Sweet Child ‘O Mine


I’m not exactly sure how many people on this Earth owe their existence to beer – all I know is that I’m one of them.  Green beer, in fact.  


On St. Patrick’s day of 1978, just outside of the Northern Michigan University campus in Marquette, my father and a college buddy strolled into the local grocery store, Mike’s Supermarket.  They were on a quest for some cheap beer to ring in the Irish holiday with.  A pretty brunette clerk smiled flirtatiously as she rang up his 12-pack, and as he made his way toward the exit she yelled, “Is that green beer?”  To which he suavely responded with, “I’ll have to let you know.”

Later that night, egged on by his buddy and emboldened by the 12-pack, he returned to Mike’s… to find that the girl, had gone home.  He asked another store clerk for her name, and learned that it was Kathy Weston.

It was now midnight, but armed with this new information, he returned to his dorm room, grabbed a phone book, and spent the next hour waking up every Weston household in the county. 

Eventually, he reached someone who was related to my mother and asked them to pass on his phone number, along with the following message: Tell her the beer wasn’t green.  

5 months later, they were married.  My dad – the shy, dirt-poor, aspiring young Engineer, and my mom – the former head cheerleader and charismatic social butterfly. 


Early 1985

Two Rivers, Wisconsin


My mother sat patiently in the cold doctor’s office as she awaited the unnecessary test results.  Unnecessary, of course,  because the constant puking, headaches, and lack of period were more than enough evidence to confirm her greatest fears. But pregnancy tests didn’t exist back then, and one couldn’t just go around telling people they were pregnant if they didn’t know for certain.

My mom with my oldest Sister, Christel


None of that stopped her from bursting into tears when the doctor relayed the news.  He patted her arm, gently, and cheerily assured that, “Everything will be okay.”  Easy for him to say.  He wasn’t the one living in a cramped, two-bedroom apartment as a family of 4.   Soon to be 5.


Things could have been worse.  At least she was happily married.  And although they struggled with money, her husband’s career as a young Engineer for Hamilton Industries was beginning to show promise.  But a 2-bedroom apartment with a family of 5?  How on Earth was that going to work?

The fam, shortly before my arrival


In the months that followed, my early presence wreaked havoc on her body – much more than my 2 older sisters had.  In fact, somewhere between the endless vomiting and migraines, my father was sent off for a vasectomy – to which he willingly obliged.  


Finally, on a cold night in November the misery came to an end, as  I very narrowly escaped being born in a warm bathtub. 

Apparently it’s rather difficult to ascertain that your water has broken when you’re… well…. immersed in water.  Nevertheless, my mom did indeed make it to the hospital just in time for me to make my dazzling entrance into the world.  I came out with a full head of thick brown hair, my mother’s eyes, and a special knack for the occasional sarcastic quip. 

Well maybe the sarcasm came later, but I’d like to think that it’s a superpower I was born with, rather than a byproduct of environmental conditioning.

Me, as a tiny human


My story isn’t terribly unique, especially not my early years.  But interspersed between the happy, normal, and often embarrassing childhood memories are hints of something darker, growing just beneath the surface.  Precursors to the eventual explosion of anxiety, obsessive-compulsive tendencies, and major depression that would invade every aspect of my teenage and early-adult life. 

Writing, is my favorite form of therapy. Mainly, because it’s free.

And so I write. About the past. About the present. About the obstacles. About the losses. About the wins. And by doing so I will, hopefully, begin to heal.


I don’t expect that many will be interested in my tale, but for the select few that are… I welcome you on this journey.  So strap on your seat-belt and hop in this DeLorean because where we’re going… we don’t need roads. 


Actually, that’s not entirely accurate. Many of these events occur on or near major highways. I just can’t resist the opportunity to reference one of my favorite movies.  Sorry about that.  


Anyways, welcome, and thanks for coming along.

Gimme Shelter

Sometime in Early 2000’s…

The familiar scent of burning plastic permeates the air, drifting over the pile of jeans, tank tops, and undergarments strewn haphazardly about the carpet of my bedroom. It floats past the obligatory Tupac poster and the various black-light responsive tapestries hung from push pins on the wall.

It merges with the sound-waves pouring out of my dust-covered sub-woofers, riding atop the melodic riffs of the latest Incubus album, before finally reaching my nostrils.

I launch myself out of bed and towards the mirrored wardrobe where the scent originates. I carefully lift the squeaky plastic lid to expose my hot-rollers and feel the oven-like warmth hit my face. No need to check the indicator… the smell is all I need to confirm that they’re ready to use.

With a practiced ease that comes from years of repetition, I grab a section of hair and a roller and carefully begin to wind them together, securing the finished product with a worn-out metallic pin. I repeat the process, systematically weaving a loom of both hair and roller, until no strand is left untouched.

I dump tiny blobs of foundation on my palm, in varying shades of tan and ivory. I mix them together like acrylic paint and dab the miasma of beige onto my cheeks and forehead, smearing it’s cold creamy texture across my skin.

I hum along to my favorite Sum 41 song and apply the perfect shade of glittery eye shadow from my growing collection. I grab my black eye-pencil and carefully start to drag it’s point across my lashes. I flinch, a gasp escaping my mouth, as I miscalculate the position of my pencil tip and feel it’s tapered point strike my eyeball. Tears pour from the offended eye as I scramble for a Kleenex to preserve my precious work.

Several outfit changes later, my hot rollers are no longer hot. I yank on a pin and watch as the curl cascades downwards, framing my freshly-powdered face.

As a finishing touch, I spritz a tiny bit of perfume into the air, then make an awkward, ungraceful leap through the invisible mist.

I take one last look in the mirror, and smile. I hit a button on my radio and the music peters out, giving way to silence.

I walk towards my bedroom door. Reach my arm out for the doorknob.

And leave it there.

I stand quietly, with my hand resting on the cold brass. Study the swirling pattern of the wood grain .

Feel my arm fall away in defeat.

I turn. Grab the cordless phone from it’s dock. A familiar melody rings cheerily into the air as my fingers dial the numbers.

Hey. Yeah, look. It’s me. Um… dude, I have this massive headache and I just don’t think I can manage to make it tonight. I know. I know I promised. I’m sorry. I wish I could be there, I just… yeah.

Disappointment crackles through the airwaves as I listen to the disheartened response. I hang up. I sit on the edge of my bed and stare blankly at the wall, hand trembling. I picture my friends piling into a car, and leaving, without me. I picture them laughing and dancing. Without me. Again.

It’s better this way. Really, it is.

They can’t ever know. I can’t let them find out. My heart, it pounds in my ears when I walk into those parties. My hands shake and my breath catches. The panic creeps up and snatches words right out of my mouth. The anxiety is unbearable. They mustn’t know any of that. That I’m not normal.

So I pull the comforter over my freshly-pressed clothes and curl into a ball. I lie there until the light fades. The voices of other teenagers out on the sidewalk tinkle through my window, and I feel the sharp pang of jealousy hit my belly.

I may not be normal. But at least here, in this dark room, all alone, I can be safe.

My secret… is safe. For now.

Intro

A Letter to Me:

Hey there, it’s me. I mean, you. Future you. Future… me? Not sure how to phrase that. It’s not like there’s a precedent for this sort of thing, so bear with me, okay?

It’s been a minute since we spoke, and it’s summer here now. Sticky and humid. Hotter than I remember as a kid. Today is the first day of August.

I know you’re feeling trapped, back there in April. I know that you’re scared – terrified, actually. I know why that is.

It’s the unanswered question that’s been echoing back and forth throughout your mind for weeks, keeping you up most nights, and draining the happiness out of your days. You’ve tried to suppress it. Drown it out. You’ve tried distraction. But the question lingers despite all that. And that’s why I’m writing today – to give you the answer.

Are you ready? Here it is. The answer… is yes.

Yes, it is back. Yes.

Of course, you’ll come to that conclusion on your own in just a few days anyways. You’ll be lying in that bed, inside that dark room with the shades pulled tight, in that house you haven’t left in weeks. You’ll review all the ominous, telltale signs from the previous months, and you’ll come to that dreaded realization. And then you’ll whisper softly into the night.

Hello Darkness, My old friend.

Nothing scares you more. You know what you’re in for. A gradual, seemingly endless torture of the mind and soul. A winding descent down the spiral staircase to hell. A pain so deep that nothing physical could ever compare to it. Inescapable, indescribable mental agony.

In the coming weeks you’ll watch in real-time as your life is slowly and methodically drained of all meaning.

Food will lose it’s taste, so you’ll stop eating it. Books will become meaningless collections of letters and words. Sunlight will be too bright, music, too loud. Conversation, too stimulating.

You’ll wake each morning in a panic, soaked and trembling. Every waking moment will be consumed by anxiety.

You’ll begin to feel your body waste away. The muscles you’d worked so hard to build over the years will shrink from disuse. Your body will begin to reflect the fragile, emaciated condition of your mind.

The same obsessive tendencies that so often drive you to perfection and achievement, will go rogue and become cannibalistic.

You’ll watch, helplessly, as your brain latches on to a negative thought and transforms it into an infinite loop of dark rumination over and over again. You’ll be trapped in these loops for hours at a time.

Every negative thing you’ve ever said or done will present itself in rapid succession, like a Youtube auto-playlist of traumatic, spine-tingling memories.

You’ll clutch the back of your neck in frustration, and crumble into a ball on your bedroom floor. Tiny drops of blood will roll down your neck and onto your collar. You’ll change shirts often, and grind your nails down to nubs to hide the evidence of your descent into madness.

Eventually, your defenses will begin to weaken, and you’ll fall prey to the tiny voices inside your mind. The ones that quietly whisper.

You are worthless. Your are weak. You are a bad person. You should die. Die. Die. Die.

And the more you let them speak, the louder they’ll get. Until there’s nothing left but them. Until there is no truth, except for theirs.

Then, you’ll start to listen, hypnotized by their message. You’ll find yourself nodding along with glazed eyes, agreeing. Yes. Yes, you are right. I see that now. Of course.

The day will come when the voice is so deafening that you can no longer cover your ears to drown it out. Then you’ll start tying knots again. Your fingers know them by heart. No need to look them up anymore. You can do it without thinking. It’s muscle memory. Easy.

But just as you feel the knot tighten against your skin, you’ll think of your family. Contemplating their pain is the only thing preventing you from ending your own.

You’ll summon that tiny bit of strength you have left, and you’ll use it to tell the people you love that the darkness is back.

Up until then, you will have tried to hide it. To protect them from it. To save them the burden. But they’ve seen your darkness before, and they know what it looks like. They’ll have known all along.

I know that right now, you can’t imagine telling people about your struggle. You are embarrassed. You feel weak. You’ve kept it a secret, afraid of what people might say. And because of that, you feel so very alone.

Although it may seem hopeless right now, I promise that one day very soon, you will finally find the strength to speak up. And it all starts with making the decision to fight back. Right now. And you need to let the people who love you, help you.

Your family will rally behind you as you wage this war. Your sisters will never stop texting or calling, even when you can’t bring yourself to call back for weeks.

Your dad will send you short but inspiring messages. You are not alone in this, he’ll say.

Your mom will come to you in your darkest hours and curl up in your bed while you cry. She’ll recount all the times you’ve beaten this before. She’ll remind you that you are a fighter, no matter what the darkness tells you. You won’t believe her, just yet, but that’s okay.

You’ll go to the doctor, again. He’ll change your meds, again. You’ll go through the hellish side effects, again. You’ll throw up and get massive insomnia and frequent headaches. You’ll watch your savings dwindle to nothing as you pay out-of-pocket for the treatment you need. You’ll begin to think it’s all for nothing, but then, slowly, it’ll start to work…

One morning, you’ll wake up with the urge to go for a walk. You’ll climb out of bed and put your shoes on, step outside… and nearly pass out. It’ll have been so long since you’ve been active that you’ll need to rest on the porch before getting to the sidewalk.

Your legs will shake like a newborn baby deer taking its first steps. You’ll return home exhausted and pale. You’ll collapse into bed and cry. Hard. Because of everything you once had. Because of everything you’ve now lost. Because of everything this disease has robbed you of.

But the next day, you’ll go out again. And the day after that too. And pretty soon you’ll be strong enough to walk to the park 2 miles away. Spring will fade into summer, and you’ll even begin to apply for jobs again.

Come June, you’ll try running. You’ll make it 1 mile before nearly collapsing in exhaustion. Again, you’ll go home and cry.

You’ll think about the time you ran 13.1 miles and sprinted across the finish line. You’ll wonder if you’ll ever be able to do things like that again. You’ll ask God why this is happening again. You’ll get on your knees and beg for help. You’ll pray for strength.

You’ll keep up the short-distance runs throughout the job search and therapy. You’ll experience frustration with both. You’ll feel like you’re getting nowhere. You’ll fall prey to duplicitous recruiters and you’ll be lied to by people who don’t have your best interest at heart.

But eventually, you’ll find a new work assignment. Two weeks before you leave for that assignment, you’ll go for another run. Four miles, this time.

As you approach the park that marks your finish line, you’ll look out at the water, stop, and begin to feel the corners of your mouth curl up into a smile.

It’ll feel so foreign, at first. For a brief moment, you’ll lift a corner on that dark veil that’s been draped over your life, and get a quick peek at the beautiful reality that lies underneath.

Then, as you stand there with the warm summer breeze on your face and the smell of the lake in your nostrils, you’ll feel your eyes brimming with tears. You’ll close them, pointedly, and revel in the sensation as the hot, salty drops slide down your cheeks.

No, these won’t be tears of despair or hopelessness. They’ll be ones of relief.

Relief, for the ability to feel anything other than pain, if only for a moment. So much relief.

As you stand there, crying and looking out at the water, a woman will ask if you are okay. You’ll wish you could convey to her the significance of this moment. The struggle it took to get here.

Look at what I’ve just done. What I’ve accomplished. You’ll want to say.

But the truth is that no one will ever understand the vast intricacies of your darkness, nor the strides taken to overcome it, because that darkness is yours and yours alone. Just as the pride is, in having fought it off yet again.

You’ll return home after that run, and you’ll sit down at your computer. You’ll type up this letter.

You’ll address it to your past self – the one that isn’t sure if the darkness is back yet. But when you get to the end, you’ll realize you’re writing for your future self too. Because you’ll know that this battle with the darkness is not even close to being over.

You’ve been fighting it since you were 6 years old, and it has defined your life in so many unexpected ways, both good and bad. Future us will need this message just as much as we do. Maybe even more.

Last of all, you’ll realize that you don’t want to hide this part of yourself anymore. That your struggles have shaped you into a compassionate, empathetic person who wants nothing more than to help others who suffer. But you can’t do that if you never tell anyone about it.

So you’ll do the bravest thing anyone can do when faced with this situation.

You’ll tell the truth. To anyone who will listen.

You’ll finally be free. Truly free. And although it may seem so far away right now, you can and will do it.

So hang in there, kid. And keep fighting. You’ve got this. I promise.

I’m proof.

Love Always,

Your Future Self

PS – On a side note, don’t even bother watching that Game of Thrones finale you’re so excited about. Just trust me.