard his voice in years. And it was... wonderful. I can’t lie, it made me really, really emotional, but at the same time there he was, smiling and laughing and being the Mike that I knew and loved. It wasn’t the guy it hurts to think about, it was just...Mike. It was the guy I would curl up with in his parents basement and force to watch old black and white movies. The guy who let me shave his head into a terrible Flock of Seagulls haircut just for fun. The guy who, when we were driving around one day, belted out that stupid Puddle of Mudd song and didn’t care that it was, indeed, a terrible song, but it was on and it was fun and he simply wanted to enjoy the moment. He was just that guy. So positive and happy and always encouraging me to be the same. To lighten up. To just enjoy things.
Mike and I lost touch a bit after he went off to university, but I always assumed that when he got back we would just pick right up where we left off. Going to shows, driving around late at night just for the hell of it, going to the movies where I would inevitably fall asleep on his shoulder. But we never did. We never got that chance. Watching Eddie Kingston’s promo for the first time was, to say the least, deeply affecting. How many times have you heard the words “it’s just wrestling?” This time, it wasn’t. Sure, he was about to wrestle Mike Quackenbush to crown the first ever Chikara Grand Champion. Sure, he talked about that in his promo. But he did more than that. Grief is a very private, personal thing. It’s not easy to talk about. It’s not easy to admit to. It’s not easy in any way at all. When Eddie Kingston opened his mouth, he opened up a part of himself to the world. Everything he had been through in his life, every horrible feeling he’d experienced since the death of his friend laid out in front of us. In those few minutes, it wasn’t about a belt or wrestling or beating Quackenbush. It was a man, struggling to deal with deal with loss, and trying to do better. To be better.
When Eddie Kingston won his match at High Noon, I don’t think anyone could deny the gravity of what that meant. It wasn’t just a belt. It wasn’t just another checkmark in the win column. He did what any of us who has lost someone close to us wants to do. To achieve something. To do something important. To make that person we loved and lost proud, even if they can’t be there to see it. I can say a lot of things about Eddie Kingston. I can point out how different he is, just a normal dude in a promotion of goblins and anthropomorphic ants and baseball faces. I can talk about how disappointing it was seeing him for the first time outside of Chikara, using homophobic slurs and decidedly un-family friendly language. But now isn’t the time for that.
The only thing I can say, and the only thing I want to say, is Eddie, I know. And I’m sorry.