My Breakfast Club

University was a word I had anxiety about my entire life. To avoid it would be outstanding, to enjoy would be a roller-coaster.

When that letter of acceptance comes through your mailbox you feel this sigh of relief; you made it, you're above the rest, you'll conquer the World. Well, no-one told me it would be a journey like no other with hiccups that resemble creatures from the Lost Lagoon. Highs and lows so profound, Jack Nicholson is easily taken to task for his role in 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest'.

You leave 'what was your life' in a storage locker called 'the family home'. You also take a buddy with you so you're not left 'totally' alone to face an alternate Universe/University. You observe at first before sharing anything that will label you for the remainder of your school year. You tread gently in a land full of hormones and expectations.

My room, ROOM 209, was in a dorm full of men from various places across Canada. Introductions are made and you file away 'thoughts' of who will be avoided and who will be your study partner. One young man, at the end of the hall was on my 'hit list' of AVOIDEES. He was scruffy. Not only was he scruffy, he played loud daunting music and was always lying on his thin mattress with his foot bobbing back and forth to 'downer music'. I assumed he was going to be the drop-out, the drug dealer or the pimp. I suddenly had visions of 'The Breakfast Club' with me, unjustly accused, sitting next to him while he tapped his switch-blade against his worn jeans.

In that moment had God jumped out and told me 'this will be your new best friend', I would have jumped from the second floor into the manicured hedge.

I looked at my enclosed rabbit hutch for the school year: one desk, one prisoner-of-school bed, one worn stand-up closet with graffiti chiseled into the wood and one metal chair. Lockdown in Room 209.

After hanging up my pleated pants, my cuffed shirts and folding my Eddie Bauer Boxers into a warped drawer, I checked out the oval grounds. I would find my escape places in the maze called 'University'. The one room where I could escape was the piano room. Yes, the black and white keys would be my place to pound away when the drugs were unleashed and the booze began to flow...and this only took 24 hours.

Party, party a lot, party day and night, party until your head is literally fused with the toilet seat. That was the condition my condition was in. On one of these 'party nights', the man I deemed to be my 'study buddy' knocked on my door. It was Eric. Eric with the goofy face and big glasses. He was my big lug side-kick who would spare me hallucinations and fist fights. When I opened the door his glasses were gone and his eyes were red. He pawed my shoulder and demanded 'I COME TO THE PARTY AND GET SMASHED.' Being a polite and gentle soul, I simply said, "thanks Eric but, I do have an essay due for tomorrow". With that amazing cop-out the last thing I expected was Eric's huge hand slapping my face as he muttered, "you gotta have a party man!" And, he was gone.

Yes, the juices were flowing, the spittle from his beer-guzzlin' mouth hit me square in the cheek. Okay, I'd find another study-buddy and put some ice on my face; there was a tub full of ice in the common bathroom where the beer was being chilled, the 200 bottles of beer. Then I heard a voice as my door was being shut. "He didn't mean to do that." Probably God, again, telling me what an 'adventure' this was going to be. Perhaps Eric's slap-of-the-night had jarred a personality I hadn't met? But, it wasn't God, it was a hidden personality, it was THAT GUY AT THE END OF THE HALL...yup, the ONE, the one I had promised to side-step. His door was open, his Bhudda pose on his mattress was dressed in a black t-shirt, probably those same jeans, afro hair gone wild and a single pearl ear-ring telling me he was dangerous for my education. But, he invited me to come to his lair. Yes, it was time to meet 'Magic Mushroom Man'. Lamb to the slaughter.

I tried everything to escape the terror at the end of the hall. My excuses were lame and he knew it. I would be a drug addict by midnight, listening to acid rock and getting a tattoo somewhere on my student body. He would be my undoing. I knew I should have gone to Church.
I would become his puppet...he would be 'the dark PUPPETMASTER'.

I stood at the end of Bhudda's bed. His hands were clasped over his ratty t-shirt. The man had a hole in every piece of cloth on his body not to mention that one in his ear. He tapped the side of the bed and TOLD me to sit. His grin was pretty menacing..kind of Cheshire Cat I'd say, but more feral. I don't think I spoke which was unlike me because I had this great attribute of never shutting up in a crowd. The silence was deadly, for me, for him...not so much. I think he was embracing my terror. Yes, he was embracing my terror which hit a real high when he calmly said, "SHUT THE DOOR SO THE FACE SLAPPER STAYS OUT." Caged. Trapped. Mercy Kill.

He introduced himself while I let my eyes wander to his collection of books. Likely slasher novels or 'alternate ways to party'..but, no, I was wrong. Oh, I was wrong about many things. Standing tall were the best authors of days gone by, books of poetry, classics. He, Misha as I would come to call him, was more complex than any part of my life. He was someone you were lucky to listen to. Weaving stories of his life, he became my best friend who would hide from his followers in Room 209

or escape with me in my Volkswagon Beetle to the ocean where we'd talk about going to Australia or what our families would be like.

I found myself in that piano room too often throughout that year in Room 209. Misha was a man, like all of us, fighting his demons. I had demons of my own and in a world called DORM LIFE, demons rise from a filtering system smothered with booze and drugs, sex and lies. But, there were moments of greatness. Your 'Breakfast Club' of two becomes your outlet to a safer place. It's an elite Club where you can escape the loud music, the blurs and slurs of room-mates, the Von Trapp born-again Christians and the constant pressure of 'making it'.

I never went back. My holy friend moved away and took my dream of family while I stuck out my thumb and hitch-hiked through Australia

to face my demons, but not with my friend. He was at another University changing lives and rising above those books I saw on his shelf the first day we spoke.

We all have turning points in our lives. One of mine was in Room 209 and shared with a stranger I had judged as my biggest nightmare but, at the end of the day, he was 'My Breakfast Club'.

She Is My Hero

Another early morning watching my sister getting prepared for her 7th treatment of ECT...another morning of holding hands

.

Susan was crying the day before. We had a wonderful day. She walked in the sunshine with me, we talked about simple things and just listened to seagulls cry out. It was good, it was so normal. Then, when I took her back to the Psych Ward, tears quietly tumbled down her face. She held my hands and with some shame, she said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't cry. I know I have to do this. You don't have to stay."

What does a brother do? I was so proud of how brave she was being. This would be her 7th treatment and she still thinks of others. She, Susan, is always thinking of others when she's falling into her dark place. I continue to breathe in and smile because she needs to know we are ALL TAKING THIS JOURNEY WITH HER.

When I look at her I see this child I grew up with. Susan was my twin through life. We shared everything, we experienced most things together and we had adventures. I was told, by my parents, that Susan was 'retarded'. I was only 6 years old and alone in my bedroom when they came in with serious faces to enlighten a 6 year old.

At the time, I was selfish. A selfish boy who loved to terrorize his sisters and play silly games. But now, I was told to be 'bigger than this'. I was told to protect her, to make sure other children did not hurt her, to walk to school with her and to be 'gentle' with her. I was not impressed, I was confused.

Why? Why do I have to be a different brother? Why do I have to be riduculed for walking my sister to school and be brave to ward off mean children. It was like a life sentence. I felt such anger for my sister. She had unraveled our relationship in one day. I promised to follow the rules but, still, I was angry.

Now, looking into her eyes , her lost eyes, I just want her to be that girl who walked the shores of the beach and helped me put strings on beach logs and turn them into horses. We started a ranch on the beach using old logs. We named each log, each 'wooden horse' and drew faces on them. We rode them and said goodbye before heading back to our log cabin for dinner. She was someone who lived in my adventures.

I stood by the metal table as she crushed my hand to make sure I would stay with her through her 7th treatment. "Don't leave okay?"... I would never leave her. As children I did leave her, many times. I left her in the ugly world called the school-yard where children did not take pity on other children with handicaps. I did not defend her when she was blamed for the things she did not do. I was being a brother who wanted to stop having to 'be her hero at six or seven years old'. I was angry that she was 'special' and I was not.

The treatment began. She was braver with each treatment. Now, she would lie still while they stuck needles into her and wrapped headbands on her with suckers and goo. She just 'held my hand' and asked me to wait for her. She is so brave. She is my hero.

AS I wait on the hard chairs in an empty hall, I think of our time together as siblings. Susan was always so kind. She followed my lead and would do anything I asked. She just wanted to please people, to please her brother. We shared pets, so many pets. Susan would buy me rabbits, hamsters and budgies with her allowance. Sometimes I took advantage..well, often I did. I told her there was a special time called 'pre-birthday' and 'pre-Christmas' presents. Susan would come home with rabbits and goldfish from local pet stores. They were for me, "pre-birthday present!" she would say. I felt badly but, I continued to be 'that' kind of brother because it was so easy.

Now, I look down at her with an oxygen mask over her face, a needle taped to her arm and 3 medical personale hovering over her while she sucks up her mental health, while she sucks up her unfair hand that was dealt to her and finally, she sucks up whatever fate comes out of this

.

Susan has taught me how to be a better person. She has fought many battles in her life. She has conquered the mean children, the labels, the medical challenges, the impatient relatives and now, she has conquered me. She has made me so humble over the years. We, all of us, can learn so much from the 'Susans' of the world. Her simplicity and kindness were trampled throughout life and now, she depends on US to lift her up, to save her from all of the things 'she never asked for in life'.

Yes, Susan is my hero. Who else?