Recovering From Suicidal Grief and Lifelong Effects of Trauma
My Search for Truth and a Journey Through the Abyss to Redemption
THE FOOLS (Written in Physician’s and Surgeons Care Unit, 1984)
You know who we are, there is no need for our names
We may be outwardly different, but inside are the same
Vacationing on chemical trips, playing strange mind games
Perhaps striving for success, and its dubious fame
We remain graceless souls blended into life’s darkest mass
Affirming our uniqueness, though we remain stuck in the same class
As those parading around like winners, but appearing just like an ass
Steering clear of self-awareness, Oh our transparency of glass!
Spewing words of wisdom, but with only another dog’s bark
Seeking to make a good life, but on life’s script leaving a shit mark
We may eventually see the light, but now life is always so dark.
Needing more purifying inner flames, while snuffing every divine spark
Hoping to someday blossom, yet we will never possess Love’s flower,
While swimming in intoxicating sweetness, and then drowning in the sour
Never realizing that, over life, we don’t hold any real lasting power
We avoid the dark reality of our lives, by living in a chemical tower.
We may bring up life’s rear, though we think that we should be first
We want all of the best, somebody else deserves the worst!
Our life should be more blessed, why on earth do we feel cursed?
Our dependency creates overblown bubbles, just waiting to be burst!
The Labyrinth of Addiction
Addiction is a dark, twisting labyrinth—one that ensnares the soul, clouds hope, and often leaves individuals wandering without a sense of direction. It is an illness that doesn’t just corrode from the outside but eats away slowly from within, layering shame, guilt, and despair in its wake.
For years, I watched my life unravel. My descent began early—just a boy of five sipping beer, unknowingly setting the stage for a dangerous battle with substances. By my teenage years, drugs entered the picture, introduced by friends like Randy Olson. What began with casual experimentation turned into a lifelong pattern of abuse. Randy wasn’t just a friend; he was a pivot in my life—an enabler, a door to relationships, substances, and decisions I wasn’t prepared to handle.
By the time I hit my thirties, addiction had become a companion as familiar as my own shadow. Despite professional success, promising opportunities like a full-ride Air Force scholarship, and dreams of becoming a pilot, I found myself running on fumes. My marriage to a woman battling her own mental illness added to my fragile state. The Challenger disaster on January 28, 1986, was a haunting metaphor for my life—dreams obliterated, leaving only wreckage.
PAIN
Growing without roots, with a will that won’t bend,
Weathering life’s storms, which never seem to end.
No longer waiting for the sun that was once promised to arise,
How could truth’s light possibly shine in dimmed eyes?
Having reached with futility for all the high goals of life,
With no spiritual growth, while consumed by inner strife.
Devoid of healing affection, and a stranger to real love,
Unrealistic hope was what my failed dreams were all made of.
Despair meets each day, summer has now changed into fall,
Looking at life, I am totally disgusted by it all.
Dying of loneliness, and holding life by only a thread,
With me rotting inside, hopefully, I soon will be dead.
Pain,
Why?
By the mid-1980s, I had abandoned every sense of conventional stability. Walking away from a lifetime job at the Postal Service, I spiraled deeper into the abyss. Living with Randy in Beaverton, surrounded by a haze of alcohol and drugs, I became a ghost of myself—unrecognizable physically, emotionally, and psychologically. Addiction didn’t just blur the lines of my existence; it eroded my identity, my sense of self. When I looked in the mirror, the image staring back seemed like the perfect “AIDS poster boy,” as Steve—a significant influence during my descent—once quipped.
Steve was a paradox. His intelligence and mysterious air intrigued me. He challenged my self-destructive tendencies, albeit from within the same toxic environment. He consumed chemicals too, but in moderation—a restraint I could not muster. He became my mentor in the underworld we inhabited, pushing me toward questions I feared yet needed to tackle.
PAIN REVISITED
Though the dark cloud looms on the horizon, it is also hidden within myself.
It hovers in the distance, just beyond my reach, as it patiently waits my most vulnerable moment.
I then feel the initial mist from its clouds, I know that I am its target.
A piercing wind picks up, hugging me with its frozen arms, and I vainly look for protection…
My paranoia grew during this period. Hearing voices, suspecting conspiracies, I flirted with the idea of ending it all. I carried suicide pills under the car seat of my 1977 Datsun, my mobile prison, sanctuary, and trash heap. But even amidst the chaos of homelessness and addiction, flickers of clarity emerged. These moments hinted at a deeper truth, as though whispering,
“You are not this. You are not done yet.”
The Search for Truth
The thought of death often comforted me, but one day, a new idea interrupted it—the thought to live. Not just exist, but to search—for truth, for love, for redemption. The search began not in churches, temples, or books, but in the unseen corners of Portland. Among society’s “undesirables”—the homeless, the addicts, the outcasts—I began to uncover shards of wisdom. Their struggles mirrored mine, reflecting truths I couldn’t ignore. I realized that beneath the veneer of my suburban, middle-class roots lay the same fractures of the human spirit that plagued my companions.
And so, I began climbing those towering hills of time. My “spiritual disease” demanded that I surrender, not to addiction but to the possibility that truth lived beyond the chemicals, beyond the self-imposed exile. The hills were steep, the climb exhausting, but with each step, the path became clearer.
This chapter in my life isn’t just a reflection—it’s a call to those who feel helpless. To those who believe the labyrinth of addiction has no exit, I say this: The path out is often where you least expect it. Redemption isn’t perfect or linear, but it is worth every grueling step.
The stories we carry—no matter how painful—are bridges. They connect us not only to others walking similar paths but also to the deeper wisdom within ourselves. For psychologists, recovery advocates, and seekers of what lies beyond ordinary existence, I offer this story as a meditation. Truth, love, and freedom are not gifts—they are pursuits.
Choose the pursuit.
It starts with a single step.
