This past weekend I attended the memorial service for a friend of mine, Michael Ridley. There was a lot I wanted to say; memories, thoughts, emotions that have been swirling around in my head since I learned of his passing, but have struggled with how to compose them into something coherent, let alone anything I could hope to speak without breaking down myself. I need to get it out, though, so I’m going to do my best.
I first met Michael around 20 years ago. I was still with my ex-wife, who was pregnant with my kid at the time. He was sitting outside of the Cascades Starbucks after work with a couple of colleagues, one of whom was a friend of a friend. Introductions were made and we all sat around chatting. I remember his sarcasm and abrasiveness that first time we spoke and thinking, “Man. This guy’s kind of a dick.” And that attitude held the next few times I ran into that group. But we kept interacting, because, in a way, that attitude reminded me of myself. We insulted each other, and made jokes at the others’ expense, but there was never any ill will behind it, and when one of us got a good dig in, we’d laugh in appreciation. I came to see that initial attitude for what it was and for why it had reminded me of myself: it was a defense mechanism. It was the defense of someone who has been hurt, who has a difficult time trusting and making friends, yet desperately wants them. It is a vicious humor in hopes that someone will see you for who you are, push back, and accept you.
It wasn’t long before we actually became friends. We connected over things that I think surprised us both. The similarities in our backgrounds were almost frighteningly uncanny. From our families growing up, to our drive to graduate early in order to escape a miserable situation. Spending our whole formative years being taught time and again that we could only rely on ourselves. Our extremely similar college experience, and leaving to go into the workforce and finding what felt like undeserved success.
There was also the ever-present feeling of imposter syndrome. The warring feelings of pride at our intelligence and capability, and fear that we don’t deserve what we have earned. Always feeling like you have to prove yourself time and again to justify your own existence. Being the helper, always there to lend an ear or a hand, but feeling incapable of being the one to ask for help, because that just proves that you’re a fraud; that you’re really a failure, and if you let anyone know, you’ll lose everything. Just as we had so many similarities in our accomplishments, our interests, and the events our lives, we also shared many of the same flaws, and far too many of the same demons.
Michael was a brilliant guy with one of the biggest hearts of anyone I know. He befriended my ex as well as myself, and helped her on several occasions with freelance work she was pursuing. When my kid was little, he would take time to sit and have the most earnest conversations with the toddler, never making fun or treating it like a game, but genuinely engaging. You could see the joy he got from having these silly little conversations and it’s something I will never forget. Even years later, when that little toddler had grown up into a teenager, they would still chat whenever we all got together, not as an adult talking to a kid, but as peers.
Over the years we were not just friends, but also colleagues on several occasions. We worked together at a couple of different companies, though in different areas, both structurally and geographically. We would still regularly catch up, though, talking about how things were going, what weird hobbies we had gotten into, what new thing we had come across that had piqued our interest…. Whenever we needed something in a professional sense, we’d always reach out to each other, knowing just as he could rely on me, I could rely on him. Sometimes months would go by in between our catching up, but whenever we did, it was like no time had passed. We understood each other and all the things, both positive and negative, that we shared.
The last few years had not been kind to Michael. The world has been falling apart, and he unfortunately did not escape the effects. When things got bad, though, he didn’t handle it well. I know that nasty little voice all too well, saying that it’s a personal failure, that you deserve it because you’re a fraud, that you should just give up. The exhaustion of being in a position where you have to rebuild your life again from what feels like nothing, and the absolute refusal to ask others for help. Because if others help you, then it just proves the voice was correct all along, right? You know deep down that it isn’t true, but sometimes it just feels like it’s easier to give up than to keep fighting.
And, sadly, this time that voice won. He fell off the wagon after years of struggling with drug abuse, and ultimately OD’ed. Michael was a hell of a friend, and a really great person, especially once you got past that abrasive exterior. The world is less bright without his light in it. I wish that motherfucker had just said something. Had reached out, even just a little. I am so angry and heartbroken that he let the despair win. But the worst part is, I get it. I really do. And were I in his shoes, I don’t know if I would have done anything differently, which just make the loss hurt that much more.
I miss you, man. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I wish I had known. We’ll see each other again someday, grab a coffee, and then I swear I’ll kick your ass for making me cry. Love ya, buddy.
dangerous.horse 
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