I haven't cried, even though Hardcore (camp nickname, tradition at FD) came out to support me in Denver when I ran for Team FD. I haven't cried even though Hardcore sent me a care package with a necklace from Etsy not a month ago, when she knew she was dying. I haven't cried at all.
I went to my nanny job and ran around in the backyard as it hailed with the kids and the dog. We jumped on a trampoline and I played the drums. I didn't say Fuck in front of the kids but every text I got about hardcore's death made me feel the punch of that word even louder. I banged the snare drum, I crashed the cymbal with my stick until it was loud enough to make sense.
Matt texted me that Jason Molina had died and the misery started to add up. I drove home and blasted "Just Be Simple Again" and thought that he wrote songs with feeling, with feeling and how rare is that?
I've been laying on the floor for an hour, vomiting and sick. I leave for Denver Friday for the FD Ball, an event Hardcore was supposed to attend. And then instead of booking a flight back East, I booked a one way ticket to Las Vegas to hang out with Matt for a night. Then we'll drive to LA, where I have no place to stay, really.
I am being careless. I have no money, I don't give a shit.
I can't tell if I'm desperately trying to grasp "living" in the way First Descents encourages us. (Please google them and learn about them, they are so vital to young adult cancer survivors).
I can't tell if i'm "out living it" or running the fuck away from something that cannot escaped. From the fear of losing more, to alcholism and to cancer. From the fear I'll relapse, too.
All the ones I love,
they are so precious.
They are so easily taken.