Anne Lamott to the Rescue (Again)

Over the years, the words of Anne Lamott have helped me through some very difficult and challenging times in my life: my son’s addiction, my father’s death, an extended period of unemployment, and a cancerous tumor on my kidney, to name just a few. So, it came as no surprise whatsoever that Dusk Night Dawn: On Revival and Courage found its way into my hands the same week my father-in-law had a massive stroke and lay in a hospital bed with a very uncertain future. (Cue Twilight Zone theme song here.)

I am incredibly grateful for Anne Lamott and her writings. (So much so that I started the Anne Lamott Quotes account on Twitter, which you should definitely go follow!) To be honest, I’ve pretty much fallen in love with every book she’s ever written. (Full disclosure: I haven’t read any of her novels!) That’s why my brand new love affair with Dusk Night Dawn was entirely predictable. But, even though I may be a bit biased, please trust me: This one’s another winner.

Annie tells it like it is and, quite often, tells it like she wishes it was. After all, she admits to us that “most of my life force goes into trying to self-will life and me into cooperating with how I think things should be.” On the other hand, though, she seems to be making some progress in her “third third” (love that term!) of life. “I am slowly making my way from a hypnotized engine of delusion and self-obsession to being a bit more real, a smidge more alive more often. I’ll take it. I am learning to live more often in reckless love.”

 

Speaking of love, that’s covered in Dusk Night Dawn, too, as Annie frequently talks about her still-relatively-new marriage to her soulmate, Neal. Sure, she loves and adores him, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a target at times. “When I’m watching him, I observe what a tall, nice-looking, thoughtful focused know-it-all he is. He comes from a family of know-it-alls. His brothers are just like him. I love them, but at our family vacations it is like Wikipedia with PMS.” 

My favorite essays in Dusk Night Dawn are probably “Lunch-Money Faith” and “Light Breezes.” In “Lunch-Money Faith,” Annie talks about her friend Terri who, one day at church, told her, “I have made a life and career out of being a good sport…And I am worn out.” Annie concurs. “Me too. I am sick and tired of being such a good sport and worker bee, chin up and adorably ironic, while we notice how much worse things have grown.” Amen to that. Aren’t we all just a little tired at this point?

 

Meanwhile, in “Light Breezes” Annie explores one of my favorite “D” words: Dread. As a lifelong catastrophizer, I can easily relate to what Lamott calls “my most reliable companion, always there for me, like God in a bad mood,” sharing with us that “Dread was my governess growing up.” She adds, “If Dread is not still right there at my side, she’s there in the wings, humming her hymns, drumming her fingers, knowing there is always a place for her in my heart. Life will push her call button.”

 

In true Anne Lamott fashion, though, there is lots of positivity in Dusk Night Dawn, too. “Yes, these are times of great illness and distress,” Annie writes. “Yet the center may just hold.” She also posits that “Hope springs from realizing we are loved, can love, and are love with skin on. Then we are unstoppable.”

 

Dusk Night Dawn is classic Anne Lamott, full of observation, honesty, sarcasm, positivity, self-deprecating humor (“I have a doctorate in morbid reflection.”), and the occasional eff bomb (“Never disobey Sunday school teachers. They will fuck with you.”). If you need a little bit of hope and courage, do yourself a favor and read this book. And remember: “The kitten isn’t dead. The kitten is in the living room.” (You’ll have to read the book to understand the meaning of that!)

"In the third third of life, you may become just as miserable and prickly as ever, but you cycle through more quickly. You remember other dark nights of the soul and how by dawn they always broke. You discover that everything helps you learn who you are, and that this is why we are here. You roll your eyes at yourself more gently. You sigh and go make yourself a cup of tea." --Anne Lamott

Book Review: Once More We Saw Stars

Once More We Saw Stars: A Memoir is a book that is at once heartbreaking and inspirational. Jayson Greene wastes no time getting to the accident that took the life of his 2-year-old daughter, Greta, much too soon; we learn about the tragedy on the second page of the book. From there, Greene takes us on a journey that includes loss, heartbreak, anger, grief, guilt, and just about every other emotion you can imagine. Just how does a young couple deal with such a devastating loss? Greene's brutally honest and beautiful writing makes the reader feel like they are right there with him, his wife Stacy, and his mother-in-law Susan ("Grandma Suz," who was with Greta when the accident occurred) as they navigate their way through the unthinkable. Learning how each one of them manages to live through such a horrible event and come out relatively okay on the other side is an inspiration.

I found myself getting teary-eyed more times than I can remember while reading Once More We Saw Stars. Some of the things that are said by Jayson and Stacy are just gut-wrenching. For example, not long after Greta's death, Stacy says, "Haven't we done this long enough? Can't we have her back now?" And at one point, Jayson writes: "A pall of societal shame hovers over everyone in this club....Children who lose parents are orphans; bereaved spouses are widows. But what do you call parents who lose children? It seems telling to me there is no word in our language for our situation. It is unspeakable, and by extension, we are not supposed to exist."

This book also teaches us about the grieving process, and how no two people will go through it in the same way. "Grief is fluid, and it is always changing," a grief expert tells Jayson and Stacy during a retreat. "Above all, 'grief is unique as a fingerprint. We can show you the stages, but they are not a linear journey. In the end, nothing and no one can hand you the map to your own grief.'"

Yes, this is a sad book. But it is also a book that reinforces the idea that people can--and do--find the strength to deal with unfathomable loss and learn to live again. Is it easy? Hell, no. But if you work hard at it, you can overcome even the worst things in life. I've never been able to imagine what losing a child would be like--until now. Kudos to Jayson Greene for his courageous memoir. Once More We Saw Stars will make you cry, but it will also make you smile. Especially after the birth of the couple's new son, Harrison, of whom Jayson writes: "Under his tutelage, I can feel a frankly ludicrous conviction growing inside of me. We--myself and my wife, the growing child in front of us and the one we never see--are going to be all right."

Take it from me: This one's a must-read.

Jayson Greene and his late daughter, Greta. 

Anna David Learned from Her Mistakes...and We Can, Too

Anyone who knows me knows that I have an adult son who has struggled on and off with severe depression and addiction for more than a dozen years. I don't try to hide that from anybody. In fact, my son's issues inspired me to become a recovery and mental health advocate. Along the way, I've read just about every book on addiction and recovery I've been able to get my hands on, including countless memoirs and self-help books by people in recovery. And I have to say, How to Get Successful by F*cking Up Your Life: Essays on Addiction & Recovery by Anna David is one of the best I've read.

David is the author of the New York Times bestselling novel Party Girl, a semi-autobiographical tale about a celebrity journalist who falls victim to a world of drugs, alcohol, and sex, which leads to her self-destruction before she finally finds sobriety. While Party Girl may have been classified as fiction, How to Get Successful by F*cking Up Your Life is 100 percent authentic.

In David's latest book, she shares essays that document her struggles with addiction and her journey to recovery. The essays, which are brutally honest and oftentimes laugh-out-loud hilarious, are grouped into three sections: What It Was Like [Pre-Sobriety]; What Happened [Early Sobriety]; and What It’s Like Now [Today]. This format allows the reader to ride along and witness first-hand the progress David made on her road to sobriety (potholes and all). And while the essays alone make this book highly entertaining and educational, David goes a step further and includes a value-added twist to the end of each one.

Personally, I think the "Lesson Learned" feature that appears after each essay is the absolute best part of How to Get Successful by F*cking Up Your Life. This is where David shines the brightest, taking the frequently negative experiences of her addiction/recovery journey and reframing them into a positive lesson that she, and others, can use to improve life going forward.

For example, in the essay entitled "What Addiction Sounded Like," David talks about how cocaine, the drug that once kept the party going all night long for her, had betrayed her. "It made me unable to do anything but sit in front of my computer and shake," she reveals. And while sitting in front of her computer, trying to write, the computer would emit an annoying "BEEP!" every 60 seconds. "I lived in fear of the beep," David confesses. "It somehow symbolized just how bad things were." At the end of the essay, David shares her lesson learned--“Remember the Bad Times (So You Don’t Repeat Them)”--and provides the reader with some insightful words of wisdom.

Anna David is a gifted, intelligent, funny writer, and this collection of essays shows us that a person can make mistakes in life--BIG mistakes--and still find success and contentment. As she says in the Introduction, David hasn't followed "the typical paths. But at this point in my life I can honestly say I feel successful on all levels…not just with what I’ve achieved but with how I feel about what I’ve achieved, not to mention how I feel about what I haven’t achieved." That’s not a bad place to be, and I'm guessing most people would be incredibly happy to feel the same way. Reading How to Get Successful by F*cking Up Your Life might just help them get there.

Anna David (photo from her Facebook page)

Everything Happens for a Reason

Author's Note: I started writing this blog post yesterday. And then I tried again today. But the story was getting so long and wordy that I didn't think anybody would want to read it. My dad used to say this about people who talked too much: "You ask 'em what time it is and they tell you how to build a watch!" I didn't want to be that guy, so I decided to try and distill my story down to fewer words, and put it into a format that (hopefully) won't bore people to tears. Enjoy!

"Everything happens for a reason."

I used to have a hard time subscribing to that theory, but as I've gotten old(er) it seems like as good a way as any to explain some of the weird things that occur in our everyday life. Especially the things that start out bad, but end up maybe being blessings in disguise. And the things that make you stop and think hard. Really hard. Case in point...

Afternoon of December 21st: My neighbor sends me a Facebook message asking me if I could come over and give her a hand, because her adorable seven-month-old baby, who was sick, had just thrown up again and it was "everywhere." So she needed help holding the little guy while she cleaned up the mess. I run next door to help--the puke really was everywhere--and eventually my wife shows up, too. My neighbor asks us: "What if you guys get sick?" My wife answers: "We'll just deal with it."

Wee Small Hours of the Morning of December 23rd: I get up to go to the bathroom and I feel super dizzy. A few minutes later, I'm the one who's puking my guts out. Multiple times. After making a mental note to never eat Chinese food again, I wake my wife up and tell her she has to take me to the hospital. I guess this is "dealing with it."

At the Hospital: The doctors and nurses (eventually) take good care of me, and several hours, IVs, and medications later, I'm finally starting to feel like I might live after all. But the powers-that-be decide to keep me overnight for observation. Woohoo!

December 24th: It's Christmas Eve day and I'm feeling reasonably okay. I've even progressed from being on an all liquid diet to eating real hospital "food." My stomach appears to be fine. But wait! The doctors tell me that my stomach x-ray and CT scan seemed to show something abnormal with my right kidney. So now they want me to have an MRI done. Wonderful.

I get the MRI done, but not before I almost throw up in the MRI machine. (Apparently, I had some kind of reaction to the contrast liquid they put in my IV before the test.) Now I'm anxious to go home. But a doctor comes in and says the MRI confirmed that something is indeed amiss with my kidney, and that he doesn't feel comfortable reading the MRI and talking to me about it, so I have to have a urologist do that. And the urologist on call has already left for the day, so I have to spend another night in the hospital and talk to the urologist in the morning. WTF???

December 25th: Merry effing Christmas. I'm in the hospital on Christmas morning, my wife is sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed knitting (surprise!), and we're waiting for the urologist. I, of course, continue to imagine all the most horrible scenarios I can possibly imagine, including the "C" word. The one positive I keep coming back to? At least it's my kidney, because I have two of them, and I'm pretty sure a human only needs one kidney live.

Eventually, the urologist shows up and pulls up my MRI films on his computer. He shows us the mass that has decided to call my right kidney its home. Luckily, it's small (2.0 x 1.8 cm). And it's right on the edge of the kidney, too. (Kind of like a pimple on the end of your nose.) The doctor says it's likely a tumor, not a cyst, and tells us we can either have a biopsy done and go from there, or just have the thing removed, because it should be pretty simple. His suggestion is the latter, and we think that seems like the best way to go.

After the consult, I finally get to go home and open gifts with my family. My favorite Christmas present? A purple paring knife from my wife. My least favorite Christmas present? This goddamn tumor on my kidney! 😢

A few days later, my wife and I follow up with the urologist at his office. We finalize the decision to have the tumor surgically removed, and the next day we're informed that the surgery is scheduled for February 26th. Unfortunately, that's just a couple days before a concert we already have tickets for (Phoebe Bridgers), so we call to see if we can possibly get an earlier date. The surgery scheduler tells us that if we change hospitals, the procedure can be done on February 2nd. Great! Sounds like a plan!

But a week before the 2nd, I get a phone call from the urologist's office. They have to cancel my surgery and reschedule it because my doctor had a meeting come up that he has to attend. Seriously?!? All I can think is that this meeting had better be the most important damn meeting of this doctor's life.

The next day, the doctor's office calls to tell me my new surgery date is February 6th. And after I hang up, I start to freak out a bit.

It took me a little while to put two and two together, but when I finally did I realized this:

February 6th, 2018 = 5 years to the day that my father died...in the same hospital I'm supposed to have my surgery at.

Gulp.

I have to admit, this spooked me out for a few days. I mean, it spooked me out to the point where I was seriously considering calling and having them reschedule my surgery yet again.

The other day, though, I was driving my sister to work--she had fallen and hurt her arm, so she couldn't drive--and we had a conversation about this weird "coincidence." I confessed to her that I was more than a little uneasy about it. That's when she told me about another possibility: Maybe my surgery got moved to the day and hospital it did so my dad could watch over me. "Everything happens for a reason," she said to me, matter of factly. Hmmmmm, I thought to myself. Maybe instead of this being a creepy, scary thing, it's actually a good thing.

To be honest, that hadn't even crossed my mind before I talked to my sister. And the more I thought about it, the more I felt comforted by the notion that my dad might be there with me on Tuesday while my doctor and his robot perform a partial right nephrectomy on me. If you're gonna have someone watch over you in the operating room, it might as well be your dad, right?

So I decided not to change the date after all. Because everything happens for a reason. My neighbor's baby got me sick so I'd go to the hospital and they'd find a tumor I never would've known about otherwise. Then a concert and a meeting caused the date of my surgery to get changed to the anniversary date of my father's death; and the location to get changed to the same hospital that he died in. And my sister hurting her arm resulted in me driving her to work and talking about a fear that she turned into something incredibly comforting.

And suddenly, everything makes sense.

What my Christmas Eve looked like.

What the Hell Is My Purpose in Life?

What the hell is my purpose in life?

I've been struggling a lot with that question lately.

Almost four years ago, I left a company I worked for for almost 25 years. I'd grown tired of my job and felt completely stuck. I was spending eight-plus hours a day doing something I pretty much hated, just because I needed the paycheck and the benefits. That seemed completely wrong. I figured there had to be more to life, so when I was offered the chance to walk out the door with a severance package, I decided to do it.

Now--1,433 days later--I'm wondering if I made the right decision.

I left my corporate comfort zone in order to find work I could be more passionate about. I wanted to do something that met at least one of two criteria: 1.) I wanted a job I actually liked doing. And 2.) I wanted a job that made me feel like I was making a difference in the world. Ideally, I was hoping to find something that checked-off both of those things. Little did I know that finding any job was going to be way harder than I ever imagined.

The first three years of being underemployed were pretty enjoyable. I wasn't able to find full-time work, but I was able to pick up some freelance gigs that I enjoyed and brought in a little money. But this last year has been a tremendous challenge.

I was probably more than a little naive to think that cutting my household's income by more than 80 percent was going to be something my family could survive long-term. Yes, we had some savings that we'd accumulated over the years, and that was definitely going to come in handy. But I wasn't planning to still be looking for full-time work almost four years later, and that savings account wasn't that big. (Needless to say, you should see it now.)

For the last few weeks, I've found myself second-guessing my decision to leave my my job. I don't miss the job itself, but I miss the money. And the health insurance. And the 401k. And the cheap life insurance. And the five weeks of paid vacation. All of those things that kept me stuck in a place I didn't want to be for so long would certainly make providing for my family a lot easier than it is now.

Maybe providing for my family is my purpose in life. And maybe my walking away from something that enabled me to do a pretty decent job of doing that was a huge mistake. Honestly, I don't even know anymore.

If you ask people what the purpose of life is, you'll get a bunch of different answers. To love. To help others. To make a difference. To be happy. To explore and experience. Etc. Mind you, those are all good answers. But none of them are resonating with me these days. To be totally honest, I've been feeling more than a little lost lately. I keep asking myself, Why exactly am I here??

Yesterday was particularly tough for me. After paying some bills and looking at the minuscule amount of money that was left in our checking account, I started doubting myself again. Hard. I even told my wife that I didn't know what my purpose was anymore. And then I realized: Maybe I've never known what my purpose is.

It's probably just coincidence that last night's episode of This Is Us had finding your purpose in life as a central theme. And it's probably just another coincidence that Sam Lamott posted the first episode of his How to Human podcast yesterday and the subject was "Finding Your Purpose." Total coincidences, right???? Or maybe someone out there/up there is trying to tell me that I need to figure some things out. Maybe someone is trying to tell me that by age 56, I'm supposed to know what the hell I'm doing here.

Unfortunately, right now, I don't.

I'd be curious to know if anyone else is struggling with this whole "What's my purpose in life?" thing. Or if you've struggled with it in the past, how you dealt with it. I can't be the only one. Can I?

Feel free to leave your comments down below. And, as always, thanks for reading.

"The two most important days in your life are the day you were born and the day you find out why." --Mark Twain

That's Just Life

If you know me, you know I'm a huge music fan. Because of that, there are a lot of music-related things hanging on the walls of my house.

One of those things is a handwritten lyric sheet from one of my favorite folk/roots/pop singer-songwriters, Josh Rouse. It's something I got for backing his Happiness Waltz album on the PledgeMusic crowdfunding site back in 2013. For my donation, I got to choose any Josh Rouse song and have him write out the lyrics for me.

The song I chose was "Life," which was written by Josh Rouse and Daniel Tashian and appears on Josh's 2005 album Nashville. I love this song and the lyrics are words that resonate with me every time I hear them:

Life

Life is good, sometimes it's bad
It has its ups, it has its downs
Just sing a song and feel all right
Cause that's just life

If you're lost, don't be sad
There are good times to be had
Just sing a song and let love shine
Cause that's just life
That's just life
That's just life, so darling don't cry

And when your hour, it is near
And your friends they all are here
To share their love and to be kind
That's just life

Oh and when you're gone, you won't be back
I'll remember those special times we had
I'll sing this song and feel all right
Cause that's just life
That's just life
That's just life, so darling don't cry

The sheet with those lyrics written on it is hanging on the wall in my dining room, and I walk by it every single day. Lately my own life has been more than a little topsy-turvy, full of its own ups and downs. So I frequently stop to read these Josh Rouse lyrics and try to remember...

That's just life.

Late-Night/Early-Morning Gratitude

I'm not sure exactly what time it was--I'm guessing maybe 1:00 or 2:00am--when I got up to pee in the middle of the night last night. (Something us middle-aged men do a lot of. Also, should I be concerned that this is my second blog post in a row that talks about urine?)

While I was in the bathroom, I heard a loud voice coming in from the slightly open window. My first thought was that my younger son and a couple of friends he had over were being loud in the family room, but I wanted to be sure before I went downstairs to tell them to lower the volume a notch.

So I opened the window a little more and listened.

What I heard wasn't the voice of a 20-something male. Instead it was a 30-something female neighbor who lives in a house on the street behind us. She was obviously out on her deck, on her cell phone, having a frantic conversation with someone.

I didn't listen long, but I didn't have to in order to understand what was bothering this woman so much: She found out her husband is having an affair.

She told the person on the other end of the conversation that she discovered some incriminating texts on her husband's phone. And that her husband's office smelled like...well, let's just say "sex." She also wondered why her husband would "want it" from someone so unattractive, saying "I wouldn't mind so much if she was hot."

I only listened to this conversation for about 30 seconds, but that was probably too long. And I probably shouldn't be writing about it either. But I can't help it. Because hearing this conversation--which was, by the way, loud and clear despite the fact that there are hundreds of feet between my upstairs bathroom window and this woman's deck--made me feel two things.

1.) I felt incredibly bad for the woman. She just had a baby a few months ago and now her world is shattering around her. I can't imagine how that must feel. I even told my wife today that we should ask the woman over for dinner. But we don't know her, so such an invitation coming from out of the blue would likely be pretty suspicious.

2.) When I finished peeing, I couldn't help but go back to bed feeling overwhelmingly grateful. Grateful that I have an amazing wife, and that our marriage--which is almost 28 years young now--is rock solid. I can't imagine ever being with anyone else; and I'm pretty sure my wife feels the same way.

Life is a challenge, for sure. My wife and I have encountered a whole lot of difficult situations that we never expected. But we've navigated our way through them the best way we know how. As a result, our relationship has grown stronger. And I'm forever grateful for that.

Like my friend Matthew Ryan likes to say, "Teamwork makes the dream work." And marriage is the ultimate team game.

I'm keeping the neighbor behind me in my thoughts and prayers today. I hope she can find some peace in her world sooner rather than later. No one should ever have to feel what she was feeling late last night/early this morning.

"A good marriage is where both people feel like they're getting the better end of the deal." --Anne Lamott

Me with my (way) better half.

Causes and Effect, 12/16/15: Supporting Crystal and Jeremiah (GoFundMe Campaign)

The sixteenth post of my month-long stint as writer of the Causes and Effect: My Year of Giving Daily blog can be found over at Tumblr. Here's the link to today's post:

The Best--and Worst--Day of a New Mom's Life

Today, the Supporting Crystal and Jeremiah GoFundMe campaign is the recipient of a $10.00 donation from my family. If you would like to make a contribution to this campaign, you can do so here:

Supporting Crystal and Jeremiah

Sixteen down, fifteen to go.

Peace.

Of Irregular Heart Beats and Vulnerability

Something happened last night that scared the hell out of me.

I woke up in the middle of the night and had to go to the bathroom. That, in and of itself, was not scary. As a slightly-beyond-middle-aged male, I've grown kind of accustomed to that annoying trip to the bathroom every night. But what happened once I got to the bathroom was something I'd never done before.

I fell.

When I had gotten out of bed moments earlier, I felt that rush of blood to the head one sometimes feels when getting up suddenly from a resting state. I didn't think much of it, but when I walked into the bathroom it felt like I was walking into a carnival funhouse. I lost my balance, my vision went fuzzy, and the next thing I knew I was falling. And I couldn't stop.

I ended up on the tile floor after bouncing off the bathroom vanity first, and in the process sent the bathroom scale flying. I think I screamed, too. In fact, I must have screamed, because before I knew it, my wife was in the bathroom asking me what had happened and offering her assistance.

I had fallen, and I couldn't get up.

Now, before you all start thinking to yourselves, "Damn, this guy is old," let me tell you that I believe last night's incident was the result of my having started taking a new heart medication yesterday. (Damn...I am old.)

I was diagnosed with atrial fibrillation (AFib) almost 18 years ago. After several episodes of a rapid, fluttering heartbeat--think fish flopping around in your chest--and a trip to the emergency room, doctors were finally able to figure out what was wrong with me. They put me under for 30 seconds (literally), used those cardioversion paddles you always see on TV to shock my heart back into a normal rhythm (CLEAR!!!), and all was good again. The same medication has kept my heart pretty normal ever since. But, unfortunately, sometimes meds stop working.

Almost three weeks ago, I started having AFib flare-ups with some regularity. In fact, I've probably had more flare-ups in the past three weeks than I'd had in the previous 18 years. And it kind of sucks.

For those of you who don't know, atrial fibrillation is an abnormal heart rhythm characterized by rapid, skipping, quivering beats. While my normal heart rate is around 60 beats per minute, during an AFib episode that number can go up to 125, 140, or even higher. (During hospital stays early on, I saw my heart rate rise to 300 bpm and beyond.)

The crazy heartbeat is caused by abnormal electrical signals in the heart. If you were to look at a handout in a cardiologist's office, it would probably say stuff like, "The top and bottom parts of the heart don't work together as they should"; "The heart beats very fast and irregularly"; and maybe "As a result, blood is not properly pumped to the bottom part of the heart and the rest of the body." All of this ends up causing some nasty symptoms--dizziness, light-headedness, shortness of breath, confusion, massive fatigue, chest pressure or pain, sweating, etc.--and, if not controlled, an increased risk of stroke and heart failure.

So thanks to AFib, I've had the best damn cardiologist you could ask for since the relatively young age of 36. (He's actually a "cardiac electrophysiologist," in case you want to get technical.) And yesterday I went to see him about my most recent flare-ups.

He told me he suspected that the drug I started taking 18 years ago (propafenone) had become ineffective, and gave me two options:

1.) I could try another drug (sotalol), and see how it worked for me.
2.) I could have a procedure known as a catheter ablation.

Basically, a catheter ablation involves a thin, flexible, tube with an electrode at the tip of it being inserted through a large vein in your groin and moved into your heart. The catheter is then directed to the precise location(s) in your heart that are producing the AFib. These points are then burned off by zapping them with the electrode. Fun stuff, huh?

As complicated as that procedure may sound, for someone who knows what they're doing, it's relatively simple. And the success rates are pretty high. Of course, there are the normal risks associated with someone putting you under anesthesia and burning off parts of your heart with a wire they stuck into one of your bigger veins. But, all in all, it's pretty straightforward.

To be perfectly honest, I went into my appointment yesterday ready to lobby hard for the ablation procedure. It's been a long time since AFib has kicked my ass like it has this month, and getting refamiliarized with everything the surprise flare-ups entail reminded me just how shitty the symptoms can be. Plus, I wanted nothing to do with trying any new medications. Why? Because the medications that help regulate abnormal heart rhythms come with side effects, the most annoying one being fatigue. When you slow down someone's heart with meds, they're going to be tired. Period.

After talking to my doctor for a bit, my wife and I finally asked him, "If it were you, what would you do?" His answer? Try the new medication first. Initially, I was disappointed to hear this, but his explanation made total sense. If the new meds work without making me feel awful, it's a win. And if they don't work--or if they work and make me feel miserable in the process--I can always go the ablation route.

So that's where I'm at. I took my first dose of the new medication last night, just a few hours before I ended up on the bathroom floor. I took my second dose this morning, and while I feel a little "off," at least I'm managing to stay relatively upright.

The last few weeks--especially last night--have really made me stop and realize just how vulnerable we are as human beings. Or at least how vulnerable I am. Life is a gift, there's no doubt about it. And the older I get, the more I understand that it's a gift with an expiration date.

Falling in the bathroom made me think of my dad, too.

In the months leading up to his death, my dad fell in his bathroom on two different occasions, and I was the person my mom called to come over and help him up. (I talk about one of those incidents here.) Both times, I was struck by how helpless my dad was in that moment. It was terrifying and sad. But you know what? That was me last night: sitting on the bathroom floor, in the dark, wondering what the fuck had just happened, as my wife stood over me asking how she could help. I am 32 years younger than my dad was, but still in the same scary, vulnerable position.

Sotalol and I are not off to a very good start, but I'll keep taking the new medication for the next couple of weeks and monitor how my body reacts to it. If everything goes splendidly, maybe I'll choose to continue with that course of treatment. But if there are any hiccups along the way--or any more unplanned trips to any floors--you can bet I'll be turning my abnormal heart beat over to my cardiologist and his heart zapping electrode.

"When we were children, we used to think that when we were grown-up we would no longer be vulnerable. But to grow up is to accept vulnerability....To be alive is to be vulnerable." --Madeleine L'Engle

Dr. Luis Pires: The best cardiologist on the planet and the best doctor I've
ever had.

New Heroes in Recovery Blog: "Living in the Moment"

One of the most important changes I've made over the last few years has been how I live my day-to-day life. In fact, it might be the most important change I've made. I used to be so concerned with the future and worry so much that it would make my crazy. But now I just live in the moment, appreciating the here and now. And I feel so much better.

That's the subject of my latest blog on the Heroes in Recovery website. It's called "Living in the Moment," and I'd love it if you would take a few minutes to read it. Who knows? It might help you make a positive change in your life, too.

If you take the time to check out my Heroes blog, please consider giving it a "Like" and sharing it. I always like my message to reach as many people as possible. (Also, comments on the blog over at the Heroes site are always welcome.)

Here's a direct link to my blog:

http://heroesinrecovery.com/blog/2015/10/26/living-in-the-moment/

Namaste.

I'm Not as Strong as I Sometimes Appear

I haven't put much thought into this post. So if what I'm writing ends up sounding like some kind of stream of consciousness rambling, I apologize.

One thing I've heard a lot from people over the last couple/few years is how strong I am. How I've gone through difficult things in my life but have handled it so well.

Here's a secret: I'm not as strong as I sometimes appear. In fact, I'm really not that strong at all.

I've been going through some tough times of late. I haven't written about them because I just don't want to. But over the last several weeks I've come to view myself as something of a hypocrite, because I can't seem to practice what I preach.

I write blogs that tell people how they should act. Live in the moment. Don't let the small stuff bother you. Practice self-care. But recently I've done anything but those things. Instead, I've let the shit going on in my world get the best of me.

Yesterday, while my wife was out of town, I honestly thought I was going to have a breakdown. I confess: I served my younger son his dinner with tears rolling down my cheeks.

Today? More of the same: stress, anxiety, fear, and lots of self-loathing.

I'm kind of a mess.

Maybe it's some kind of reaction to my being completely off of Klonopin now. (It's been a little less than a week.) I've also reduced the dosage of my anti-depressant--with my doctor's permission--so maybe my body and brain are adjusting to that, too. I'll give it another week or so and see how things are going then.

But the main point of this post is to come clean and let you know that I'm not this pillar of strength with a big shield that allows me to repel all the troubles and negative feelings that come my way. Not even close. I'm just as vulnerable as anybody else; at times, maybe even more so. I still carry around a lot of baggage, and sometimes the weight of that baggage puts a tremendous strain on me.

I know that it's okay to hurt. I know that it's okay to cry. I know that this, too, shall pass. But that doesn't make it any easier.

Namaste.

"If you have a body, you are entitled to the full range of feelings. It comes with the package." --Anne Lamott

Finalist Essay: Charlie Lockyer

Charlie Lockyer's entry for the My Life as 3D Scholarship Essay Contest was unique among the 10 finalists. Why is that? Because not only has she has been affected by her older brother's addiction and her mother's addiction, she has faced addiction herself.

Charlie is a brave young woman who is studying psychology at Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio. I am thrilled to share her incredibly brave and honest essay with you.


Breaking the Circle

By Charlie Lockyer

Andrew has always been THAT guy. The one you want to be with. Good looking, funny and surrounded by friends. Pushing everything to the limit and rarely getting caught. He is six years older than me, and when I was growing up he was my hero. I wanted to be just like him. He was also my protector from life with an alcoholic mother. She was verbally, physically and mentally abusive and he was the buffer between real harm and the quiet of my family's own dysfunctional kind of normal.

In the final years of our Mom's drinking, Andrew began to steal her booze. I learned that he would sell the booze, and use that money to buy weed. In my eyes this impressed me even more. It was a cunning business venture and the adults had absolutely no idea. When our Mom finally entered recovery, our world began to change. My parents' eyes were opened to the three of us wild children, and a budding business died. Even though he was put out of business, Andrew continued to be wildly popular and continued to use a variety of drugs. I grew up to be almost exactly the opposite, even though I desperately wanted to be like him. My idolization of him eventually led me to my own downfall.

In every branch of my family tree, and perhaps even down into the roots, there is addiction. It is simply how our brains seem to be wired, so to speak. When the concept that my siblings and I might have a greater likelihood of having addiction issues, we all reacted in different ways to that knowledge. My younger brother completely accepted it, and has the foresight, even at 16, to want a life free from mind-altering substances. I was neutral, and while I had an intellectual understanding of what I was being told about my chances of developing a problem with substance misuse, it wasn't resonating emotionally. I was working on my anger and PTSD in therapy, but was still too confused to really listen or care, and the need to feel connected to my peers was so strong. Andrew, however, denied the possibility that addiction could be genetic flat out. In order to repair our familial connections, we all went to therapy as a family, but Andrew refused to participate, driving himself away from us rather than forgive and learn to move on from our broken pasts. He seemed to let it fester.

Andrew's thirst for adventure and need for excitement led to him join the military by the time I was in high school, and I was desperate to follow. There, too, he was still Mr. Popularity. I struggled in high school and was not so well liked. I was awkward because I was trying to be someone I wasn't. I was uncomfortable in my own skin. I had few friends, and I couldn't figure out why I just didn't fit anywhere. I looked at the differences between my older brother and I, and found a key. I didn't touch drugs. I didn't go out of my way to avoid them; I just never took up people's offers. Andrew would come home and tell us all about his adventures on and off base. More and more often, these adventures became centered on his bar crawls, his drunken antics and sneaking drugs that would be undetectable on drug screens. I feared for his job and his life. He flew planes, shot guns and was in uniform. I was also enchanted by it all. It became glamorous, death defying and he was always the center of it everything. The drugs and alcohol were main characters--a central theme. None of it would be possible without that fuel. It was the adventure and glamour I wanted--but also the way he fit in anywhere, with anyone. After Andrew left the service, he continued, this time on the rave and festival circuit, with X--sometimes real and sometimes synthetic. The raves look incredibly fun, and the different music festivals he posts about on Facebook and Instagram look like such a great time. He presents as happy, like he is living life however he wants it--as if he is in control of it all. I wanted that more than anything! But it’s an illusion, like all of those pictures. I only saw what I wanted to see.

My Mom received a phone call one day. My siblings and I had a very complicated relationship with my Mom--she was an active alcoholic during most of our childhood, and has now been in recovery and has been sober for more than eight years. It was Andrew, admitting that he had a drinking problem and that it was out of control. He was going to start going to meetings and getting help. I didn't really think too much about it, until a month later, when he was back to raving and bar hopping. I asked him about it, and he told me that he isn't an addict--it isn't possible for him to be an alcoholic. He told me that addiction is in no way genetic, he had overreacted, it was under control and he had taken a break and it was all good. No problem. Looking back on my own experiences, he is wrong.

My life was great--I had gotten into a college I believe to be prestigious, and that was a perfect fit for me. The school was heaven, and I loved it. I was away from my family for the first time, and I wanted the kind of friends my brother had. Andrew's voice got louder than what I learned from my Mom's recovery. After years of being on the sidelines and winning dodge ball games in gym simply because nobody noticed me, I found somewhere I could start over and be just like him--be popular and cool. So when my friends partied, I partied too. I began drinking socially and smoking pot. For a month or so, my life was well balanced. My studies and my partying didn't impact each other. As the semester ground on, my drinking became uncontrollable. In a very short time, I was beginning to lose control over my life. Alcohol became my higher power--when I felt any negative emotion, my automatic thought was that I needed a drink. When I was happy, I wanted to celebrate by drinking. My older brother made it all seem normal, that I was just being a college student, that it wasn’t a problem at all. But the path that I was on led me into a dark place--I nearly lost my place in the freshman class, as well as the few friends I made. My grades slipped, and I was losing everything I loved. Within four months of me first raising a bottle to my mouth, I was drinking every day, smoking weed any time I could get my hands on it, and it was escalating fast and destroying my life. The smallest tension became a huge argument and lead to explosive confrontation. Who was I? Many members of our family struggle with addiction, but nothing impacted me like my brother's use. He continues to make that life look glamorous, but now I know better. Alcohol and drugs are not going to win me friends or fill up any empty spaces in my life. It took nearly ruining my own life to realize that Andrew isn't right about a family connection and substance abuse disorder, and I had to nearly destroy my life to see just how the four generations before me prove us both wrong.

I still love and adore my older brother. He is brilliant, funny and THAT guy--even clean. Especially when clean. He was my hero, my protector, and he was exactly who I wanted to be. I no longer idolize him, or want to follow in his footsteps. I am so afraid that he will use some combination of booze and synthetic drug and he will react badly to it and die. That is one of my worst fears. He still has not let go of his anger from our pasts, and refuses to seek treatment for his PTSD. He uses to mask his feelings with others but with his family he rages. He drinks to the point of blackout every time. He has driven wedges between himself and all of us, even though we love and accept him for who he is. He has separated himself from us, much like our Mom often tried to separate from the family in our younger years. This brings back awful memories for me, my own PTSD. He and I no longer have a relationship, because I cannot build a bridge without a foundation. I miss him, and love him dearly, but his addiction and his refusal to get help has created a chasm between us. He seems to walk down the path our Mom took, and that is the circle of addiction that I want to help people break free from.

Today, I have found myself again. I am in early recovery, and am working on bettering myself as well as my life. I am coming to terms with the consequences of my downward spiral, and accepting them with as much grace as I possibly can. I am still attending my dream college, however my major has changed, and my life plan has as well. I began to form a new plan with a new dream. I am now majoring in Psychology, with plans to work with addicts, and the families of addicts. I want to help families like mine, ravaged by addiction issues, because I understand them personally. I know what it is like to be the child of an addict, and to be the sibling of an addict. I want to work with people with substance use disorders because I know what it is like live with one. While in college I will be advocating for sober living environments. My dream is to help people who are affected by the disease of addiction, fight stigma and get on with the business of living. I want to be THAT woman but for all the right reasons. The first president of the school that I attend said in his final commencement speech, "Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity." I am not going to be ashamed. Not of who I am, of my addiction, of my family--as long as I am present in my life and do my best I will have won.

Finalist Essay: Kaitlyn Taylor

Kaitlyn Taylor of Orangeburg, New York, was one of the 10 finalists in the My Life as 3D Scholarship Essay Contest. Her essay talks about her big brother Colin's addiction, and how it impacted her. Katilyn attends Dominican College in Orangeburg. I'm happy to share her writing with you.

Overshadowed

By Kaitlyn Taylor

My big brother, Colin, has always been my hero and my protector. We had a lot to deal with growing up with a verbally abusive alcoholic father, but Colin was always there for me. When an issue would arise at home, he always wanted to shelter me from the fighting and yelling because I was his little sister. Even when I was at school, being a quiet, shy, and insecure girl, I felt a little safer knowing Colin was in the same building. As we got older, the issues at home escalated and Colin found himself needing his own escape from the chaos.

When we were in high school he began using marijuana. The abuse at home became more than Colin could handle and more often than not would escalate to physical altercations with my father in order protect my mom and myself. Colin began slipping further into his addiction. Marijuana was simply not enough anymore and he began searching for an even greater high, which he found in cocaine. In my eyes he was still my amazing big brother, but I hated when he was under the influence. When a fight would occur, I would beg him to stop fighting with my father and it was like a clearing of clouds after a terrible storm in his eyes. He had a weak spot for me in his heart like I had one for him.

In a few short years his abusive relationship with drugs escalated very quickly. He began to steal from our family to support his habit. He could no longer maintain a job and would often go missing for days at a time. We would not hear from him during those missing days and always expected the worst. My mom vented to me, her only escape, and I felt the pressure of not only wanting and needing to fix my brother, but also to be there for my mother. It soon became apparent that I was better at handling these situations than my mother was, so I felt I had to be strong for both of us. I did not understand why when I begged Colin to stop I no longer saw clarity in his eyes but rather a frightening emptiness. I remember going to a wake for a friend’s brother who had passed away from an overdose and seeing my brother in the casket. My friend said to me, "We knew this was how he was going to die, we just didn’t know when it would be." Those words still haunt me to this day. Nobody should have to feel that way, yet I understood what she meant all too well.

Colin began getting more physical with my father as his habits continued to get worse. He started adding pills to the mix and it was not long before he was snorting and injecting heroin. He had moments when I thought he hit rock bottom and was willing to go to detox and rehab, but this became a cycle when he felt he had no other options. He always used again and I began to feel helpless. There were many nights with minimal sleep because I had to drive him to hospitals to detox, and I began missing work because I had to drive him to rehab each time he decided to go back after leaving.  If I wasn’t driving him, my mom wanted me to come because she needed the support.

I realized his rock bottom was a lot lower than most other people's when he began to steal from my grandmother. Around this time I was away getting my undergraduate degree. When I came home for breaks he would ask me if I wanted to go visit our grandma, who had severe Alzheimer's at the time. I was thrilled with this idea and hoped seeing her would give him some reason to stop using. Once we arrived at her house he would always need to use the bathroom, and it was not long before I caught him with our grandmother's jewelry to sell to support his ongoing habit. When I returned home for the summer, my mother told me my grandma was dying and plans were being made to bring her home on hospice. My mother also told me that Colin had continued stealing checks from our dying grandmother’s checkbook and that he had also stolen $7,000 from me. I wanted nothing more than to break down, but I had to stay strong for mom who was losing her mother and had to deal with her drug addicted son and alcoholic husband. The day my grandmother died, I watched Colin sneak into the refrigerator to steal the morphine provided to my grandmother. I could not tell my mother and add more to her plate, so I took it upon myself to watch him.

For years I was conflicted with feelings of anger and resentment toward my brother but ultimately I loved him.  I went through periods of not talking to him and then forgiving him as he went through his cycle of using and getting clean. I knew it upset my mother when I would ignore him, so I would suck it up and forgive him.  I told him as long as he was clean he was forgiven for stealing all of my savings. When Colin started using heavily, I felt added pressure to be the stable child. I matured much sooner than most people my age. I could not understand when I would beg my mom to take action against my brother for stealing from all of us and she would simply reply with, "I can't he's my son." I could not comprehend this; was I not also her daughter? Could she not see what this was doing to me? My feelings and needs were pushed to the side and that hurt the most.

I don't know if it's part of his addiction or that he’s just a terrible person, but he picks on my mother's insecurities. He tells her if she kicks him out he will end up dead in a ditch. He calls her fat, and miserable, then tells her that she is a horrible mother. I have stopped asking her to force responsibility on him because of how he yells at her and treats her. I only asked her to because I know how much she does for him and that she does not deserve to be treated this way.  My mother says she is a prisoner in her own home and I feel the same way. I am stuck at home because I can barely afford school so I definitely cannot afford my own place. My entire family, including my father who has been sober for 2 years, has to walk on eggshells around my brother. I do my best to cheer my mother up when Colin treats her so poorly, but she feels such immense guilt and responsibility for the person he has become that anything I do or say hardly makes a difference. Through my attempt to understand addiction, I have read that a person stops maturing at the age they start using, therefore, my 26-year-old brother is still mentally 19. All he has to do is yell, throw a fit, and break some things in the house and nobody wants to deal with him. He knows that we will always love him no matter what, and he takes advantage of that.

I recently was accepted into a graduate program for Occupational Therapy and will begin in the fall. For the first time in my life I feel like I belong and I am doing the right thing. My mother has no money to help me pay for school and so that burden is on me. I am still trying so hard to be the responsible one and at this point I work three jobs, go to school, and pay for my own financial expenses. I am taking everything on as loans. I would be incredibly appreciative of the scholarship money. I thank you tremendously for the opportunity to participate but also for the chance to get some of my frustrations out about my current situation. Siblings of addicts are often overshadowed and for the first time in a long time I felt that my feelings mattered. I am very excited to take my first step toward a career where I can help people, people who truly want and need the help. I have pushed myself harder than ever to be accepted into this program. I know it will be difficult, but more importantly I know it will be worth it. 

Kaitlyn Taylor

Finalist Essay: Cailin Adair

Here's another one of the essays that made the final Top 10 in the My Life as 3D Scholarship Essay Contest. This one is from Cailin Adair of Rising Sun, Maryland. She studies bioengineering at the University of Maryland, and her brother's addiction has had a profound effect on her.

Death Wish

By Cailin Adair

A folded, blue piece of paper within a tiny plastic bag floated in the toilet. It was nothing I had ever seen before, so I fished the bag out of the toilet, unfolded the blue piece of paper, and read the words "Death Wish." At the time, I was in middle school and had no idea what it was, but it seemed strange to me that it was floating in the toilet. I brought it to my mom, and she pretended it was nothing, trying not to involve me.

Weeks later, I found my brother, Connor, in a position that I should have never seen him in. He was extremely pale and held a belt in his hand that was buckled into a very small circle. His long sleeve was rolled all the way up to his shoulder, and he just stared at me, wide-eyed, like a deer in headlights. I stared back in disbelief. I never imagined that I would find my brother injecting drugs in our house.

This is when Connor confessed to using heroin. All the signs were there, but I was completely shocked. Yes, he was extremely skinny, was stealing money, wasn't acting himself, but he was still my big brother. I suspected he was in some kind of trouble, but I never thought my big brother, who protected me, and who I looked up to, could be addicted to such a hard, dangerous drug.

Connor went to rehab for the first time, and then came home after a couple of weeks. He looked great and acted himself again, and I felt such relief. I had my brother back. He opened up about everything, from when he started using to how he was going to Kensington in Philadelphia to get heroin every day. One day, we even drove through Kensington so my brother could show us where he went every day to get high. He was being so open and honest, and it really seemed like he was going to stay clean.

Then, he relapsed. Connor was constantly nodding out, money from my mom's bank account started disappearing, and some of my jewelry went missing. My mom would try to drug test him, but he would always say he didn't have to pee. Finally, he would give in and "pee" in a cup, but, instead, he would come out of the bathroom with room temperature yellow liquid (which turned out to be a mix of apple juice and water) that was obviously not urine. My mom would still test it and conclude that the test said he was clean, but she would ask me what I thought. I would tell her that I didn't think it was Connor's urine she was testing, so she couldn't conclude anything. She didn't always want to believe me, so she wouldn't do anything about my brother being high, which left me extremely frustrated and hopeless.

There were countless nights where I would listen to my mom and Connor argue about the fact that he was high, but my brother would come up with any excuse to say he wasn't. His addiction made him become incredibly good at lying. I would get so frustrated and end up yelling at my mom that my brother was obviously high and that she shouldn't listen to his excuses, and I would yell at my brother for constantly lying. Connor would finally admit that he has a problem, and he would either go away to rehab or get himself clean at home. I felt like my life was a never ending cycle of my brother getting high; my mom, my brother, and I all arguing; my brother getting clean for a short time; and my brother getting high again.

Finally, Connor hit his "rock bottom." Police showed up at my house one day, and Connor told me to answer the door and tell them he wasn't there if they asked. I refused, but he begged me and told me he just didn't want to answer the door or talk to them right now. He told me it wasn't a big deal. So I answered and told them he wasn't at my house right now, and I asked why they were there. They wouldn't tell me much, but they made it seem like it wasn't a big deal. They asked for my brother's and mom's cell phone numbers. My mom received a call telling her that my brother was part of an investigation. He was going to big parties, like wedding receptions and bar and bat mitzvahs, dressed in a suit and pretending to be a guest. He would steal the cards from the gift table, take out all the cash he could find, and throw all the cards and envelopes away at a nearby gas station. This crime sounded like it was pulled straight from a movie; it was too far-fetched to happen in real life, so I couldn’t believe it was happening in my life. Connor needed the money to get high, and he didn't care how he got the money anymore.

After all of this information came out, Connor immediately agreed to go back to rehab. But I had to face everyone I knew pretending like they knew nothing about my brother's addiction, even though the story, along with his name and picture, was on the news. No one really knew anything was wrong in my life prior to that news story. I was a straight A student, always smiling and laughing, pretending like I wasn't terrified that I was going to go home to find my brother overdosed on drugs and dead. This horrible thing that my brother did actually helped me open up more to my friends and tell them what was happening in my life, and it also helped my brother go back to rehab.

So, Connor went to rehab for about a month, and my mom and I visited him every weekend. He came home, and the cycle of his addiction seemed to stop. He got a good job, met a really nice, smart girl who became his girlfriend, and he seemed like he was back to his old self. He was clean for two years, and it seemed like he was going to actually stay clean this time. Unfortunately, these two years clean and sober ended last fall. It was an extremely exciting time for me because I was going away for my first year of college at the University of Maryland. I saw my brother two days before I left, and he didn't look right. He was eating cereal in our kitchen and nodding out, which was the number one sign to me that he was high. I just stared at him in disbelief. I was supposed to be excited to leave for college in a couple days, but this made me so upset and worried. I was so angry. I told him I knew he was high, and he denied it. So, I made myself believe that he wasn't high because I didn't want to believe it. I just continually told myself he was tired, he wasn't high. I didn't get to see my brother again before I left for school because he came home late and left really early. I left for school not knowing if he was okay, or if he was using heroin again.

I worried about him every day, and every time I talked to my mom on the phone, I asked how he was doing. She would just say Connor was fine. I believed her for a while, but, one day, I just had a feeling something was really wrong. I begged my mom on the phone to tell me what was going on.

Connor relapsed and was no longer living with her. She had to throw him out of the house because he refused to admit he had a problem, and he refused to get clean. He was fired from his job, and he totaled three cars, including mine, because he was driving while he was high. He lived on the streets for a couple days and my mom didn't know where he was. Finally, she got in contact with him and got him to go into a detox program, where he checked himself out of after one day. He stayed with friends for a couple nights, but then he didn't have anywhere else to go, so he agreed to go into detox again.

I started hysterically crying. Part of me wished I could be home so I could support my mom, but the other part of me was so thankful that I was away at school and didn't have to witness all of the drama.

It's summer now, and I am home from school. My brother has a new job and his own apartment, but he is still using heroin. I see him every Sunday for church and every Monday for a meeting at my church for addicts and families of addicts. Sometimes he looks good and clean, and it gives me hope. Other times, he looks high, and I wonder if he will ever get clean for good.

My brother's addiction has affected me in countless ways. For one, I have learned that I cannot control everything. I tried to do everything I could to help Connor stop using drugs. Much of my time was spent researching heroin to find how it affected the body and why people become addicted. The drug fascinated me. I also read a lot about different medications he could take to stop his cravings, and addiction groups he could go to for support. Since then, I have realized there is nothing I can do to stop his addiction; it is up to him to get clean.

I have also become a stronger and more realistic person as a result of Connor's addiction. There were so many times when my brother would go to rehab, and I would think, "Finally. This is it. He is going to stay clean this time." And when he relapsed, I would get so upset and disappointed because I expected him to stay clean. Now, I am hopeful that he gets and stays clean, but I understand that he may relapse and I am prepared for the worst. Even with other struggles in life, I seldom get upset about small things anymore. If something goes wrong, I try to find a solution. If it is something I cannot fix, I hope for the best, but I think realistically about the outcomes so I know what to expect.

In addition, my brother's addiction led me to become more independent. My brother and his addiction were almost always the center of attention, so there were many times when I was by myself and had to figure things out on my own. I learned to work harder to understand new concepts that I learned in school because I didn’t always have someone to answer my questions. This independence helped me excel in school and continues to help me every day.

My realistic attitude, strength, and independence have been essential to my success so far, and I believe they will continue to be crucial to my success in the future. I am currently in the Honors College at the University of Maryland and studying to become a bioengineer, and I plan to go to graduate school to further my education in bioengineering. With a graduate degree in bioengineering, I can conduct research to help create solutions to medical problems. As a result of my interest in bio engineering, in addition to my fascination with addiction, my dream is to conduct research to create better preventions and cures for this horrible disease of addiction. Because of the hardships I have gone through caused by my brother's addiction, I hope to lessen the number of people whose siblings have a "Death Wish" due to drugs.

Cailin Adair

Finalist Essay: Amanda Keaty

Over the past week, I've shared the winning essay and the runner-up essay from the first My Life as 3D Scholarship Essay Contest. Today I start sharing essays from the other eight finalists, beginning with the entry from Amanda Keaty of Enumclaw, Washington, who writes about her experiences with her older brother, Devan.

As you read Amanda's emotion-filled essay, I want you to keep in mind two things: 1.) These heartfelt words are coming from a 17-year-old, which is truly amazing; and 2.) Imagine how difficult it was for the judges to read 30 similar essays and choose just 2 as the winner and runner-up. All of the essays we received were so good, and all of the essayists deserve to be recognized.

Here is Amanda's essay.

Aspirations Born of a Broken Heart

By Amanda Keaty

I live on a roller coaster--and not the fun kind. With each unexpected twist, turn, climb, and descent comes a flood of inescapable emotions. It is a terrifying and frustrating place to reside. However, I was born on this ride; I cannot change its tortuous path and I must put up with it. As the younger sister of a heroin addict, this meandering excursion represents the battle I face every day which has dragged me through my lowest valleys, deepest heartbreak, and greatest challenges. 

The worst part about having a sibling who is hooked on drugs is that our bond has been broken. Devan and I used to be best friends. We did everything together, from watching and acting out morning cartoons to playing hide-and-seek in the back yard and sneaking into each other's room past bedtime just to talk. Once he started chasing the dragon, he began to break away from our friendship. He became less friendly and more irritable and he no longer wanted to spend time with me. I could not figure out what had happened between us and I came to the conclusion that he had simply stopped liking me. I thought that it was my fault and I blamed myself for being too clingy and annoying. I tried so hard to maintain our friendship, but to no avail; and eventually gave up. I told him not to talk to me anymore after a simple conversation escalated to a brutal argument. After having a few months to breathe and cool off from this stirred-up aggression, I tried texting him again, but if he replies at all, it is with one-word answers. I often become jealous of my friends when they talk about their siblings with whom they spend time and who pick on them, even who they dislike or find annoying. Hearing this always makes me envious and resentful because I would do anything in this world for my brother to pester me like most brothers do and for him to be involved in my life. Devan used to play jokes on and tease me, but the more he grew dependent on narcotics and stimulants, the less he cared about family and the more it feels like I do not even have a brother at all.

Since Devan was sucked into this black hole of drug dependence, the essence of our family has declined. We used to be the "perfect" family consisting of a mom, dad, brother, and a sister who were all happy as can be. Every Sunday night was family night. We cooked dinner together, played board games, and watched a movie that we alternated turns choosing. When things with my brother went awry, so did the entire Keaty household. We stopped having family nights, stopped eating meals together regularly, and the unity that once completed us rapidly faded away. Evenings were frequently interrupted by the police showing up at our doorstep, getting calls from the hospital to pick up Devan, or with the regular fight that had me sent upstairs every other night. Little did they know, I only went halfway up the stairs where I sat and eavesdropped, but in the old, thin-walled house that we live in, I would have been able to hear the yelling from my bedroom anyway. As I grew older, my parents realized that there was not much more they could hide from me and I began sitting in on the arguments. I’m not sure which was worse--having my parents try to hide things that I already knew or being in the room to watch.

While my parents are often are caught up dealing with Devan’s jail sentences, court fines, treatment centers, etc., I stand behind, faded, and merely exist. Although I know it is not their intention, I feel customarily ignored, expected to figure things out on my own. I am pushed aside as less of a priority to my parents. I am "self-sufficient," they say. They brag that I am "the good child": responsible, smart, and independent. Mom and Dad say that unlike my brother, these qualities are natural for me. No, Mom and Dad! The reason I am each of these things is because I had no choice! I was forced to embody these qualities. When my parents were called to the police station, I learned how to cook my own dinner. While they were out searching for the runaway, I managed to tuck myself into bed at night. When they were too busy to help me with my homework, I discovered Google as my tutor. I stopped asking for help. Being "the good child," is not a compliment. Being "the good child" sets a superior standard to which I must reach in order to feel and be treated like I am adequate. As "the good child," I feel an obligation to be perfect. I am careful not to show weakness or pain that might cause even more distress upon my parents. I seldom shed a tear in their presence, even when there is ample reason to cry. I have become accustomed to not receiving attention from my parents, so now when I do, I feel guilty. Too much heedfulness from them makes me feel uncomfortable, and I have yet to discover the reason. "The good child" is the strong one. "The good child" keeps everything together. I was the one who would tell my mom that everything was okay when she broke down crying. I was the one who had the power to sway my brother's decisions. He was protective and had a soft spot for me, which settled on me more responsibility. Each time he walked out the door after a screaming session with our parents, I would follow him and tell him I loved him and I could almost always convince him to stay rather than going and getting even more high than he already was. After so many times, trying to control the situation became another liability for me. Even though he is not living with us currently, I still feel like I have to call or text him to prevent him from relapse.  And when his stability caves in, I blame myself. By trying so hard to be the pure and unbreakable one, I have instead, become more vulnerable.

As the younger sister of an addict, I carry a feeling of emptiness. I am trapped by a never-ending cycle of emotions that hides every piece of my being--my happiness, my optimism, my innate zest for life. On this roller coaster, there is, of course, sadness, heartbreak, anger, and frustration. There are also phases of excitement when my brother shows progressive steps and I am filled with abounding hope that it will finally be the attempt that does not fail. When he relapses, however, I am devastated. I either sink back into a state of depression or I become angry, sometimes at Devan but also at myself for being naively hopeful and not being mentally prepared for the event. Sometimes, I tell myself that I am done caring, but really, I just try to repress how I feel so that I do not have to think about the situation or deal with the emotions. I cannot control these sporadic feelings no matter how hard I try. I wish I could just make up my mind on how I mentally respond to my brother's addiction, but unfortunately, it is not that simple--the roller coaster does not pause. With so many surprises and unexpected turns, it is impossible for my mental state to remain steady. There is one thing felt, however, which underlies each stage of the circuit: fear. My biggest fear is that by the time my brother rises back up to fight against his disease, it will be too late. He has overdosed way too many times and has survived only by miracles. I am scared to death that the next time he injects the merciless liquefied substance will be the dose that finally wins the battle and steals his last breath.

Most seventeen-year-old girls go about their day with simplicity; they contemplate their plans for the day and what friends they are going to hang out with. They worry about relationships and completing their homework on time. I, however, have grown up differently. The contents of my mind are far more complicated than that of the average teenager. I have always remained the quiet one, only talking when necessary or invited to and I am never a conversation starter to those I am not close to or comfortable with. I am not one to attend crazy high school parties for fear of being involved in what had once destroyed my brother. Because of my tendency to observe rather than to speak and my unwillingness to attend parties, some people have said that I am stuck up and that I think I am better than others, which is the opposite of who I really am. Afraid of being disappointed, I oftentimes push people away unintentionally and avoid getting too close to someone who might leave me like my brother did. It has always been difficult for me to let go and just have fun like a teenager should because I have so much going on at home and in my head, which my friends could not understand. No one knows what is going on or how I really feel. Because I have been so preoccupied with my brother’s addiction, I feel like I have missed out on my childhood and formative years.

What I lack in having a normal social life, I make up for with knowledge of the drug world. I know what it means when there is a tiny plastic bag on the ground. I know that it was not a doctor who dropped a needle and syringe in the local grocery store parking lot. Although I have never used, considered, or even been offered drugs, I have witnessed firsthand the malicious greed that is addiction. Most would not guess that I have learned by direct observation the truths of substance abuse, for I have seen what no child should and have been exposed to things I wish I had not.

Siblings of drug addicts face a rare kind of pain and are hardly given the consideration that they deserve. Because I know and can relate to that suffering, I want to help brothers and sisters of addicts so that they no longer have to feel alone. I have a unique opportunity already set in motion that will help me to achieve this goal: "Battlefield Addiction," a non-profit organization co-founded by my mother that helps addicts, families, and communities plagued by the epidemic. One branch of the company is "The Family’s Battle," which directs and provides cathartic exercises to affected parents. "The Family’s Battle" has taught parents not only how to guide their children on the road to recovery, but also how to equip themselves to do so while coping with the pain, restoring many broken families across the country. This is my vision once the siblings become a point of focus. Having spoken at a past event and my mom being a stakeholder of the company, I can help assemble a branch specifically for siblings to be incorporated into the organization. My aspiration is to bring hope to those who fight the same war as siblings of addicts and to guide them through the demanding and burdensome roller coaster on which we are all stuck.

Having lived in the shadow of an addict, there is nothing I want more than to make an impact on others' lives. Not only do I have a passion for helping people, but also for science, psychology, and addiction medicine. After high school, I aspire to become a Substance Abuse Nurse Practitioner in an inpatient treatment center. I am working toward my goal by taking nursing prerequisites at Green River College through the Running Start program, which allows me to earn college and high school credit simultaneously. I have big dreams for my future, which, despite the financial stress that the disease has placed on my family, require funds to obtain. Earning this scholarship will ensure my enrollment for three quarters as well as partial tuition of summer courses on my way to those aforementioned future goals.

As a Substance Abuse Nurse, my objective is to help ease the recovery process for addicts and to make a difference in their lives. My brother once came home from treatment eager to tell me all about a specific nurse who not only aided him in detox but also continuously encouraged him to keep fighting, which motivated him to take on his recovery with confidence. I, too, wish to be the nurse who makes a life-changing impact on her patients. I want to be the nurse who can mend the broken heart of a little girl when she is reunited with her real, sober brother. While helping to heal bodily damage and ease the process of pain and withdrawals, I hope to also gain a relationship with each patient. Sometimes, an unexpected person can make the largest impact on others, and I hope to be that for someone in the future. Every patient has someone back at home who cares and worries about them. By helping those with the debilitating disease of addiction, I will be indirectly helping entire families as well.

Being the younger sister of someone who is enslaved to a substance is a complicated and heartbreaking journey to travel. The emotions I have felt are visceral and I have often wished this roller coaster would break down so that I could escape. Although the road is painful and exhausting, all negative encounters have helped me learn, grow, and establish my purpose. I have learned a lot about addiction and its mechanics and I have gained insight to better understand its root cause. Because of my experience, I have compassion and empathy for others who are dealing with the same affliction and harnessed steadfast bravery and conviction in knowing that I can help others. My older brother's addiction has scarred me in ways that may never fully heal, however, I will turn these cuts and bruises into helping hands by creating a light of hope in the lives of both drug addicts and their families.

Amanda with her brother, Devan.