Book

A Family Crest

On my first anniversary—a year from my last drink—I got a lot of texts, calls, and hugs. I answered questions about how I did it, what it felt like, and what was next. But I tried not to give way to too much celebration. I was scared to take my foot off the gas pedal and mistake a mile marker for a destination. Plus, it felt excruciating to rewind, replay, and relive what I’d done and where I’d been. It was, after all, the anniversary of one of the worst days of my life—waking up with blood all over me, nearly ready to die. A year later, it still felt like yesterday.

Around that time, a friend asked for some advice. I’d come to find it would be the first of many instances I’d serve as a confidant. He told me he’d been worried about his sister. She was in the throes of advanced alcoholism, without a partner or many friends to help. Her body and mind had become something he didn’t recognize.

“When I picked her up at the airport, I wanted to be early, so I parked and waited for her inside. I thought I’d try to be at the baggage claim when she came down the escalator. When I saw her from a distance, she—”

He cut himself off and took a deep breath.

“It’s all right, brother. Take your time.” It’s okay, I understand. I was there.

With his eyes closed, holding in tears, he said, “I wanted so bad for it to be someone else—you know, just some stranger that looked a bit like her from far away. But I knew it was her. Her head was sagging into her chest, and her legs were barely underneath her, man. There was a random lady with an arm around her, propping her up, making sure she didn’t fall down the fucking stairs. She’d had so many damn drinks on the airplane that she couldn’t even get to baggage claim.”

At that moment, my head sank into my hands, and I started to weep. Minutes before, I was a pillar of empathy he could lean on for support. Then, before I knew it, I had fallen to pieces. Nothing but rubble where I had just stood tall. That’s the power it still had—even a whole year later.

“I’m sorry, Dave. I didn’t mean to stir all this up for you.”

“No, no. It’s okay. It’s good. I just… I can see myself in her. And I can see you in all the people that were scared for me. But I am here for you. Both of you.”

I’d come to learn that, in order to heal, it was essential to remember. To remain open to reflection and self-awareness. And perhaps to help others chart their paths. Addiction is a cold, dark place where the sun doesn’t reach. It doesn’t relent. It doesn’t surrender. But we keep fighting. So that we never surrender, either. I’d grown strong enough to fight, scratch, and claw my way to the surface. But I knew the work would be unending. I had great days in that first year, where that nasty addiction appeared listless and bygone. Those days always passed and gave way to scared, frightful ones. But when they did, I stayed steeled and prepared, ready to fight and prevail.

So, to commemorate the first year, if not celebrate, I went to the grimy tattoo shop near our house and got a big, black phoenix on my shoulder. It roars at me every morning from its perch of ashes, rousing me for the day ahead. The blazing symbol of renewal is an homage to my dad, reminiscent of the silver pendant he donned all those years after he quit drinking. He and I now share a new family crest, celebrating the growth and evolution of our lineage. Generational trauma festers and compounds until it’s exposed and countered through the steadfast resolve of brave guardians. Ones like my father, who declare, “No more. I will end this curse. For my children. And for theirs.”

A few months before my second anniversary, I had one of the best days of my life. On a serendipitously sunny day, a chartered trolley car picked up my groomsmen—a weary but resilient troupe who’d stuck by my side—and me to take us to Shakespeare Garden in Golden Gate Park, where our friends and families awaited. My little sister, a brilliant musician, sang a beautiful love song. My widowed grandmother officiated.

My vows to her pledged a lifetime of companionship: “… I’ve needed support, and you’ve held me together during the worst of times… I now promise to be there for you. I vow to keep working to be a better partner, every day I’m alive.”

Annie’s vows spoke of an unyielding belief in one another: “… I promise to share my hopes and dreams with you, and look to you for strength and support… I give you this ring as a reminder of when our love was new, as it is now.”

While my grandmother finished the ceremony, I leaned into that soft crevice between Annie’s shoulder and her neck—the same place I longed to be when I woke up in Butler Hospital years and years ago. Just for her to hear, I whispered, “You saved my life. Thank you. I will always love you, forever, no matter what.”

A couple of tears formed in her beautiful, sparkling green eyes. The smile she gave me at that moment… I will never forget it.

I Am Someone You Know

Years after I’d last seen him, Brandon, our brightest hope from the at-risk youth camp, sent me a message through Facebook. Annie and I had always believed Brandon could turn his life around if he wanted it badly enough. But he’d have obstacles to overcome—the stickiness of his juvenile record, the gravity of a former street life, and the elusiveness of second chances.

A chill ran through me when I saw his name. Was he just checking in on his old counselors? Could he be in trouble and in need of help? I then jumped to grave, even fearful, possibilities. What if this was a family member on his account letting his contacts know something bad had happened?

I had reason to feel uneasy. We’d recently learned that Juan had been murdered. He’d gone to prison for homicide and was stabbed to death inside. Ever since I saw Juan in the back seat of the police car, red and blue lights reflecting off his menacing grin, I’d wondered what more I could have done for him.

I let the message sit unread for about fifteen minutes, bracing myself for any possibility—the best, the worst, or, perhaps, simply spam sent from a hacked Facebook account.

You changed my life. I read it over and over. A few tears cruised freely down my cheeks. I looked at his page. Joy overcame me when I saw the abstract of his life in pictures and stories. We had put our hearts into that place and those kids. All we ever wanted was to make some of their lives better. On the darkest days at camp, when we both wanted to run, we reminded ourselves that it would all be worthwhile if we could reach at least one.

It was an affirmation—a reminder that we all can change. It was not easy for Brandon. It was not easy for me. There’s a gulf between the kinds of challenges we each faced. But both of us looked in the mirror and said, “No, I can fight. I will fight.”

And that is the truth about courage. It’s available to all of us, each and every day of our lives. We can find it at the crux of every obstacle. It’s always there, waiting for us to grab hold of it. We are the authors of our own stories and it’s never too late to write a new chapter. We don’t often get to choose freedom from disease, affliction, mistakes made, or hardships endured. But we are always free to choose courage right now.

Millions of people fight addiction, mental illness, trauma, and other untold trials. Many suffer in the darkness and in silence, unseen and unheard. But they are right beside you. They are… someone you know.

A Proclamation

In that first year without alcohol, I began relearning what my body, mind, and heart could do. I’d been touched by the light of a new life, and I would not return to the shadows. But the recovery and healing were anything but perfunctory. The work was, and remains, unending.
I’ve now gone over a decade since that last drink. I have my health, a thriving business, and a loving family. Raw and overwhelming gratitude washes over me every day. Sometimes, I still don’t believe it’s real. I am living a dream—but one born of a nightmare. I’m lucky I survived. Lucky that Annie stayed with me. And luckier than ever to see her beautiful reflection in our little boy.
A few weeks into his first year of preschool, he came home especially jubilant, skipping around the house with long, sandy-blond hair flowing behind him. As usual, he rattled off the new words he’d picked up in class. But, on this day, instead of animals, shapes, and colors, he shouted, “I am me! I am me!”

At that, an unexpected exhilaration rushed through my body. His radiant smile, outstretched arms, and joyful confidence—my heart swelled, and my eyes bore a tear. He owned those words. His first decree of identity and self-belief. Oh, that we all could be so bold as to flash an untamed smile, reach up to the sky, and shout for all to hear, “I am me!”

Yes, baby boy, be you, indeed. Let your joy run wild whenever you see beauty around you. Be vulnerable with others and lead them with your heart. Give your strength when a friend needs it, but borrow theirs when yours is depleted. Be troubled and hurt. Be afflicted and suffer. But spurn the dubious notions of weakness and boldly ask for help. Set boundaries that make you safe, and shout “No!” when others tread over them. Be grateful for everything, but forgive yourself for wanting more. Make mistakes—lots of them—but let shame and guilt flow smoothly through you like water, and discover the opportunity to learn and grow.

Try out and miss the cut. But be relentless and go back for more. Stand up for someone and get a bloody nose. But also explore the power of forgiveness and empathy. Let the world know what you expect from it and do not relent when it won’t yield to you. Wander outside the lanes you’re assigned and give no regard to what others want you to be. Love who you love and tell them so. Howl at the moon from time to time. Or every damn night if it delights you. Cry when you need to and especially when you want to. Refrain when the time isn’t right for the steep, arduous climbs. But, eventually, carry on, and do the hard things you know must be done.

With those daring, brash words, our two-year-old rocked the ground under my feet. I could see my whole life. A child, scared and alone. A teenager, fighting for another chance. And a young man, writhing in pain about to break under the weight of it. I could see the despair I’d suffered through and the love that I’d fought for. I could see… myself and all those like me. I could see… who we are.

We are recovering alcoholics, one day away from another drink, if we falter. But a lifetime from one, too, if we choose courage. We are bipolar—a cunning and maddening disorder. But we bless the virtues it has led us to—vulnerability and compassion.

We are our family’s troubled children, forever adorned with the scars of our lineage. But we are our brilliant deliverance—with love for our own sons and daughters extricated from an ancestral pain. We are overjoyed fathers and mothers, brimming with excitement for every step they take. But we are frightened, wary of our own footsteps that they may follow. We are devout partners—forever lovestruck and eternally grateful. But we are still learning to be selfless and truly one with another.

We are enterprising. Tenaciously building business and community. But we are novice, waking up every day with self-doubt and no-fucking-clue. We are fit, fast, and fierce—but only compared to the last iteration of ourselves. We are phoenixes rising from the despair of our former lives. And yet, we are only just beginning—The fire rises still.

We are inspired by the brave ones that deal only in the truth, especially those that bare it all—despair, desire, loathing, and love. We are enraged by the bullies that feast on fear, particularly the biggest ones in the yard—our snarling, insidious voices of doubt.

I am thankful that I first picked up that bottle. I am glad to be vexed by this disorder. I do not regret the past. And I will not relent to shame. Every challenge and every obstacle led me to that beautiful moment… “I am me,” you say? Yes, my love, goddamn fucking right you are.