I’m shaking as I write this. Bawling my eyes out. I still can’t quite believe it. Tonight, I began frantically searching for a letter my brother had written me when I was in grade school. Why? I would soon find out. Just when I was starting to doubt my path, whether or not I should continue writing, I found this. It’s like he knew. He knew someday this would be my purpose. To tell his story to the world in order to save others from the same fate. There’s no turning back now. I’m writing a book.
“I thought it was real nice of you to think about writing a story about me. I think you’re a very good writer, better than I was.”
Brother, you were the best ever. You made me this book, …
The press will move on. Your true friends never will.
Right now, all eyes are on Penn State. Nearly every media outlet is eager to cover the monstrosity that is Jerry Sandusky. The stories are horrific. The cover up, inexcusable. Am I surprised? No. Sad? Yes.
There was a time when my family was in the national spotlight (Oprah canceled on my mom, and I’ve never quite forgiven her for that), and while I’m glad the exposure helped shed light on a deep and systemic sex abuse cover up in the Catholic church, the spotlight only shines so long. Soon, another tragedy takes the stage, and the coverage shifts to someone else’s pain. This is to be expected. It’s called “news” for a reason.
But what happens to the victims and their families …
When their heart is empty, don’t fill their glass.
If you ever decide to take 12 shots of whiskey, eat a package of Starburst first. That way, when you wake up in a puddle of your own vomit, it won’t smell so bad. I found this out the hard way, my life nearly ending on a night I can’t remember.
There was a dirty mattress on the floor of a run-down drug house, where me and three others tried to drown our pain in a bottle of cheap liquor. I don’t remember why I kept drinking. Yet somehow I can remember how many shots I had. Twelve. Is that even possible?
I woke up, face down in the front yard. My head was strategically placed over a hole to ensure that I didn’t choke. Looking back now, …
Long after Eric was gone, I still felt his presence so strongly, that it seemed he could walk into the room at any moment. He’d give his perfunctory wave, and simply say, “Hey.” As my own life developed, I’ve lost that sensation. Marriage and babies have a way of filling your heart and mind until old memories are crowded out. By writing about him, though, I’ve begun to get that sensation back. It gives me hope, but it’s an empty hope. I want so strongly to see him again, that I almost convince myself that somehow, some way, he will return.
I know this is absurd, but a heart has funny ways of playing tricks on your mind. In doing we web search of him today, I found this. His obituary. Beautifully …
Hallelujah. Good things have already started happening since I started sharing Eric’s story. People have reached out to tell me I’m doing the right thing, they can relate and other “hoo-rah” comments. But do you know what my favorite thing has been so far? A picture. Sent to me by Eric’s high school prom date. She said he was the “perfect prom date.” Of course he was. He was awesome. Especially when it came to living the 80’s dream. He had a mullet. He wore high tops. He drove a red hatch back. He played a red electric guitar. He had a Boston t-shirt pinned to his bedroom wall. He was kind of like Marty McFly, only taller. Much, much taller. At 6 foot 8, he was a giant. And I loved …
Eric and I at Stonehenge. I was 15. This trip was awesome. I wasn’t annoyed at all when this picture was taken.
I saw his car turn around at the end of our parent’s long driveway. I have to admit I was annoyed. I’m not proud of that. I loved my big brother. I still do. But at that time in my life, at 16, just trying to be a teenager, he annoyed me. No, his disease annoyed me. I didn’t know how to handle his depression, his odd behavior, his lingering. He would just sit and stare for hours. Hours. Do you know how awkward that is? How much tension silent stillness can create in a house?
He turned around. Came back. He was coming to say goodbye, in his own way. A few weeks later, he …