My parents are good people, compared to most people.

They've been supportive of my drinking "recovery" process, as well as other problems with drugs, from the start of my confessions to them.

I've pretty much been to rehab three times, the hospital (mental hospital) four or five times (you lose count with all the transfers) -- jail twice, and I am sort of naturally understanding of other people who have been struck hard by the system.

Once, I stole my parents car and drove to Bar Harbor to get drunk, and a cop pulled up beside me, and had me receive a warning and return the car to my parents, with only a warning I felt relieved.

Later in life, I had to visit my dying grandfather, who had alzheimers, I was certain he was on his way out, so I put down my beer, and rode to Cape Cod with my mom, where I had a withdrawel seizure in the shower, and hit my head as I was found in a pool of blood at the bottom of the shower by my mother.

I cut my hand open once, on a window, when I tripped on LSD.

I've had violent incidents, and weird luck follow me my whole life.

I remember punching out a three-part mirror once, that broke entirely with one punch, and had to be driven to the ICU where I was put on librium and withdrawel chemicals, with a crude and judgmental look on the nurses face (a male nurse) who I filed a verbal grievance against, because he treated me condescendingly, I said, even though I was a hapless beer-drunk at the time.

I was in the E.R. once, with the hospital garb on, and I made a phone call with the phone in the room, or my cell-phone, I don't remember, and my father answered.

"Dad, I'm in the E.R."

I said.

"I don't think I need to be here."

"Can you just .. leave..?"

I grabbed my things (nothing) and started walking.

It was in an upstairs room, and I walked down the stairs dressed in blue.

I walked out the front doors, and then walked casually down Main street.

Then I entered the park (The Village Green) where I knew there was a pay-phone, and re-called my dad with a collect call.

I waited in that very spot, until his truck arrived, and he drove me home.

We sat in the truck together.

"Brendan, you can't let this happen."

"I know," I said.

The next rehab I was sent to, was for various drinking incidents following a lot of theft and abuse of the law, where I reported the story to my rehab "housemates" and no one had a story like mine.

Alden, who I thought had a bad story, looked at me, after I read my piece, and he just said,

"Jesus, Brendan." ..


- BLS