There is no handbook for the grieving. While some are able to quickly move on, or at least divert their focus back to themselves in an effort to grasp things they can control, some continue to painfully sulk and watch life go by in subdued anger. Often clutching to a bag of “what if”, feeling the despair of the unknowing. They say everything gets easier with time, but it’s one of those things that continually tests a persons life, no matter how much practice we get.
On May 11, 2022, news broke around the world of one of the most tragic losses we’ve experienced in recent heavy metal history. Trevor Strnad of The Black Dahlia Murder dead at 41. A stark reality that pierces through my heart still.
The notion of suicide is no isolated event in our outsider culture that often includes both fictional and personal passages of death, pain, loss, and the underworld. This leads many to create a false sense of “ready for anything”, simply by wading in the lyrical pool of extreme culture. While Bourdain, Bennington, Cornell and many more names continue to provide a void in our lives over recent years, Strnad was unequivocally one of us and hits much harder because of it.
His on-stage persona was fun, inviting, and outright infectious. Often waving two arms through the air making sure everyone in the room was having the best damn time, every time. As his bandmates perfectly described, “it was his life to be your show”. 
He was equally inviting off stage. I watched his nervous-humble magic at work countless times. Embracing anyone that crossed his path, turning five-minute encounters with fans into a lifetime of memories they share today like myths. It’s no surprise to see the outpouring of heart-felt stories and tributes from everyone that met him, recounting all the ways he touched nearly everyone who dared to venture into the extreme side of our genre. He humanized the experience of a scene often regarded as tough and hostile, broke down the walls between fandom and icon, provided an invitation to the party, and even supplied the chips. Trevor brought life to death metal.
He was known around the world as many things; a metal head, an encyclopedia, a poet, a vocalist, a columnist, a fan, a big heart, a good timer, a hesher; and to some he was a lover, a great friend, and family.
As many know, he was more than the frontman to one of my favorite death metal bands I’ve worked with for two decades, he was my dear friend through some of the best and worst times of my life. Through endless bar nights, camping trips, celebrations, adventure getaways, and “family” dinners, through the break ups, life drama, and the loss of our parents, we managed to always be there, locked and loaded with hugs that made the bad times good, and the good times even better.
Needless to say, I’m still shattered over the loss, and my consolation are the amazing memories I’ve shared with him in settings most other people never get to experience with their friends.
His smile will forever be an image burned in my head, his laugh a sound I yearn to hear again. It was one of my favorite pastimes to try and make him laugh, no matter what dumb shit fell out of my mouth. He always made it a point to tell me how much I meant to him, something you rarely ever find in another human being, especially in our field of work. His sincerity is something that rings in my ears as the days grow longer. He was truly a unique friend I will cherish for the rest of my life, and knowing him was an honor to have.
After shedding what seemed like an infinity of tears, followed by continued numbness, I can't help but recall our conversations. Especially the deeper, more relevant ones. We often spoke of our depression, how we cope with it, what it’s like to live with unstable chemistry, and the never ending battle. How depression is like a warm blanket you go back to, and feel like a fraud every time you crack a smile. How careful you have to be to not show it, and how anxiety painfully dictates how you act around others. We all wear masks. We like to think of metal as our place of understanding, a place to dump our misery and darker parts of ourselves, but even the biggest heshers live within 4 walls inside the mind. We live in a time folks often shun the sad, and applaud the carefully crafted highlight reels. How often has someone asked you “how are you doing?” and without even thinking, you reply “I’m Good, Thanks” and it not be true? 
In the community that loved and adored him, Trevor was everyone’s teddy bear, who showed us that it’s OK to live, love and laugh even when being brutal. But- behind the smile was a pain he couldn’t escape, and many couldn’t see. Something that followed him for years. One listen to “Receipt” off Abysmal or “Every Rope A Noose” off of Everblack will paint a different perspective for those surprised to learn about his mental health struggles. Those that knew, checked in as often as he would let us, which was a difficult wall to climb.
I don’t bring this up to reveal anything about Trevor he wasn’t already forthcoming about in our interviews, but in hopes it helps to build more awareness of mental health in our community. To help anyone out there who also suffers from depression. Let Trevor’s life and death signal the change we need to make in turning the stigma of mental strife into actual help for anyone who needs it. Every month is mental health month.
As many know, Trevor and I were both outspoken about our mental health, as are a few others in the metal scene. And as I sit here, tearing over my friend, I vow to make this an agenda worth fighting for more than ever.
Here’s the thing about depression: it’s busy. It seems passive, but it is an aggressor. It eventually leads to the darkest parts of your psyche, especially if you allow it, mask it, hide it, and push others away from it. As someone who experienced the same dark feelings as Trevor, I can tell you the last thing on your mind when the moment strikes is a hotline number. Even calling a friend is too much weight to bear. You don’t want to be a burden. You think no one will understand and there is no other way. That it's your best and final apology to the world. That is its weapon against you, no matter how ill informed.
There are people in the world that have to fight to feel joy, no matter what it looks like. Something some are naturally born with, and thus taken for granted by anyone that doesn’t understand. The COVID-19 lockdowns certainly didn’t help by supplying people with too much time to think and too little time functioning in society. Trevor certainly felt those consequences, as millions of us continue to find our footing today.
In my opinion, the only real defense we have, is preventing ourselves from getting that far in the first place. Therapy, a support system, meditation, being active and psychiatry are great tools to explore for anyone who suffers from this disease. I know what works for me, I hope you can find what works for you. Just please know, the help you need is out there, and the time is right now.
Hold your friends close, metal brothers and sisters. Tell them you care, and you are here for them, and mean it. The irony of it all is how much Trevor hated to see his friends in pain. Although our crew is still feeling this massive blow and going through the motions, it’s beautiful how many times we’ve shared the words “I love you” with each other since his passing. Despite a sad reminder why we do it, I find it to be a beautiful sentiment that gives his life even further meaning.
My last conversation with Trevor was about his happiness, and that it’s all that matters to me no matter where he goes or moves away to. That’s still true today. I love you brother, and I always will. 
I will be sending 100% of revenue earnings from this post to the National Association Of Mental Illness in honor of our brother, Trevor Scott Strnad.
