Only the good die young

Something stopped me in my tracks there for a while, and it's time to blog about it and try to move on. On March 22nd, shortly before visiting NZ for the first time in 3 years, I was informed that my good friend Jeremy Morrison had taken his own life. This was a heavy blow; one that affected me profoundly, and one I don't think I'll ever completely get over. Of course I was and am still heartbroken for his fiancee Mia, and all his other friends who were affected by this tragedy. There's so much I could write, would like to write, but on this topic I agonize over every word, so I'll just have to bluff my way through it. There's a lesson to be learned if you can get to the end of this ineloquent ramble ...

The above photo of Jeremy and his fiancee Mia has been in my digital camera since 22nd April 2003, 3 days before I left NZ for Japan. As I slowly removed older photos to make room for the new ones I took, this photo was one of the few reminders of all the friends and family that I had left behind. Unfortunately, Jeremy didn't know about this, and it's to my great regret that when I talked to him a week before he died, I didn't tell him how much I was looking forward to seeing him and Mia again upon my imminent return.

I first met Jeremy when he was DJing at a friend's birthday party early in 2000. He was a quiet guy, so I was the one to strike up our conversation about the future of music. Vinyl, I proclaimed, was history, and digital music (MP3 etc) the future. Jeremy begged to differ, of course, and yet a few months later there he was: unleashing a Big Beat and Drum'n'Bass set at my 30th birthday party mostly via MP3s mixed by computer. In fact he proceeded to freak me out by selling his turntables and all his records, saying he didn't need them! I agreed to finance a PC for him, and my buddy Sean and I helped him spec it and put it together. Jeremy was a talented guy - persistent, and a quick learner. Soon he was mixing just as well on a PC as he did on decks. He was also naturally athletic, and we started hitting the gym together a couple of times a week. Our last workout was shortly before I left for Japan a couple of years later.

Being gym buddies breeds a special friendship. Apart from being a somewhat social activity, there's a closeness that springs from becoming more aware of someone's body through exercise - how they use it, what their strengths and weaknesses are. Working out is positive and progressive. It's about enjoying life, and the effort to improve ourselves. For three years in Japan I went to the gym alone twice a week or so, and missed my gym buddy Jeremy. The image of him that lives in my head is still the young, strong, enthusiastic young man that he was. I didn't have the chance to go to his funeral and grieve. I still see his smile, hear his laugh, feel his concern and kindness, always placing others before himself. And so now, I go to the gym alone twice a week or so, and there's a hole in my heart.

After the gym we would eat together and chat. Other times too, but usually this was when I would find out how Jeremy was really doing. His life was no cake-walk, and I felt privileged that he was comfortable confiding in me when things were tough. But with hearing hard things comes saying hard things. If you know someone well, after a while you'll know if things are tough for them - no matter what spin they put on it - by the coping strategies they fall back on to make themselves feel better. If you see someone heading down the wrong path, you need to be prepared to express your disapproval in a supportive way. It's not about telling someone how to live their life. If they respect you, your opinion will matter, explicitly voiced or not.

I wish I could berate him now about how much he has disappointed me and the others who loved him. And even more - so much that it hurts - I wish I could see the man he was becoming, his potential realized, his love fulfilled. He gave so much, deserved so much, and some of us gave back all we could. But he threw it all away, and that betrayal is hard to forgive.