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Dear FutureMe, Dear FutureMe, It's been a whileee since I've written one of these. Tonight I'm using it more of a journal entry for myself to cope. This week a shooting occurred where my parents live. We hear about *** violence in the US constantly. I don't know the true statistics but it feels like there's a new headlining mass shooting or political shooting every month. It's always made me sad but I never could've predicted how I would react if it was closer to home... at my own school, my own town, where my loved ones live. It doesn't help that my brother nearly died when I was in high school, and the fear of that happening again has instilled in me an intense anxiety of losing my loved ones. Now this week I've been grappling with the idea that my parents could've easily been the ones who were shot. That was jarring enough but I was able to proceed with my days with relative ease. That was until today. I was seated at the leg press machine at school, when in between sets, I glanced at Facebook. An article popped up about the shooting and out of curiosity I clicked to see if there was any new info posted. The updated included anectodotes from family members of the man who was shot and ******. "selfless", "always makes everyone smile" "lover of pickleball and poker". I'm not gonna lie, part of me used to feel that these types of anecdotes were glorified descriptions of people, tainted by the pain of their loss. I was wrong. Rob was the epitome of joy, welcome, comfort. I knew this man for three hours. I met him a month ago, but I enjoyed every second of the pickleball game we played. He was a jokester, he was patient, kind, talented at pickleball, a husband, and father. The gears in my brain started turning. I looked at the image of the man with hesitation, praying he wouldn't be named as Rob. Surely there's no way that out of all my parents' neighbors, he was the one that was ******. "Robert DeCesare". My heart sank and tears started to roll down my face. Next I saw his wife's name. I ran out of the gym and called my mom with tears rolling down my face, "was the guy we played pickleball with the one that was shot". Yes. Now I'm left with this wierd pit in my stomach. not only a pit, but a knot. I feel like I need an instruction manual of how to cope, but that doesn't exist. Like I don't feel like I was close enough with him that I can cry about this for days. But it also doesn't feel right to proceed with life as if this scary and horrific thing didn't just happen. like what do you do?