There are many reasons why the results of Matthew Perry’s autopsy were meaningful to me. Probably not for the reasons you might think, though. I never watched “Friends.” When that show premiered, I was right at the beginning of my quest to get a record deal. I lived in an apartment with my bandmates and if it didn’t make music, record music or contribute to biological survival, we didn’t own one. That puts television right at the top of the list of things we didn’t have to carry when we moved.
Honestly, the clips of the show I have seen in my periphery have always seemed kind of vapid. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. The Marx Brothers were not known for their heady take on world events but Norman Cousins watched all of their movies and laughed so hard that he freed himself from an illness that medical professionals regarded as fatal and incurable. (Feel free to “search it up,” as my daughter Gloria says).
But yes, the reason I was so affected by his autopsy results is because we are/were very similar. We’re less than a year apart in age. We were both creative and involved in the arts. We both experienced extended periods of abstinence and we both concluded those periods in the latter part of middle age. We both went through opioid addiction and we both suffered from major gastrointestinal issues as a result. We both had to seek out surgical interventions to repair the damage caused by those issues. I could keep going but you get the point.
And hold up. Let’s pause here for a moment: with regard to his wealth and success, I don’t see that as something that puts us on two different planets. If you look into the many studies completed by Harvard professor Dan Gilbert, fame and wealth don’t really move the needle on overall life satisfaction. One’s baseline of happiness will always return to where it began once the initial celebration is over. This is not my opinion. It is a fact.
Even Perry himself realized that.
“Nobody wanted to be famous more than me. I was convinced it was the answer. I was 25, it was the second year of “Friends,” and eight months into it, I realized the American dream is not making me happy, not filling the holes in my life. I couldn’t get enough attention. …Fame does not do what you think it’s going to do. It’s all a trick.”
So, to continue my train of thought, when I saw the news reports about Ketamine, I stopped right in my tracks. I’ve never tried it myself, but for arguments sake, you can change ketamine to anything, really. Fentanyl, cocaine, adderall– it’s an inconsequential variable. What needs to really be focused on is the common denominator.
The papers don’t go into a lot of details about why the police showed up at his house that afternoon, but if one reads between the lines, we can assume he was alone. If there’s anything I can relate to, it’s what it feels like to be middle aged and alone. Especially at this part of the year, where society tries to make you feel satanic if you’re not surrounded by loved ones as you prepare your charcuterie board and wrap your presents. Or at least attending parties, get-togethers, and soirees. Even if you could manage your self-talk, there are enough messages from the outside world that seem to be going through a lot of trouble to heap unrealistic expectations on people.
Because of this, it’s pretty dangerous to be white, male, and middle aged. The demographic was responsible for mortality rates going in reverse for the first time in one hundred years. It’s not necessarily a new phenomenon, but it has been getting much worse since 2010. White men are responsible for 70% of suicides in the US. Of that statistic, the age group from 45-54 is the most “at risk.”
Although Perry’s death is being ruled accidental, as far as I’m concerned, “I don’t give a f*ck” is a form of suicide. I know because I have first hand experience. And “I don’t give a f*ck” comes pretty easy when a person feels like they just don’t matter.
I don’t just see the deaths of Matthew Perry and Chris Cornell as cautionary tales. I see it as a very real possibility. “I don’t give a f*ck” only takes a moment or two to seep in. It is a feeling that does eventually pass, the problem is when a person doesn’t survive the wait. Solitude and loneliness can feel permanent and no amount of intellectualizing seems to stop it.
These deaths affect me because I see myself in that hot tub, like Perry. Or that hotel room, like Chris Cornell. To be honest, it could’ve been my story quite a few times. Being so intimately familiar with that state of mind is what scares me the most.Social scientists call these tragedies “deaths of despair.” Despair, the feeling that it’s just not worth putting any effort into the fight, is a sneaky criminal that finds its way to the front door of middle aged people more often than we’d like to admit. And I am certain this was the case with these guys and countless others in our age group.
Although I feel a kind of pressure to finish this piece with some kind of “call to action,” I’m not going to. A call to action is a phrase invented by annoying editors to sell more clicks. “One can not leave the reader thinking that life is hopeless.” I will try not to do that, either. I will leave you with a very real thought: something in the fabric of our society is not working anymore. Perhaps it’s man’s obsession with self. Perhaps it’s the incessant messaging we are subjected to 24/7. Or the fact that there are so many variables that drive middle aged men to feel despair.
Whatever the case, I think it’s important to realize once more what so many have said in the past–everyone is fighting a serious battle that you will never see. The best we can do is to be kinder to one another.
I can't find the words to express how this made me feel. I understand all too well "I don't give a fuck" and the depths of despair. Thank you for writing
Excellent and important messages here Billy. Thanks for sharing, and caring.