Rest in Peace, Beautiful Andrew

My mom called me this morning with the "you'd better sit down" kind of news. My cousin Andrew is dead. His body was found by some kids in a park in San Jose. We don't know the cause of death yet--may have been exposure (it was cold, and he was without a jacket or sleeping bag like he's been so many nights in the last few years), may have been an overdose (he'd been off heroin for months, but I'm guessing a fix at his normal dose might've done it), may have been a recurrence of the alcohol-induced pancreatitis that'd almost killed him a couple times before.

Some of you might remember the discouraging stories about my cousin that have emerged over the last couple years. He's been walking around without proper diagnosis nor treatment for several years, getting more and more paranoid, isolated, and depressed. He most likely had paranoid schizophrenia, and the delusions of conspiracy and being under attack ruled his consciousness to the point that he wouldn't eat food offered him (poison), couldn't sleep in the homes of people who loved him (he was constantly afraid of being gassed), wouldn't take showers (he was convinced that whoever put the toxins on his body wanted them to wash into his body) or accept offers of clothing or help with his mental health (of course drugs or any kind of intervention were all part of the conspiracy). The safety and solace that we offered to him were received ambivalently at the very best, but often, in his delusional perspective, seemed malicious, poisonous, murderous.

He was never violent--only turned terribly inward to his despondence and sadness and fear. He was an amazing blues guitarist, but hardly picked up an instrument in the last two years because he was so defeated. His life was (I can't believe I'm using the past tense) emblematic of how tragic the loss of someone young can be: he was boundlessly creative and talented and funny and kind, and by the end, he had no idea that he was capable of beauty and happiness. We all knew that it had the potential to end this way, but we all prayed that he would finally decide to reach out for help. The only good that will come of his death is that he's not suffering anymore. But I can't say the same for Aunt Rhoda, or anyone else who loved him. I can't imagine the horror of watching your kid deteriorate and die like this. It's just so wrong.

Good bye, Anj. I love you, man.