I will not go as far as saying that I have had the worst luck of the draw, or the most difficult and saddest life ever. Many have had worse. Many have had better. Some have lived with little pain and grief. I recommend writing your own story. This kind of therapy is a powerful remedy to depression and sorrow. My words I’m writing are not in competition with others—there only my own true words. My interest in writing the following story is to help people identify their own problems similar to mine. I hope it helps those who might feel alone with their feelings and put them to the forefront. I want no sympathy or pity. Every sad and tragic event in my life has made me stronger. Writing about it is very therapeutic.This is the longest story I have written as an article. It covers the highlights of my book I have been writing the past two years. It’s an autobiography of my life struggles with alcoholism, drug addiction, recovery, suicide, depression, grief and bereavement. Now I will finally get on with it. I am happy to share it with you all.

In 1974, I became an alcoholic at age 21. My girlfriend, Sue, could not help me. We use to be in love. At 22, I was by myself, desperately trying to seek relief over a broken 5-year relationship with Sue, a girlfriend I was to marry that same year. Sue decided to call off the wedding and breakup the relationship. She was my first love. The only relief I found was in a bottle, another love I could not easily dispose of.

Two months later, came the tragedy of my oldest brother, Donald. I was just beginning to date again. I thought it would be a good idea to show off my new date, Belinda, and introduce her to my brother, Donald, who I was always close to. I knew he was feeling very depressed about a divorce and a lost custody fight for his only son, Jon. With that, his health was declining from emphysema compounded with alcoholism. He had been drinking nearly every night after work, and every weekend. He also had a drunken driving charge pending. I always tried to bring him to a good mood. Usually I succeeded in my delivery. He appreciated it. He nicknamed me, “Merry Sunshine.”

What followed was the most devastating shock I had ever felt at such a young, impressionable age. Nobody could be ready for this. Belinda and I witnessed the aftermath of a horrific, bloody mess.

I knocked on my brother’s door. He was living in an attached bachelor apartment, adjacent to a private home. There was no answer. We both left to go to a party. Then we returned later. I knocked on the door again a little bit harder. The door nudged open ajar. I wondered how that happened. I was not expecting my brother there.

I decided to walk in, telling Belinda to stay back. I fumbled around for the light switch with no luck. A stream of light from an outdoor lamp gently found its way through a thin curtain. When my eyes adjusted, I could barely see my brother’s shadow on his bed. Okay, now I thought he was playing a joke on me. He was famous for that. I decided to tickle his feet. At this point, the room remained darkened. A strange sense came over me. His feet were cold and stiff. I wondered why. It was a very warm August night. After stumbling around for a few long seconds, I found the light switch on the wall by the door. The room brightened up as the lights came on. The small room revealed a sight I will never forget the rest of my life.

The walls surrounding his bed were splattered with blood and brain matter. I found the revolver below his bed. At this point, I did not know what to think. I was in total shock and my emotions snapped. Being high from smoking marijuana laced in PHC, I completely freaked out. I had the gun in my hand, and then I took it outside and shot it to the ground. It was the very first time I ever shot a real gun. It felt dangerous. Then I wondered why I did this. It would cause suspicion to the police. I then walked over to a hedgerow and hid the gun under some leaves below it.

Now Belinda was freaking. She was yelling, “What the hell are you doing.” I yelled at her to call the cops. I then took the gun from the hedge, put it on a table on the patio and waited for the police to come. For some reason I felt guilty. I was shaking so much I could not control myself. I wondered if maybe someone had shot him while he was sleeping. After all, the door was unlocked. If this was the case, I really messed up the police investigation. I felt I had killed him, which of course I did not.

Damn, the police are taking long to get here, I was thinking. Belinda notified the property owner, who lived next door. I found out that nobody heard any shots, except the one I shot off in the dead silence. Darn, now their going to arrest me for something I never did. Innocent people go to prison, too. Now I could hear the sirens from the distance. I was shaking worse than ever. Should I take a run for it, or what?

Too late, the paramedics were on the scene with a stretcher and the police officers behind them. One of the paramedics was Sue’s brother-in-law, Carl. They told us too stand back. I insisted I did not shoot him. I explained that I shot the gun outside to see if it was loaded. One officer was inside the apartment doing a preliminary investigation, while the other officer was interviewing me. I pretty much covered my entire story. I must have sounded so convincing, because the coroner later ruled it a suicide. He had put his revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I had found him 24 hours or more, after the incident. He left behind an unfinished suicide note. Another telltale sign was a small library of suicidal, doom and gloom books, near his bedside.

I had to notify my parents immediately. It was August 3, 1975, my father’s 72^{nd birthday. His health was somewhat fragile, too, after suffering a recent stroke. It was so horrible. I felt so much anger toward my brother, then at the same time sympathetic. My emotions were confusing to sort out. Without saying, Belinda and I never dated again. I guess you might say it was a whirlwind romance headed for a train wreck. It affected her as much as it did me.}

^{My brother, Donald, was the adventurous one of our family. He was intelligent, talented, and good-looking. At 20 years old, he moved to Hollywood, California, to pursue an acting career. He never did get the lucky break he was looking for. He did excel in his artistic talent, working on backstage props. He met some interesting actors, male and female. Then he moved to New York and did the same. He would return home for a few brief visits. I was about 5 years old when he first left home. By the age of 26, Donald had had it with the acting business. He did a 360-degree turnabout by moving to Alleghany, California, to work in the gold mines. That lasted about one year. Then he decided to move back home and settle down. He married twice, but both ended in divorce. He had a son, named Jon, from his second marriage.}

^{For the next 10 years, I was drinking heavy. I racked up numerous drunken driving arrests. I spent time in jail numerous times. I had been in an inpatient and outpatient alcohol treatment centers. I was on probation a few times. I had tried to commit suicide more than once. I was involved in a few brief, disappointed relationships that failed. I could not hold down any jobs. Life seemed bad.}

^{In 1985, my father passed away. He was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, and a history of uncontrolled hypertension, and pneumonia. He was 81. He was a wonderful father, with a great sense of humor. As my brothers and I were growing up, he participated in all of our interests, including baseball, soapbox derby races, music, and other worthy projects. For the next 6 years, I was doing the same old thing—drinking and acting stupid. My life was very unstable. I was very unhappy. I alienated my two older brothers, Allan, and Mark, from my life. Allan remained distant. He was that way anyway. Mark was staying drunk most of the time, and living off our mother. After Donald died, our family became very dysfunctional. It became worse when our father died. The only person I could ever rely on was my mother, who was not too happy with the way my life was heading. She was in complete denial of Mark’s drinking problem, which made things worse.In early March of 1991, I returned from an extended visit from Yuma, Arizona. My Aunt Edith had a minor stroke. My Uncle Vernon asked if I could fly down and help him with her care. She came out of it okay. I returned home.}

^{I needed to pickup some work, because my unemployment benefits were running out. I applied for a maintenance job at an old retirement facility in Tacoma. I was hired and I began immediately. They had just acquired another facility in Gig Harbor. One of my duties, besides maintenance, was to deliver hot meals from one facility to the other.}

^{One late morning I was in the kitchen area, and a nice looking middle-aged woman introduced herself to me. She had a nice smile and pleasant attitude. She also had an infectious laughter I thought was cute. Her name was Bobbie. She worked as the dietary manager. She was a damn good cook, too. The residents were lucky to have her. She could have worked anywhere, like in a classy restaurant, but she only wanted to feed the sick and poor people. She was not in it for the money. She could have earned more money, considering her qualifications. She deserved much better from her employers.}

^{That afternoon, I returned from a meal delivery, and I was looking for Bobbie in the kitchen, but did not see her anywhere. I happened to look in the oven, and there was a plate covered with aluminum foil–with the words across the foil, “Earl the Squirrel.” I knew she had done that. That is just the way she was. She could fix the best omelets, too.}

^{As weeks passed, Bobbie and I really hit it off. She would always dance a country jig in her kitchen while preparing meals and listening to her favorite country music from a radio. She was so fun to watch, and she could tell some funny jokes. She had her kitchen staff in stitches most of the time. She easily made plenty of friends. The residents were her prime concern.}

^{By Easter of 1991, we both knew we were in love. We both agreed to give up her apartment and move into my doublewide mobile home in Puyallup, Washington. It was located across the highway from the Puyallup River.}

^{The rules at the mobile home park were strict. She had a beautiful big dog; she called “Buckwheat.” She had to give up her dog. The rules at the park prohibited big pets. She gave Buckwheat to her friend.}

^{We wanted to get married, but we decided against a wedding. I knew my Aunt Edith and Uncle Vernon wanted to accept an invitation to an anniversary party in Lake Tahoe, Nevada, in July. We all decided to make the trip in their RV. We were married on July 28, 1991, at Lake Tahoe, in a popular chapel for lovebird tourists. It was special because my elderly aunt and uncle (my godparents), witnessed our marriage and gave their blessings.}

^{When we returned, we had jobs waiting for us, and we needed to get back to them. The first two years of our marriage was difficult. Finances were a problem. Bobbie had some medical problems that ran up astronomical medical bills. We had no health insurance. We almost had to get a divorce in able for Bobbie to qualify for financial assistance. We really did not want to take an option like that. We decided to file bankruptcy instead. There was no other way.}

^{Then, in 1992, I was arrested for DUI, and that set us back further. My drinking was a bad problem in our first few years. There was quite an adjustment for me to deal with. Bobbie had been married three times before. I never had married. She had children from previous marriages. I had none.}

^{Her four daughters were married and on their own. Three of them were estranged. I seldom asked why. I knew Bobbie was hurt over this. Sometimes this made her cry. I made it none of my business. I married her for what she meant to me–not her past.}

^{That same year, Bobbie and I went to a stop-smoking, hypnosis therapy seminar to stop smoking. Bobbie had quit for good. I failed and started up after a few months. After that, I never wanted Bobbie to see me smoke, because I feared she would start up again. It never happened. I swear Bobbie could defeat any challenge that came her way. My willpower paled in comparison to Bobbie’s strength. I wished I had her stamina and positive attitude.}

^{In 1993, Bobbie had to have surgery on her carotid artery. She had problems with plaque blocking her arteries. Before we met, she had the same surgery, but on the other side. This time, I almost lost her. She had a stroke during her surgery. Some plaque broke loose and it moved to her brain.}

^{Her doctor came out to the lobby and described what happened. He said she was in grave danger. He said I should prepare for the worst. I waited for hours. Her prognosis looked bad. He suggested I go home and get some rest. I eventually did, but it was not to get some rest. I prayed so hard that night. Then I went to bed with a framed picture of Bobbie, and I cried for hours. I eventually dosed off. I was hoping the telephone would not ring.}

^{When the phone finally rang, I almost fell to pieces. I answered and the doctor said a miracle occurred. She was responding and it looked like she was out of danger. I immediately drove to the hospital. When I arrived, I could hear her voice, but she sounded like a baby. I did not care what she sounded like. She knew who I was, and that is all that mattered. Apparently, she was dehydrated. She asked me for some more chipped ice. She gave me the best smile she could. I was so happy. I thanked God for answering my prayers.}

^{Bobbie left the hospital after a week or so, but there was one thing wrong. She could not walk. The stroke had made her so weak. She had no feeling or strength in her legs. Then physical therapy was her next plan. She began physical therapy, as an inpatient, at another hospital. She had to learn to walk again.}

^{Bobbie was progressing well. I was in therapy with her and we were in a room hitting around a big balloon. Then we moved to the kitchen, and she was so proud to show me she could grab some utensils and move her fingers around them. I never had been through anything like this. I did not know what to think. I was just happy she was alive and laughing again. She was still talking like a baby. She was so brave and determined to walk and return to normal. I was so proud of her.}

^{Eventually, maybe ten days had passed, when she earned an afternoon pass off the hospital grounds. We both went to a nearby park and just talked as I wheeled her around underneath a row of trees. It was a bright and sunny day. It reflected our mood. Then she tired rather quickly and we returned to the hospital.}

^{A week had passed and she called me at home and said she had a surprise for me. I could not believe what I saw when I arrived. She was getting out of her wheelchair and on her feet and she took a few steps. I hugged and squeezed her and I broke into tears. I knew she would walk again, and she did. Eventually her normal voice returned. She was herself again. I thanked God for His miracles. I knew there was a God.}

^{In 1994, we were thrilled to have been eligible for a home loan, despite our bankruptcy. We moved to a property a few miles away. It was a piece of heaven. We called it “Bobbie’s Mountain.” Life was good. I had a good, stable, fulltime job with great health benefits. We were moving on.}

^{In 1997, my mother passed away. For years, she had suffered from dementia–borderline Alzheimer’s disease, then pneumonia. Her death was similar to howmy father died. It was so terribly sad. She was 88. She was a wonderful mother, with a heart of gold. She had many friends. Her neighbors said she was the “sweetest lady on the block.” She was a babysitter to many children who loved her like their own mother.}

^{In 1998, Bobbie had another setback. This time it was her gull bladder. She was in danger again, but she responded well and eventually her health restored. It was not nearly like the surgery that nearly killed her in 1993.}

^{Bobbie’s health was doing fine for a few years, other than the blood pressure flare-ups and dizzy spells that required brief visits to the emergency room and hospitalization.}

^{Then, in 1999, my Aunt Edith, who was my godmother, died at the age of 102 (and-a-half). She was a real character. Bobbie and I were so close to her. My Uncle Vernon was totally lost after her death. It was just over a year ago, they moved from Bremerton to Tacoma. They bought a brand new home in a gated community. Imagine that, purchasing a new home at 100 years old.}

^{PLEASE LOOK FORWARD TO A Suffering So Great, Pt. 2}