Dear Tim

In memoriam Avicii

It took me a while, but I finally got that photo of you. Several developed ones came in the mail the other day. I chose one of you wearing white, seated, holding your hands, angelic. It seemed most appropriate within the gold ornate frame I purchased. I was worried about it being too ostentatious, but I really like it. I keep your memory alive on a shelf above my bed.

When I first told a friend that I intended to frame your photo, to canonize you, he didn’t understand. After I explained he said, “I get it now, it’s not about what he had.” I was taken aback. Celebrating your quantified life, the one measured by wealth, fame, adoration, hadn’t crossed my mind. I began to feel misunderstood. It’s a feeling I have often, and I’m searching for a solution.

I want to explain why I’ve decided to keep your portrait in my home; I want an opportunity to tell you what an inspiration you’ve been. Your accumulated possessions, both tangible and intangible, mean little to me. However, the type of person you were, the values you held, your graciousness will stay with me for years to come. Your pioneering spirit and humility have inspired how I conduct myself. With so much strife in the world today, I take what little hope I can find in knowing that decent people are still fighting to create beauty.

I intend on keeping those values alive because they are the essence of whatever good still remains of humanity. The style and lyricism of your music tells me everything I need to know about the person you were. When I received that text message on April 20th, I had little idea of how much your departure would affect me. I always assumed you would be there throughout my life, existing on the periphery, growing as I was, pursuing your craft while on a deeply personal journey. I took solace in knowing that the world might spin off its axis, but at least Avicii would still be there with us.

But you’re gone. I’ve cycled through the various stages of grief. Anger took hold after watching True Stories and witnessing your management team ignore your cries for help. Denial came as a dream: constantly wondering when I’ll wake up or convincing myself that I’m living in the wrong timeline. I’d bargain throughout the day, telling myself that I would gladly have you back if in return I’d have to give up your music. Without consultation or hesitation, I’d make that trade on everyone’s behalf.

I find it more surprising than most that I’ve responded this way. I always enjoyed your music, but I never met you in person, never went to one of your shows. In truth, the reason I’m writing this letter is because I saw so much of myself in you. We’re the same age, the same gender. We grew up with the same global experiences. I have struggled with substance abuse in a misguided attempt to cope with my anxiety and depression. What other options did I have? No one seemed to notice how much pain I was in, least of all myself. I’ve contemplated suicide on numerous occasions, only to pull back from the edge. I’m afraid of leaving without having properly told my side of the story. I’m even more afraid to get started.

From as early as 16, I became convinced that I would not live a long life. Throughout my 20s, my grip has been tenuous. I’ve contemplated an early departure off and on, bargaining with myself until I find an amendable solution. In my darkest night of the soul, around the age of 23, I made a promise to see the world before I made any final decision. I believed that happiness might exist somewhere in parts unknown. It was my duty to seek it out. And so I’ve traveled a great deal, only to recently stop. Once I see everything will there be anything left to keep me here?

I always thought it would be 27 but that turned out to be my best year. I traveled, found real love within a doomed relationship, and worked hard to appease the demands of my soul. 28 was unbearable though. I was acutely aware of my mortality, my lack of progress toward my goals, the decay of civility, global conflict. My depression ensured that I remained unemployed, without health insurance or any recourse for recovery, and my credit debt bloomed. I came close to suicide yet again, but I found just enough hope, truly the bare minimum, to stave off any permanent action. Because of people like you, individuals unafraid to pursue new boundaries, express themselves, and promote love, truth, beauty, I was able to discover a new raison d’etre.

With the deaths of Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain, society is starting to take notice. We’ve lost too many great ones this year. I’ve been waiting for any moment to inspire me out of my lethargy. I’ve mythologized it, envisioning some grand dramatic event. In reality, I’ve been moving toward that event since birth. I’ve been discovering and identifying my values through a process of confrontation with the world. On this day, after incalculable losses, I want peace. I believe people are more alike than they are different. I want to do my part, however small, to inject more hope into the world, similar to what you gave people through your music.

This hope is conditional. I have no intention of hiding away from reality; I don’t believe in the inherent sanctity of life. People frequently describe suicide in the context of disease, and while many truly do suffer from mental illness, the conversation must broaden to include the individual’s self-determination. It’s perfectly reasonable, after glancing around at our shared condition, to think fuck this shit. Many of us are haunted. While depression might compromise an individual’s resolve, it doesn’t obscure truth. Therefore, to prevent suicide we must acknowledge the validity of the action and fight in spite of the absurd darkness surrounding us. Our weapon of choice is love. Suicide is not inherently selfish. What is selfish is our expectation that our loved ones should live with constant pain. I have no room to judge.

Instead, I’m going to simply focus on finding the courage to tell my story. Because when I’m way down in the hole, a helping hand is the best way to bridge the gap. It’s the only way I see being able to repay you, Bukowski, Bourdain, Dante, Celine and the numerous others who have so beautifully qualified the journey of human kindness and misery. What has made suicide so difficult to act on in the past are my memories of love, truth and beauty. I might not be able to hold onto them long enough, but I know they exist. The stubborn thought of discovering them once again keeps me going. It’s an insidious belief that all options have not been exhausted. Hope is dangerous, but I can’t help but think it could have saved you, or any of the others we lost this year.

One of my favorite thinkers once said “there is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide.” I think you would have liked him. His work has helped me in some of my darker moments. He was another beautiful soul that the world lost too soon, someone who kept his gaze firmly on what it means to be human. That’s where I want to look as well, never losing sight of the duality of joy and pain that defines so much of our shared experience. You embodied that duality: your stage name represented the nadir, while your music spoke of nirvana. I often wonder what it will take for our artists, for all of us to find the middle way.

So be well. Rest. We should have done more to protect you. You deserved better. I want you to know that I intend on doing a better job for anyone still living in darkness. Your portrait reminds me that there’s work to be done; it reminds me that it can be done with style and grace. Thank you so much for having the strength of character to be a good person. I’ll try to do the same. You are my brother, my friend. We’re kids on the playground. I have to learn how to love without you, but your legend stays with me always.