Recovering From Suicidal Grief and Lifelong Effects From Trauma:  My Search For Truth and a Journey Through the Abyss to Redemption

Recovering From Suicidal Grief and Lifelong Effects From 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 dogs’ 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!

It remains no mystery to me as to why many people choose continued addiction, or suicide over recovery and healing. Invisible wounds caused by trauma are the hardest to heal and the easiest to stay in denial about their life-threatening potentials.

Addiction is a dark, complex labyrinth that ensnares the soul, often clouding one’s vision of hope and recovery. This memoir excerpt is a heartfelt message dedicated to my best friend from 1986-1987, Steve, and may serve as a beacon for others lost in their despair. Through my personal narrative, I aim to shed light on the harrowing path of addiction and the eventual glimpse of redemption. This story, though deeply personal, is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the search for truth amidst chaos.

The time period of January of 1986, through March of 1987, was to become the time container for my descent into the furthest reaches of hell and darkness, with addiction and little will to live as companions on an often times lonely, isolating journey..

I was starting to see the end of my own road, with my out-of-control car crashing through all of the safety guardrails while continuing the race towards the finish line of my dead-end life.  I knew that my problems could not be solved, at least not on my level, and I knew of no other levels that were accessible, or available to me.  I had already tried residential drug addiction treatment and psychiatric care, to no lasting avail.

My descent into addiction began at a tender age. Starting with beer when I was just five years old, my occasional abuse of alcohol escalated to other substances by the time I started experimenting with drugs with Randy Olson in 1971. Randy was more than a dear friend; he was a catalyst in my life, introducing me to marijuana, and to my first wife. Little did I know, this would be the beginning of a long, arduous struggle with substance abuse, and a tragic relationship with a woman who had incurable mental illness.

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?

Let me flash forward fifteen years. I started living with Randy in a Beaverton apartment in 1986 following a tumultuous relationship breakup with Alcindia, another girlfriend.  I had also just walked away from a lifetime guaranteed job with the US Postal Service the previous summer. I found myself spiraling deeper into an abyss. Alcohol and drugs were my constant companions, numbing the pain of failed relationships and shattered dreams. Despite securing a full-ride scholarship from the US Air Force and joining the ROTC my freshman year at college, my addiction, and a marriage to  a woman who had a nervous breakdown, derailed my aspirations of becoming an Air Force pilot and astronaut. My potential was vast, but my lack of self-esteem was even greater. The Challenger explosion symbolized the obliteration of those dreams, leaving me in a state of despair.

January 28, 1986, marked a turning point in my life. The Challenger explosion was not just a national tragedy; it was a personal one. It represented the destruction of my hopes and dreams. I was 30 years old and had made a promise to myself at 15 that if I couldn’t shake my addiction by this age, I would end my life. The “conspiracy of silence” I participated in had kept my struggles hidden, but the pain became unbearable.

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
As the torrential downpour begins, I feel my tenuous sense of peace and safety eroding beneath my feet.
As it strips back, layer, upon layer, upon layer, upon layer, of my consciousness, exposing a bedrock bereft of sanity and hope.
Exposing long forgotten mental relics, threatening old, unhealed memories, and dangerous old habits,
Stinging, piercing, hurting me at my core, obscuring visions of glorious, yet impossibly distant futures,
Washing away all tenuously held possessions of sanity, and hope.
Uprooting the feeble foundation of a life desperately, but futilely, attempting to, yet again, reconstruct itself,
Carrying a powerless, helpless, desperate soul back into toxic chemical valleys, amid a dark, swirling depression,
Ravaging, drowning, then decaying.

Pain,

Why?

Despite my best efforts to secure the means for an assisted suicide, an aware pharmacist refused to refill a previous prescription that had the necessary deadly potential. After revisiting my psychiatrist, I was able to get a refill, but the need for immediate death had waned somewhat.  Because I no longer only wanted to just die, the powerful thought erupted in my mind:

So now I must begin a search for truth.

As the slowly shifting sands of time

Create ever taller hills for lost souls to climb.

It is in my selfish, hated world of little reason and rhyme,

That I began a search for truth, to find Love Sublime.

I did carry the suicide drugs under my car seat, ready for the moment when I could no longer bear the agony. My 1977 Datsun 310 sedan became my home, my sanctuary, and my prison. For a year, I lived in this vehicle, while I was not squatting in unoccupied homes with other homeless people, distancing myself from family and friends, and descending further into the depths of addiction.

My search for truth led me into Portland’s underworld, where I encountered a diverse cast of characters.  Despite my circumstances, I clung to the spiritual principles of AA, even while avoiding abstinence. My first realization was a need to avoid sex and any new relationships. The second was to quit smoking pot, as it dulled my emotions and intellect, qualities I would need for any hope for survival,

I made a commitment to hang with the type of people who, in the past, I never would have befriended. The way I saw it, the people who I had judged against may well have had some of the answers that I was searching for. In my mind, I was already a dead man walking, so past fear of society’s undesirables receded into the background, and I now considered myself a fellow traveler in darkness.

During this time, I formed unlikely friendships with people society had cast aside. These individuals, though scarred and broken, became my only companions. I realized that the same spiritual disease afflicting my underworld friends also plagued my privileged white middle-class acquaintances. The only difference was the latter’s ability to mask their afflictions.

One significant relationship during my descent was with Steve, a man who knew Ralph well, and who was to play a pivotal role in my life. Steve was intelligent, well-dressed, and always carried a sense of mystery. We spent countless hours together, sharing insights and navigating the treacherous landscape of addiction. Steve was the big brother I never had, offering guidance and criticism when needed. He introduced me to various situations and people, testing my resolve and pushing me towards my “search for truth.”  Steve would use drugs with me, but at such a small amount, I wondered if they had any effect upon him.  He was very critical of my rate of use, stating that I was abusing ourselves.

I continued an incredible downward spiral into addiction, and Steve commented to me, in November, how I looked like I could be the “Aids Poster Boy” because I had become so slight of figure, and so unhealthy looking. I had started “hearing voices”, and I had become paranoid, as well. Yet, I did not let on to others that I had become so disfigured internally, though the signs were starting to appear. I “heard” that there was a major undercover operation active in Portland, and that dozens of criminal indictments were immanent. In reality, that was partially the truth, yet I should not have known that, let alone warn a few others of those “facts”.

Steve wanted to know how I knew of these indictments, and I would not tell him. I noted that people were tailing me almost all of the time now, and that some of my conversations were being recorded in my car. One day I tore my car apart, searching for the transmitter, or the recorder. I had two different people stop by, and try to interrupt me from the search, which only added to my own paranoia. I did not locate the transmitter, but I really began to fuck with any listeners’ mind, by talking dark shit, and renaming myself “the Wild Card”. I let my world know, in no uncertain terms, that I was no longer aligned with anyone, as I was on my way to my own death.

 

I will fast forward through three months more of Hell. My main core group had collapsed, with Ralph relocating to protect himself. I had lost touch with Steve, my last connection with sanity. I was running with a new group, and most were intravenous drug users. I met Doctor Dave, a short, friendly man, with a severely pockmarked face, a man who also recently was released from jail. He introduced me to intravenous drug use. He ever so carefully shot me up with speed, for my first time of ever using the needle, and most subsequent times, as well. I could not shoot up by myself, as I feared needles so much. But the incredible rush I received from intravenous drug use made me want to use this hastened path to Death frequently for the final two months of my drug abusing life.

Another abandoned house had been commandeered near the intersection of Holgate and McLoughlin Blvd, and that became our hangout. Our new leader, Frank, organized a big party, and we had over 70 people show up. This was in early March of 1987, and I was ready for my swan song. My fear was that my mental health was irreparably damaged, and my “search for truth” had apparently only uncovered a hastened path to Death for me. Frank had just secured a fresh batch of speed, and heroin (which I had never used before), and he was mixing up his renowned witches brew, and invited me to join him.

Sure, why not?

I had nothing to lose, but a life that was already dead. I started to accompany Frank to an upstairs room, when I spotted Steve talking with a healthy looking 30-year-old woman, a person that I might have been attracted to, had i been healthy. I overheard her calling his name, and it was NOT Steve. “Steve” saw that I heard his real name, and he then knew that I knew.

Steve took me aside, and tried to explain. I instead stopped him, and told him that I had suspected him all along of being undercover. I also told him that his secret was safe with me. I told him my journey was about to end, that I was going upstairs with Frank, and if I survived that experience, I was going to return to my car, and grab the pills under my front seat, and finish business, once and for all.

Yes, I was finished.

“Steve” grabbed my arm, excused himself from his ‘girlfriend’, and took me outside to his car. We then drove to my father’s house, and “Steve” then commanded to me “Bruce, I can no longer keep you protected and safe. Your search for truth has to end within this dangerous world. Now your real search for truth must begin, starting with your relationship with your father. I never want to see you again, but believe me, I am going to try to help you, any way I can. You deserve so much better of a life than you have given to yourself.”

We arrived at my father’s house, and he let me out. He drove away in my car back to Frank’s party. He and his female partner drove my car to my dad’s house later that evening, and I never saw him again. The pills had disappeared from under the driver’s seat, as well. There was no way that I was going to go back to Dr. Beavers, as I was too ashamed to have anybody see me in the state that I was in.

Note 1: One year later, he called me, to check and see how I was doing. I was a year clean and sober, and, in tears, I gushed with my love and gratitude for “Steve”. He was the best friend that I never knew I had.

Randy Olson was to return to my life, yet again. I was still a mess, strung out from months of drug abuse, poor eating habits, and excessive alcohol consumption, and I still only weighed a mere 135 pounds. My face was all broke out, and I had the most horrific shakes, and I  still heard voices. I had experienced convulsions several times.. I I was still drinking, but I was no longer using drugs very much. I invited Randy Olson over on March 13 of 1987. He came over, and he, and his girlfriend and I proceeded to down an inordinate amount of my fathers’ booze and wine. My parents were still “snow birding” in Arizona, and would not be home until the end of the month, so I was still able to keep my dysfunctional momentum going. Well, after partying with Randy until about 10:00 PM, Randy had to go home, so I was left alone with my horrible problems.

It was then that I entered into a blackout, and picked up one of my father’s loaded guns, and drove in a alcoholic blackout, to Brock’s home in the Milwaukie area. This person was an associate of one of the drug chemists in the underworld culture that I had just emerged from. I have no idea why I went down there, but I awoke from my blackout when the gun in my lap discharged, shooting a hole in the front door of his apartment. He had two sleeping children on one room, and a sleeping wife in another room, and I was fortunate to have not brought harm to anyone.

He then brought a hypodermic needle out, and injected me with crank/speed (I still would not inject myself.) I immediately snapped out of my drunkenness, and proceeded to talk with this guy for 24 hours. I got one more injection, and then clarity finally hit me.

Literally, a light went on in my mind, and I saw the utter insanity of the person I was with, and the insanity of my life. I stood up, laughed at the guy, called him, and myself, nuts, and walked out of the front door, got into my car, and drove back to my parents’ home. I was changed, though I just didn’t know how much at the time. As I had only five dollars left to my name, I needed to make a decision. Either I needed to buy more beer and cigarettes, or I needed to get some gasoline for my car, and go visit my grandparents in north Portland. I kept the five dollars, and drove to family. My grandparents were happy to see me, but were concerned for my appearance. I claimed to have the flu, and grandmother nursed me back to some semblance of health over the next five days, while I detoxified and had withdrawals from cessation of cigarettes, alcohol, and drugs, all at the same time.

I returned home to my parents’ home after a week at the grandparents. It is another funny thing, two days later, out of the blue, Craig Salter called me, for the first connection in three years (he was a childhood friend that both Randy and I had known since the 5th grade, and the same person that I chose to have my relapse with after my Care Unit experience), and asked me if I wanted to go to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting with him. He was required to attend meetings due to the conditions of the court that had prosecuted him for a DUI. Of course, Craig was not an alcoholic; at least he thought that he wasn’t. I knew that he was, though. I, in fact, was the person that got him drunk the first time in High School, when Craig was 17 years old. I actually may have started him on his own horrific decline into his own alcoholism, just like Randy Olson had started me on my first drug, which was marijuana, and may have indirectly contributed to my own eventual decline.

Anyway, I went to that AA meeting, because the way I figured it, since God was such a big part of AA, and since I was searching for TRUTH, there must be a relationship between those two forces, and AA may have an angle on that. I proceeded to attend over 270 meetings in my first 90 days, since I had nothing else to do, having lost my job, and, basically, my life, to my disease. Craig eventually stopped going to meetings, after his court ordered attendance ended. I continued to attend them, feeling like I had finally found my spiritual home. I did fall into a temporary trap at the HInson Baptist Church, thinking that my personal TRUTH must somehow be hidden in the church system, and that I could unearth some more by attending church, and being baptized.

Wrong!

I then literally spent thousands of hours over the next several years in AA meetings, communication, investigation, reading, writing, meditation, associating with all types and manners of people, and, eventually, healing my relationship with my parents, especially my father.

I was enlightened by a new teacher, a recovering alcoholic by the name of Jack Boland, who had released to the world many series of tapes on recovery and spirituality. I was given one of his tape series of recovery by a co-worker at the Fred Meyer warehouse, John Johnson, of whom I will be eternally grateful to, on May 16, 1987. I then listened to these tapes over and over, during the Memorial Day weekend, and something miraculous happened afterwards, probably as a result of my openness to the experience brought about by listening to these tapes, and practicing some simple steps from the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous.

My search for Truth, which had taken me through the darkest regions of hell, was about to give me wings, and enable me to fly to the sun, and beyond.  I had a series of dramatic, miraculous healing experiences over the next several years that restored me to a physical, emotional, and spiritual sanity and understanding that I had never experienced before in this life. I began writing about this transformation in 2016, which has resulted in eleven books and hundreds of blog posts being written, by a man who had been trapped most of my life by the conspiracy of silence.

Yet, the prison guard with one of the primary keys to release me from my own spiritual imprisonment was my own unhealed relationship with my father. Overcoming a lifetime of oppression and control by others is no easy task. It also must be done clean and sober, for the true depth and healing of the experience to permanently take hold. I began a new relationship with my father, starting with my new-found sobriety. The real fruitage of healing from the relationship was not to become apparent until many, many years later.  That is another story, for later.

 

 

 

My descent into addiction was a harrowing journey filled with despair, broken dreams, and unlikely friendships. Yet, it was through this darkness that I found a glimmer of hope and the strength to persevere. My story is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the power of connection.

The New Normal of Addiction and Cultural Disease in America

In the modern American landscape, a troubling phenomenon is emerging as an insidious “new normal”: the widespread acceptance of addictive and self-destructive behaviors. This normalization is not only alarming but also represents a cultural disease that urgently needs to be addressed.

One of the most challenging aspects of this crisis is the pervasive denial that envelops those who suffer from alcoholism,  addiction, and mental illness. It manifests as an ingrained societal resistance to acknowledging the gravity of the issue. Individuals trapped in cycles of addiction—whether to alcohol, drugs, or other vices—often remain oblivious to the destruction they wreak upon their lives and those around them.

To these individuals, the concept of hitting “rock bottom” is not just a cliché but a harsh reality. It is the point where the pain of their affliction becomes so unbearable that it forces a reckoning. This moment of clarity, often resulting from catastrophic events such as job loss, family breakdowns, legal troubles, or near-death experiences, can serve as a catalyst for change. However, the tragedy lies in the fact that such moments are often required to break through the walls of denial.

The impact of addiction and cultural disease extends far beyond the individual. Families are torn apart, communities are weakened, and society at large bears the burden of lost productivity, increased healthcare costs, and the erosion of social cohesion. The normalization of these behaviors not only perpetuates the cycle of addiction but also desensitizes society to its consequences.

Mental health professionals and public health advocates recognize the critical need to address this issue as a public health crisis. Yet, the stigma attached to addiction and mental illness often impedes progress. Empathy and support are essential components of any effective intervention, but they must be coupled with accessible treatment options and systemic changes that prioritize mental health.

What is required is a paradigm shift in how we perceive and respond to addiction and cultural disease. It is imperative to view these issues through the lens of public health rather than moral failing. This shift necessitates a comprehensive approach that includes education, prevention, early intervention, and robust support systems for recovery.

We must advocate for policies that destigmatize mental health treatment and make it accessible to all. Communities should cultivate environments where individuals feel safe to seek help without fear of judgment. By fostering a culture of compassion and understanding, we can begin to dismantle the barriers that keep so many trapped in cycles of addiction and self-destruction.

The normalization of addictive and self-destructive behaviors in American culture is a pressing issue that demands immediate attention. It is a call to action for public health advocates, mental health professionals, and the addiction recovery community to unite in addressing this crisis. Through collective effort and unwavering commitment, we can create a society where healing and recovery are not just possible but expected—transforming the new normal into one of hope, resilience, and renewed purpose.

If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction or mental health issues, reach out to a professional today. Remember, it’s never too late to find your turning point.

Remember that there is hope. Share your stories, engage in conversations about addiction and recovery, and find inspiration in the journeys of others.  Please don’t turn away from the problems of others, no matter how difficult the scenery might become. Together, we can break the cycle of silence and find our path to truth and healing.

On The Turning Away

The Search For Truth)

“The culmination of love is grief and yet we love despite the inevitable. We open our hearts to it… To grieve deeply is to have loved fully. Open your heart to the world as you have opened it to me and you will find every reason to keep living in it.”

When Dreams Die: The Silent Grief of Our Guiding Light

Few human experiences carry the unbearable weight of tragedy as profoundly as the death of a child. It’s a wound so piercing, so absolute, that it leaves behind an emotional landscape devoid of light. Now, imagine a different kind of death — one that is equally crushing, yet less visible to the world. The death of a dream.

This grief may not manifest through tears shed at a gravesite or the numb silence of mourners, but it lingers in the soul, darkening inner worlds. Dreams are guiding lights, the stars that illuminate paths in the vast terrain of existence. When these lights extinguish, the dreamer is often left wandering in the shadows of despair and confusion.

My life continues to explore the profound intersection of hope, loss, and resilience. It is meaningful to dissect the layers of this silent grief while seeking ways to rediscover meaning and rekindle our inner guiding light.

Dreams are far more than idle imaginings or lofty aspirations. They are the scaffolding of our identity, the force that propels us forward when nothing else will. A cherished dream infuses us with purpose, energizes our days, and fills our nights with visions of what could be.

To dream is to affirm life itself, to declare that there is something more—a horizon worth reaching for. Philosopher Søren Kierkegaard described despair as “being unconscious of having a self”—a feeling eerily parallel to losing the essence of what once inspired us. Without dreams, we run the risk of losing the “self” that connects us to our inner voice, passions, and higher aspirations.

The death of a dream isn’t always abrupt. Sometimes, it is a slow and agonizing dimming, as obstacles or doubts pile up until the horizon is no longer visible. Other times, it is sudden—triggered by a life-altering failure, an irreversible event, or perhaps harsh words that puncture our confidence.

Consider, for example, the aspiring writer or artist who abandons their craft after repeated rejection. Or the entrepreneur whose startup crumbles after years of effort, leaving them financially and emotionally depleted. Or, how about the man whose young wife suffers an irreversible medical condition, stifling all hopes for her emotional stability and joy in their marriage.Their grief, though rarely acknowledged, is no less real than mourning the loss of a loved one.

When external, tangible losses occur—such as death, a breakup, or financial ruin—the world often responds with condolences, rituals, or support systems. But when it comes to the death of dreams, the response is strikingly absent.

The grieving dreamer is often met with dismissal (“Maybe it wasn’t meant to be”), platitudes (“You’ll bounce back”), or worse, silence. Consciously or not, society pressures individuals to “move on” without fully processing their loss. This message fuels shame, leaving the individual with a lingering sense of failure.

Such invalidation only deepens the isolation. The dreamer feels as though they cannot acknowledge their grief, rendering their loss invisible not just to others, but to themselves.

The death of a dream often mimics the stages of traditional grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. It can leave individuals feeling untethered, destructive, or swallowed by apathy.

Some signs of “dream grief” include:

• Loss of identity: Who am I without “this dream”?
• Chronic self-doubt: Was I foolish to believe in it at all?
• Fear of trying again: What if I only fail again?
• Cynicism: If my dream has died, what’s the point of having any?

This psychological fog traps the dreamer in a purgatory of longing and resignation, where the future feels impossibly distant, and the past remains an aching reminder of what might have been.

The road to healing begins with honesty. Acknowledge your loss—honor it as a profound chapter of your human experience rather than a failure to be forgotten. Acceptance doesn’t mean letting go of all hope. Instead, it frees you to reflect on the past, allowing space for new aspirations to emerge.

The death of a dream often clears the path for a greater, more authentic version of your life’s purpose. The artist, once paralyzed by rejection, may discover joy in collaborating with others instead of perfecting solitary masterpieces. The failed entrepreneur, stripped of their initial vision, may find success by pivoting or mentoring others in their path.

This reframing begins by asking:

• What has this experience taught me about myself?
• If I could reimagine this dream, what would it look like now?
• How can I repurpose my knowledge, skills, or resources to serve a new vision?

Transformation is not linear, but it invites us to move forward—not with blind optimism, but with compassionate realism.

Sometimes, it’s impossible to rekindle the inner light alone—especially when consumed by self-doubt. Seek connection. Trusted mentors, supportive communities, or even professional counselors can offer a clearer perspective, gently illuminating paths you might not yet see.

The human being who witnesses the death of a dream—and dares to dream again—is among the most courageous. This resilience shapes not only individuals but entire communities. Our collective stories of failure, perseverance, and triumph unite us in the shared complexity of life’s bittersweet beauty.

Walt Disney once famously said, “All our dreams can come true if we have the courage to pursue them.” But perhaps a truer realization is this—dreams may die, evolve, or retreat into the shadows. Yet, it is the enduring hope, the belief in light itself, that ultimately keeps us alive.

If your guiding light has dimmed, know this—you are not alone. A single candle can reignite another. Surround yourself with those who uplift, inspire, and remind you of your inner worth. We are never meant to carry the weight of such loss in solitude.

The death of dreams is a profoundly human experience, yet it is also an opportunity to reconnect with self and purpose in ways previously unimaginable. While it may feel like the end of the road, it is often the spark of transformation waiting to unfold.

You are the keeper of your inner light—challenged, perhaps, but never extinguished. The path ahead may be unclear, but by choosing to walk it with curiosity and faith, you honor both the dreams you’ve lost and those yet to come.