October 3, 2020 by jonathanbierner

The Other Side of the Door

Today is October 2nd, 2020. My mom spent three weeks of the last month hospitalized and during this time, I have begun to understand what fighting cancer looks like up close and personal.

The hospital stays have been excruciating, watching my mom toss and turn, feeling pain, unable to sleep. My sister and I have been her only visitors since she has been allowed only one guest per 24-hour period due to Covid-19 regulations. When my sister informed me today around 5pm that mom was coming home to begin hospice care, I wanted to fight it. But I know it’s time for her to rest and feel the love of her friends, family, and beloved cats.

How am I doing? I don’t know. Fighting cancer is an exhausting battle. So I guess its safe to say I am very tired.

My mom is sleeping now and this is my first attempt to communicate with the outside world about this. I think I know what to expect in the upcoming week/s. But actually, I don’t know anything except that this is going to hit me like a pound of bricks when it does.

The Other Side of the Door

On July 7th, 2020, I traveled from my LA apartment to my childhood home in Dallas to be with my mom who was diagnosed in May of 2019 with MDS which is a cancer in the marrow that eventually progresses to acute leukemia.

Just over three months ago, her chemo treatments were no longer preventing the cancer’s progression, so I knew it was time to come home to be with my mom, sister, and other family members and friends.

Being that my mom’s immune system put her at huge risk of catching the coronavirus, the goal was to take all necessary precautions. I basically self-quarantined in the guest bedroom of her house and would cross paths with mom and wave to her down the hall.

A week later, I tested positive for Covid-19. Yes I had some symptoms, yes I recovered, and no, by the grace of God, I did not get my mother sick. As soon as I tested positive, my sister showed up like a warrior to protect the family. She turned the guest bedroom in my mom’s house into a fully functioning home for me that included a microwave, mini fridge/freezer, toaster (that I gave back because there wasn’t enough room), coffee maker, water boiler, air purifier, and a table stand for me to set my meals on. She dropped food off at my door, and once the area was clear, I would quickly and carefully open up the door to the outside world and heave in the items she would leave for me daily.

All day long, I would communicate with the outside world through Facebook and Zoom.

At the end of the day, Lara (my sis) would come over with her girlfriend and they would provide dinner for the family. Once everyone was served their meal, we would have a Facetime family dinner. How friggin adorable is that? I loved it because I think it was the first time they had ever listened to me when I would speak at a meal. I would interrupt the conversation with a word or two, then someone would introduce me like I had something important to say. “Jonathan said something”, “What did you say, honey?”, “I said the salmon is good”. I wanted nothing more than to exchange hugs with them. But I was content. I have never felt so much love and protection as I did during that time on the other side of the door.

I Was Molested, Chapter 1

Am I a victim?

The thought of calling myself a victim of molestation is nauseating. I’ve been down this road before and each time I get to the finish line, the road extends another block. In my head, the word “victim” sounds weak. Everyone is a victim of something. Why can’t I just get over it? I can’t get over it because I am living proof that the truth doesn’t always set you free. Will telling my story cause more pain and heartache for me, or will it allow me to break free, butterfly-like, from a cocoon of secrets?

What happened?

In order to protect those who decided to shift my world before I knew what sex meant, I am refraining from naming the people involved in the crime. I don’t remember my age at the time of the incident that occurred while my parents were on vacation, but my gut tells me that I was about eight-years-old. It was at a time before I had pubic hair and had not yet considered the act of sex. I was sitting on the couch in the den of my family’s home with a man (friend/family member). We had been watching cartoons when he subtly landed his hand near my crotch. He inched his thumb and forefinger towards my penis and attempted to squeeze it through my shorts. At first, I wasn’t sure what he was trying to accomplish. But he explained that we were playing “Can you find it?” That made more sense. I told him that his hand was in the wrong spot and I guided his thumb and forefinger to the actual location of my penis, which was barely large enough to crease the cottony pajama material. It was now my turn to try and find his penis. I remember putting my hand where I estimated his penis would be above his blue jeans. I looked up at him smiling down at me and shaking his head like I had made a wrong guess. He proudly redirected me, “up, up, up, left.” I was in disbelief when I saw the surreal enormity of the outline of his penis. “That’s not it!” I exclaimed in disbelief. I remember reaching for his penis like a child greedily reaches for a gift on Christmas morning. “I found it” I said with excitement. I had won. Unfortunately, “Can you find it” ended abruptly when we heard the footsteps of his wife approaching. I remember the excitement that I felt when we played that game. It was our secret game and it made me feel special.

Initial Consequences:

That’s it. That’s all that happened. If the story ended here, I might have been able to walk away with a minor emotional scratch or scar. But that’s not my story. This experience may (or may not) have taught me that I yearned for attention from a man or an adult. This became especially confusing around puberty when I began fantasizing about men, including the molester. Was I fantasizing about the attention I received from this guy because I was gay or because it made me feel important to have the undivided attention and sexual arousal from an adult? I think it was both.

Either way, I hated myself for potentially being gay. I was confused, depressed, lonely, and too weak to kill myself. This state of mind opened me up for a second chapter (Chapter 2 will be shared at another time) of child abuse and a promising future of yearning for and obtaining instant sexual gratification. By the time I was 17, I was dabbling in an assortment of drugs, and letting others treat my body as a blow-up sex doll. I was like a wild animal seeking the same gratification from others that I had received from my perpetrators. Yes, perpetrators – plural – because there would be more than one.

The Unexpected Twist to My Story Our Story

Addiction is a progressive illness. The progress of mine seemed to be gauged by the increasing layers of secrets and emotional trauma that I was harboring. When I was 21 years-old and a sophomore in college pursuing my degree in psychology, my past and my secrets were comfortably compartmentalized and hidden by a thin layer of substance abuse, fraternity life, and scholastics.

That normal routine was interrupted by a phone call from a distressed family member that changed everything. When I answered his call, I could tell by the somber tone of the greeting that this was not going to be a casual conversation. Frankly, it was a relief to have the opportunity to listen to someone seeking my help. I had been seeing a therapist at the Student Health Center at this time for depression and chemical dependency. He was lightly sobbing and was having a difficult time revealing what was troubling him. I knew that if he was anything like myself, that there was little chance he was ready to share the core issue. So I dared to use a method that no one had ever tried with me; the blunt, no BS, un-sugarcoated approach. I asked him three questions that unearthed a decade of repressed feelings and memories.

Question #1:

“Were you raped?”

Answer:

“No.”

Question #2:

“Were you molested?”

Answer:

“Yes.”

Question #3:

“Was it (Perpetrator’s name)?”

Answer:

Yes.

Victim – Question:

“How did you know?”

Me – Answer:

“Because he molested ME TOO.”

The conversation stunned us. We both realized that we were not alone or at fault for what had happened. I wish I could say that I was comforted to no longer be alone. Instead, it filled me with rage. I realized that my childhood encounter with this adult wasn’t a “special bonding.” It was a crime scene.

I Am A Survivor of Child Abuse

In retrospect, this conversation initiated a series of life events that forever altered my life’s path. As a young adult, it was finally confirmed by association with the other victim that I was the product of sexual child abuse (the word “misconduct” is insulting). I had so many questions, emotions, and feelings come up that it left me feeling off-balance and rudderless.

Most people don’t understand the complexity of recovering from child abuse. In this situation, the duration of the actual abuse was about five minutes. I carried the secret with me for over 10 years before I was comfortable sharing it with one person. When a victim shares their story, the recipient of the information now has the responsibility to process it, inform another person (or people), or keep the secret. When I shared the secret with my parents, they became victims and blamed themselves for the abuser’s action. When extended family members found out about the abuse, they shamed my parents for “allowing” it to happen and how they “handled” the situation. I can’t help but think of how this is also going to affect the perpetrator’s children who were my friends when I was younger. The victim list keeps growing.

I kept the secret because of shame and fear of how people would react. And when I found the courage to tell people what happened to me when I was eight years-old, I had to live through the abuse again while I was simultaneously feeling responsible for possibly placing a strain on my parent’s relationships with extended family and others related to the incident. What’s worse? Harboring a secret of my child abuse? Or revealing my secret that will inevitably split up families and put me on trial for public scrutiny?

It has been over 20 years since I came to realize what happened was molestation. I sit here now, ready to tell all, but I can’t. I can’t express the details because the perpetrator is still involved in my family’s life. And the other victim is not comfortable sharing his story. All I can do is share bits and pieces of my struggles so maybe another person dealing with this type of abuse can find some relief.

To The Survivor:

If you are a product of abuse, you are not alone. If you are withholding secrets to save someone else’s face, you are not alone. If you are just realizing now that abuse is part of your story, I can relate.

To the Perpetrator:

Hopefully this story will find its way into your hands so you can better understand the devastating after-affects of your self-seeking actions.

Two Years Later – Memoirs of Losing Dad

Two Years Later

(Right now 11/18/18)

I’d be lying if I said that I couldn’t believe it has been two years (today) since my dad passed away. He’s missed two of my birthdays, three of my trips home to Dallas, 1 and ½ boyfriends, a family vacation, and a few phone calls when I really needed to speak with him. It’s real, it’s been two years, and it has taken me this long to publish some of the phases of reluctant acceptance.

Six Months Before

About six months before his death, my dad gifted me 120,000 American Airlines Advantage miles. I had been talking to him about my burning desire to travel to Europe. He asked me if there was any place in particular that I’d like to go. I responded “Paris, France, England, London, Hungary, Slovakia, Greece, Spain, oh…definitely Italy, and Lithuania.” I think it was quite clear that I didn’t know where I wanted to go. I just wanted to go explore “somewhere/anywhere” that wasn’t here. I booked a flight to Paris and a few weeks before my trip, I had to cancel because work had been very slow and I couldn’t financially justify the trip.

In Retrospect of One Month Before

On October 18, 2016, exactly one month before my dad’s passing, I received a voicemail from my mom asking me to please call her back. I returned the call and she explained that dad had been experiencing shoulder pain and had x-rays taken to find out what was causing the discomfort. The physician informed them that the shoulder issue was secondary and that he was more concerned about the tumor-like mass that showed up on the x-ray of my father’s right lung. About an hour later, I called my dad and there was about a sentence of small talk before I asked him, “How are you doing”? He subtly spoke the words “mom says she told you about the x-rays.” I concurred that she had. I asked him, “Are you scared?” He said, “Yes, I am.” I agreed with my dad that I too was scared and assured him that he wasn’t alone.

I booked my flight home to Dallas for the eve before his surgery; I believed I was coming home to help my mom and sister to aid in my dad’s recovery. I typically play devil’s advocate and attempt to imagine the worst possible outcome. This way, I am prepared to endure, accept, and move forward through any unforeseen yet anticipated situations. However, this time I chose to be superstitious. Ignorance was bliss and I believed that positive thinking would bring a positive outcome.

My flight arrived the night before his surgery at Dallas Love Field Airport just before dinnertime. As always, my dad asked the family where we wanted to eat even though we all knew that there were three restaurants where he liked to dine. Predictably, my recommendation would be somewhere with relatively fast service that served fish because I am an ADHD pescatarian. My sister, Lara would make a recommendation of some place that she liked and had a gut feeling that I would like as well. My mom would indicate that she would try to find something on the menu that she likes. Lara would then explain that she was fine eating anywhere and that everyone else just needs to make a decision. My mom would say she’s fine eating anywhere, followed by a statement indicating that she doesn’t really need to eat. As anticipated, my dad offered one of his three favorite restaurants, Pappadeaux. And we all agreed to go with his recommendation.

I remember sitting at a half-booth table and we all ordered iced tea. I can’t remember what we ate, but I do remember the conversation throughout that dinner to be very light. There was no discussion about how we should handle any unusual outcomes from the surgery. It was like we were all playing along with the idea that nothing bad could happen.

God I wish I could go back to that dinner and say Dad, I love you and we need to discuss a few potential outcomes. If you can’t speak, what is the best way for us to communicate with you? If you can’t breathe without a tube down your throat, are you okay with the administration of a tracheotomy? At what point should we turn off your life support?

Unable to write for three months.

Three Months After

At about 7am on November 18, 2016, three months ago today, I was awakened by a phone call from my sister, Lara. She said, “I’m sorry to wake you. I just got a call from the nurse on-call at the hospital… Dad passed away.”

I can barely remember the rest of the call, or how I walked into my mother’s bedroom and listened to my sister delicately break the news to my mom on speakerphone. The look on my mother’s face was of shock and disbelief. The nonsensical questions and conversation that followed between the three of us seemed to be silenced by a high-pitched static. I hung up the phone with my sister after agreeing to meet her at the hospital to say one final goodbye to our dad’s lifeless body. Attempting to comfort my mom, I embraced her and surrendered to a deep cry into her shoulder that lasted about a minute. She responded with a whimper then seemed to go into a state of complete shock. I think I had been emotionally preparing for this outcome for about a week. And in that moment, my mom was faced with the reality that her 50-year companion was not coming home.

Five Months

At five months, I feel like the dust is beginning to settle from losing my dad. It feels like I am moving away from “What just happened?” to “This just happened.” I had someone come up to me yesterday and say, “I am glad to see that you are seemingly getting better”. It’s true. I am getting better. And frankly, I needed someone to come and tell me that because I need to get better.

The first two months after dad’s death, I had no problem accepting help, phone-calls, coffee dates, meals, etc. But in the third month, I retreated to unhealthy old behavior; isolation, bingeing and purging, acting out sexually, and bingeing on TV/Netflix/Showtime.

I just found myself staring at and into my ceiling and I whispered aloud, “What’s next? Whois next? Is my mom next? Will I go before my sister? Or will she go before me? I don’t want to die but I don’t want to be the last one standing. Did my dad give up on us because we weren’t sufficient? Was I not the man he wanted me to be? Is he looking down on me now insisting that these thoughts are all wrong? Or is he glad that it’s over?

Seven Months and a day

It’s 2:23 am on July 19, 2017 and I have been stirring restlessly in bed. So I decided to surrender and force myself to write something – anything – in an attempt to try to clear these endless thoughts.

At seven months, I still think about my dad’s passing daily. However, the thought process remains above surface level. How often am I supposed to dig in and think about the permanence of his absence? How long should I hold my breath of grief before I start to drown in it?

My birthday is on July 23^rdand I will not be receiving a note from him this year telling me how proud he is of my progress. I miss the way my dad would really step into my mind and praise me for not giving up. He really understood my battle with self-hate. I think he could relate to it.

Eight Months

The last few months could be described as my great escape. I have avoided feelings as much as possible. I have lost touch with most of my friends. Some have let me go and some I have pushed away. I don’t rely on anyone and my faith has been limited. Anger is my most familiar emotion. I need to escape my escape and come back to reality. Reality scares me because I don’t know who I am, what I want, or what I do.

Nine Months

I traveled to New York City and stayed in a friend’s apartment for 3 weeks and I wasn’t ready to leave. The city that never sleeps was perfect for my night owl sleeping habit. The energy and the people of the city kept my adrenaline pumping for the entirety of the vacation. Then I met a man two days before I left. I had an ongoing joke with the friend I was staying with that I wanted to meet a guy from Brooklyn. The man turned out to be from Brooklyn. And it was almost like a sign from God that s/he was watching. So after 36 hours of time spent with “Brooklyn,” I was hooked. It was like speed dating. I know it’s premature, but I have started to consider a move to Manhattan. But before I do that, I need to be okay where I am… and I am not okay just yet.

Phew. I am ready for bed.

Ten Months

My friend Josh’s dad is in the hospital with stage 4 cancer. Although we had just met a couple weeks before at a convention while I was in New York, it was somewhat healing to communicate with and try to help someone going through the process of losing his dad.

Ten and ½ Months

Josh’s dad passed away today. I realized tonight that even with the consoling expertise I had developed with my dad’s passing, there is nothing I could say or do that would ease the process for someone in mourning.

11 Months

“Brooklyn” came to visit for the eleven days leading up to the 11-month- Anniversary of my dad’s death. I picked him up and drove him straight to my happy place, Palm Springs. “Brooks” is a very special man; he understands me, he is kind, and demonstrates a cute form of obsessive-compulsive disorder. We hit a bump in the road halfway through the trip and I was afraid we had reached our potential. I was wrong. We worked through it and it made me like him more. I feel comfortable speaking with him about my dad because he had lost his dad to cancer ten years ago.

11 and ½ Months

AmI supposed to go home and be with my family for my dad’s Yahrzeit (year anniversary of death)? My dad was cremated, so there isn’t an official location for me to return to. As of now, he is sitting on a shelf in my sister’s closet. My mom didn’t know what to do with
it. Dad insisted for many years that he wanted to be cremated. Why would it be so important to him? I never asked. Unfortunately, he never got around to telling us where he wanted his ashes to go. So now we have a ten-pound box wrapped in a green velvet

bag. I have a feeling that he didn’t care where his remains would end up. And that’s fine, but a little selfish. Dad, if you are listening, that was kind of “inconsiderate”.

One Year and Four Months

(WARNING: I have reluctantly decided to leave this month unedited because raw is healthier than sugarcoated)

Denial. I have moved on but I have a phantom parameter around the loss of my dad that is not to be touched. It’s my no fly zone. It’s keeping me away from following my dreams. It’s my excuse to give up. I feel like there are quite a few unresolved “Daddy issues.” My inability to go into my mourning zone is guarded by anger. What the fuck are we supposed to do with your ashes? Where do we go to speak to you? Were you too fucking lazy to snap into reality for a few minutes? And when I asked you if you thought you were going to die, your tears started to well up in your eyes like you suddenly had a deep desire to live. Did you even consider our feelings before you could no longer respond to us? I had to watch you suffocate five times! The family agreed to give you a tracheotomy when you were unconscious. And that fucking doctor that put off my suggestion for a week before he finally did the procedure… right when you were so weak that you couldn’t survive it. Those fucking nurses that had no clue who you were, what was going on, or how to help? It was as if no one in the immediate family was allowed to sleep or dad would die. Every fucking time we left the hospital; somehow he would end up intubated by morning. And the fucking fuck-head nurses that we hired to make sure the local nurses were doing their job properly had no clue what was going on. What the fuck was the criterion for these second-hand nurse-fucking fuck-heads? So many things could have prevented this.

Who am I kidding? Death is the end of all of our stories. There are “better” ways to go, but rarely do we say “wow, that really was an amazing, beautiful death.” I think I might be experiencing an anger phase of mourning… possibly.

“Brooklyn”, if you are the one: I want to be buried in a cemetery next to a family member, friend, or spouse (you). I don’t care too much about the quality or fanciness of the coffin. I like a mahogany brown. Please don’t get the cheapest coffin. I have standards. Get the coffin that is just a little more expensive than the cheapest. If my dad’s ashes are still floating around, please sneak the green velvet box (dad) into my casket so my mom and sister can finally get some closure.

Two Years – Today – 11/18/18

If you are a friend or family member and you are reading this, you haven’t seen me around. And if you have, it was brief and I probably stayed around just long enough to show you that “I’m fine,” “I’m Good.” Our phone calls, voice-mails, and text messages have been lacking depth. I am sorry for not being present and accountable. I am confident that this is my turning point. I wouldn’t be inviting you in if I weren’t ready.

Summary of the Last Year

Two close friends passed away, I chaired an amazing convention, attended and DJ’d the most beautiful wedding I’ve ever seen, went on a cruise to the Carribean with my mom and sister, contributed several new videos to my whoshotinpalmsprings.com YouTube channel, worked a booth at Palm Springs Gay Pride, and had someone take a picture of my ass (before it deflates).

My long distance relationship with “Brooklyn” ended somewhat abruptly. I don’t think I was ready to date. The idea of having a long distance relationship seemed like a good compromise at the time. But distance didn’t make the heart grow fonder. It just made us distant. The day after we broke up, I started seeing another great guy -“Long Beach.” Once again, I wasn’t ready for a relationship. I thought I was ready, but I think I was just filling the void… again. They may not know it (until now), but I am forever grateful for the experiences we shared.

Off to EuropeSouth America

I have been pretty quiet the last five months. And I am starting to feel strength and direction. I feel my dad’s encouragement today. When my dad gave me the 120,000 American Airlines Advantage miles to go to Europe and back, I wasn’t exactly sure where I would stay, what I would do, or why I was going.

A month ago, I met “Sao Paulo” at Triangle Inn resort in Palm Springs. We got along great

for two days and he invited me to come visit him in Brazil. On November 28, 2018, I am flying to South America. The first weekend we will be in Sao Paulo, the second weekend will be in Rio.

Three years ago I met “Lima” on Grindr (a social media dating app predominantly for gay men) and we spent two days together in Los Angeles. He suggested that I come visit him in Lima. After Rio, I will be flying to see “Lima” in Lima. Then I plan on finding my way to Machu Pichu. I have always dreamt of seeing the “Seven Wonders of the World.” Thank you Dad for gifting me tickets to follow my dreams.

Lucky 13

Lucky 13? I have to be honest. The thought of turning thirteen years sober was not pleasant. Apparently, I have some internalized superstition about the number “13” meaning bad luck.

Had you asked me 13 years ago what I would be doing today, it is quite likely that I would have said, “Please God, let me be sober”. I was desperate, exhausted, and willing to finally ask for help. I was pretty much agnostic at that time, but my desire to escape survival mode and start living inspired me to seek a power other than myself.

I remember my last line of crystal meth like it was yesterday. I had been pondering the idea of quitting for a few months and didn’t know till a week before the “finish line” that I was ready to quit. My addiction towards all drugs was a juggling act. I smoked weed and bumped K to relax, sleep, eat, laugh, and escape my chaotic thoughts. I did Special K (Ketamine, not the cereal) to fall into a different universe that would sometimes give me hints to what my life’s potential would be. I remember flying over a concert-filled venue looking down at my fans that were cheering for me. Apparently they saw my potential. I think I was singing to them or maybe taking a break from my DJ set to fly by and give a round of hi-fives to the roaring crowd. Regardless of what my skill actually was, a few bumps of K before lying back on my waterbed was the perfect formula for inviting my fans into my trip (K-Hole).

I want to say that I didn’t drink too much. According to Lacie, the cocktail waitress at the bar where I used to DJ three nights a week, I was consuming quite a bit of alcohol. I remember running into her years after I got sober and made a comment that “alcohol wasn’t really a problem. I told her “I would have a couple Corona and a few shots of Patron – and would always finish my last drink before 11pm so I could responsibly drive home.” She looked stunned at my response and replied, “Those were triple shots of Patron”. Either way, my drinking wasn’t so bad compared to the bar regulars that could easily have had their names engraved next to their barstools. I could really take or leave the booze, weed, K, and other drugs. But Crystal or any other form of speed that would keep me up for days had seduced my inner-consciousness into a co-dependent marriage. Thirteen years ago today, that horrific relationship resolutely ended in divorce.

So what does that all mean today? It means that since Monday, March 28, 2005, I have been lucky enough to begin changing my life. How is thirteen years just the beginning? It’s just a gut. I have a strong feeling that the best is yet to come and I am starting to see my potential naturally.

Something that a lot of people don’t understand about the addict mind (and I will refer to my own rather than speak for a group) is that I am addicted to anything that will temporarily relieve me of my harmful thought process that inevitably wants me dead if it goes untreated.

There is nothing anyone can say or do that will fool my natural, “stinking thinking.” For me, desperation was my best friend. It led my seemingly lifeless, skinny, infected corpse to individuals and groups that had figured out different methods of combating my mental “dis-ease (uneasy).” I prefer that word to disease because it’s easier for me to accept my terminal mental state as an inconvenience, handicap, or nuisance rather than a sickness. From them, I learned that my situation was called alcoholism and the sooner that I surrender to this word (that I hated because alcohol wasn’t “my thing”); the quicker I was going to recover.

Since March 28, 2005, I have slowly learned how to better take care of myself. I have sought help from groups, taken direction from an individual that I call my sponsor, and found a therapist that I can be honest with (imagine that- not lying to a therapist). I have learned that it is absolutely essential for me to incorporate people that I trust in my thought process so I don’t hurt myself or someone else. Isolation is not my friend.

Am I happy? Yes, today in this very moment at 1:30 AM on March 29, 2018 I am completely content. Three days ago, I was engaging in a pretty uncomfortable argument with the guy I have been seeing since July. The silver lining is that I feel we learned something about each other. Rather than angry or sad, I felt compassionate, then loved. He lives in Manhattan, about 3000 miles away. But for some reason, my heart wants me to speak with him at the end of every day. How many couples can honestly say they speak for about thirty minutes a day to each other? How many couples can honestly say that they can’t wait to see each other?

I have learned how to live in gratitude. Living in gratitude does not mean I am always happy. It means that I have the ability to acknowledge each day as a gift. On November 18, 2016, my dad passed away a month after an unsuccessful attempt to remove a tumor from his lung. This was the worst month of my life. I felt emotions that I had only partially imagined. But somehow, I was able to reach into my sobriety toolbox and find a few things to be grateful for. My immediate and extended family and friends came together and took care of me. I felt needed when I was able to return a hug and take care of them. The experience turned me into a crier. I can’t even watch an episode of The Voice without crying. I love that my dad has given me the gift of being emotionally fearless.

Months later, I came down with an infection in my lungs, and found myself in the hospital for eleven days. Each day I was there seemed to get longer and it was difficult to feel gratitude at that time. But in retrospect, I spent few days without a visit from a friend. Some visits were from people who barely knew me. The experience taught me to see each day as a gift and every sick friend as an opportunity.

Clearly, there have been some setbacks the last couple of years. Sobriety has taught me that setbacks are only detrimental if you don’t see them as an opportunity to learn and grow. At my celebratory dinner tonight, my friend Paulo and I were discussing my angst of turning 13. He informed me that the number 13 is a holy number in the Jewish faith and that it is the age when a boy has his Bar Mitzvah. Paulo was surprised when I informed him that I had a Bar Mitzvah. Every once in a while, it takes a friend to help me see the silver lining. A Bar Mitzvah is defined as a “son of responsibility”. I like the sound of that and I’m ready to fly towards my potential.

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