I met Danny in 1999, about four months after I moved to
Almost from the moment he said hello, Danny put me at ease. He was a joker, and especially fond of impersonations. I remember the day we met because he launched into a hilarious imaginary dialogue between these two ladies – a mother and her long-in-the-tooth daughter who lived in
We exchanged numbers, and would periodically get together or just talk on the phone for the next several years. He was quite open about personal issues, and I suppose this helped me open up to him about some of my own struggles at the time. He never tried to give me some quick-fix-it type advice. He would just listen and make me laugh. I appreciated this – sometimes you just need someone to listen.
Danny was a talented actor and comedian. He wrote several plays based on or influenced by his growing up gay in a Jewish neighborhood in
It is amazing how prolific Danny was, considering some of the spectacular demons he dealt with daily. He was bipolar, and even with medications, he still struggled with the horrific highs and lows of the disease. He could be incredibly productive and confident during his manic periods -- writing his plays and comedy monologues -- as well as incredibly self-destructive.
When he was down, it was like he was pinned by a rock to the deepest corner of the
And there were times he was on an even keel. He was calm. Those of us with less neurological ticks in our brain cannot begin to understand how lucky we are just to feel “even” each day. We cannot comprehend what it feels like to be permanently on the edge of the cliff, first afraid to fall – perhaps even fighting it –then accepting the inevitable descent, and finally praying for it to happen.
I wish Danny didn’t make the choice he did, but part of me can understand why he might have felt there was no longer any other viable option. He couldn’t find a medication that was working and I presume therapy wasn’t helping. He must have felt like a mute trapped in an abandoned mine – even if he wanted help, it was impossible for him to call out for it. A deep depression will do that; and if the pain doesn’t kill you, the numbness will. The numbness gives you the courage to do it.
I am sad that I lost contact with him before his death, especially because it was for no other reason than I was being a typical over-scheduled, crazily busy New Yorker. I would never be as arrogant to presume I could have prevented his death. I wasn’t a close friend of his and I think he was already on a path from which he would not be diverted. But I am sorry I couldn’t have had one more conversation with him:
Hey Danny, it’s me, Sarah. I’m sorry I haven’t called you in a while. A lot of things have happened in the past few years. I bought an apartment, quit that magazine job, and got married. I have a cat now. It’s November 26, 2007, and I’ll be 31 tomorrow. Wish you could be here. I love you.
© Sarah Stanfield, November 26, 2007
5 comments:
RS: Your friend sounds lovely. I know from up close how challenging bipolar disorder can be--in mild forms at least. It is an unimaginable struggle. I love hearing peoples stories of people who've touched their lives and can only live on in the remembrances shared. He lives on through your words and you honor him beautifully.
HC: SS, very powerful and moving. I wish I had known Danny, too, from your description of him. I agree with RS that Danny lives on through you. Thank you for telling me about him.
DW: Danny is very lucky to have known you. Your description of him "pinned by a rock to the deepest corner of the Grand Canyon" really expresses the paralyzing darkness that can envelop us. Thank you for sharing Danny with us.
DW: Danny is very lucky to have known you. Your description of him "pinned by a rock to the deepest corner of the Grand Canyon" really expresses the paralyzing darkness that can envelop us. Thank you for sharing Danny with us.
AV: Thank you for such a moving, honest tribute to Danny. Yes, it's the numbness, strangely enough, that precedes courage here. Your last paragraph, btw, is as moving a eulogy as any I've seen. Thank you. And Happy Birthday.
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