Appetite For Addiction: The Backstory

Early last week, before Appetite for Addiction was published, I had a conversation about the impending release with my boy Brian.  He asked how I was doing, knowing that my entire life was about to be available for the world to see (he put it more mildly).  “I’m fucking scared dude,” was my response.  The previous couple of weeks I had been wrought with insecurity.  Even though I’ve shared quite a bit of my story on this blog, it doesn’t tell the whole story. I was terrified about what the reaction might be once people actually started reading it and finding out that I was a pretty big jackass for so long (which is a judgement that I reluctantly place on myself from time to time, still working on those).


This was the first time I saw someone else holding a book that I actually wrote.  It was a surreal feeling!

Curiously, as the release day got closer, the anxiety began to somehow subside.  Then, last Thursday, went Appetite was released, I felt this huge weight come off of my shoulders.  I hadn’t felt that light in some time.  Even today, as the book is slowly getting out there, I feel somewhat grounded and relaxed.  Perhaps having all of these crazy stories and narratives persist in my mindframe before the books release was doing more harm than good.  Or, perhaps, it is just a part of the process that writers experience when they cultivate their own memoirs.

Right after I resigned from the Hilton, in June of 2015, I started to write.  I had this idea that it might be fun and therapeutic to put my entire story down on paper.  I didn’t necessarily know that I was about to start a three year project of intensive self-reflection on my history. In fact, I began writing chronologically, beginning with my upbringing as a child, gradually progressing to present day.  Looking back to some of the writing I was doing back then was kinda embarrassing.  But then, I received a valuable piece of advice from my good friend and author, Buffy.  All he said, loosely, was just write.  That’s it.  Just write.  I carried that knowledge with me until the day I submitted my first final draft to my copy editor last fall.  Thank you Buffy.

At first I was going to name the book Renovatio, latin for re-birth.  My reasoning was because of a tattoo I had to cover up (the initials of my ex-fiancee, I can’t believe I actually did that) with a new word.  Right around the time I wanted to get the tat redone I saw an Ewan McGregor movie that featured the word Renovatio.  It had a nice ring to it.  I though it might be cool to replace LMC with a word that signified re-birth, regeneration.

After I nixed that idea for whatever reason I wanted to name the book Eat, Sleep, Run, Repeat.  After a day of thinking about it, and a few suggestions from friends to keep working on the title, I quickly nixed that as well.  Plus, I didn’t want to come off writing a “running” book and the title was just silly and irrelevant given the content of my story.

Then, one afternoon while driving to the gym I was blaring the Guns N’ Roses album Appetite for Destruction. BAM!  THAT’S IT.  Thus, Appetite for Addiction was born.

Ultimately I wrote Appetite for two reasons.  One, to help me understand the construct of my life, especially as it relates to addiction and sobriety. Two, to help other people know, who might suffer in silence from their own demons, that they are not alone.  The reason I had my mom be the main editor, other than the fact that she’s a very good editor, was because it was the best way for me to express what I had gone through in life.  Up until I started writing I just didn’t know how to properly help her understand the anxiety, stress, and depression that I seemed to be relentlessly steeped in.

In my previous work-life experience in the corporate world it was all about producing results, quickly, my paycheck depended on it.  Other than training athletically I was always reluctant to enter into multi-year projects, mainly because of the fear that I wouldn’t see it through.  Trust me, there were times where I wanted to scrap the whole project, simply because I wasn’t getting any immediate results.  Fortunately, with the help and encouragement from several friends, I didn’t stop.  I am very thankful for this.  Plus, during those times of frustation, I was still firmly of the belief that results were everything.  Thankfully, part of that thinking has subsided and transformed into a sense of patience, something that always seemed to elude me in the past.

I’m grateful to have gone through this process, it has been so very rewarding.  Plus, I found out that I have somewhat of a knack for writing!  Funny, because I failed my writing class at St. Lawrence University.  With the revelation of this new hobby I am proud to say that I’m already half-way through the follow-up book to Appetite for Addiction.  A Comeback from Addiction, My Story, will be out soon!

A huge thank you to everyone who helped keep my head above water through the writing process.

P.S. – for those who read Appetite I would enjoy hearing your constructive feedback.


Sober Date: February 11th, 2014…Four Years In

Today, February 11th, 2018, is my four year sober birthday.  To celebrate, like I’ve done in the past, I’m heading out into the McDonald –  Dunn Forest for a long run, one hour for every month in the last year that I’ve been able to maintain continuous sobriety.  These twelve hour adventures have been a few of my favorite runs (including races) that I have experienced since becoming sober.  They are a time to appreciate and honor the fact that sobriety is a gift as well as a chance to remember what I’m made of.


With another year of sobriety comes another year of learning.  Last year I found myself reflecting upon the people that inspire me the most ( 3 Years Sober ) as well as what the journey had been like so far.  The same goes for this year as the reflective side is still as prevalent as it has been in the past, perhaps in a different vein.  Part of this, I believe, is because of the composition of my memoir, Appetite for Addiction.  For most of this past year, while writing and editing, I was finding myself entrenched in the narratives and stories of my past.  Basically,  I felt like I was reliving, over and over, the worst and most devastating parts of my story, which is a default setting of mine.  My question to authors who have written addiction memoirs is:  is this common?  To be steeped in these stories is my own doing.  Luckily, with the help of my accountability team, I am slowly shifting the narrative from living in the past to coming into the present and appreciating what is unveiled at my door step today.  Not yesterday, nor tomorrow, but today.  I also believe that by releasing Appetite for Addiction I will be able to keep letting go and continue moving from my past in many ways….the process of writing has proven to be very cathartic.

 It’s always interesting to compare what I’m working on now to what I was working on a year ago.  Last year at this time I was on a high.  Having recovered from an injury, I was attacking training full steam, writing like a banshee, unaware of the consequences that I’d face by going 110%.  This year, however, is very different.  Immersed in ambiguity about what is going to happen with the ventures that I am pursuing, I find myself reverting to a past and comfortable behavior of dwelling on results.  Results for training, results for a long awaited move, results for writing, and results for my business.  In essence I’ve been future-tripping about what may, or may not, happen.  For instance, a few days ago I texted Matt to say good luck and to go get a medal in PyeongChang.  The minute I sent the text I immediately knew what his response would be: “We’ll give it our best!”  It’s inspiring to have people in my life that are truly invested in the process of improvement, much like Matt is.  Cues such as this help snap me back into the present and be involved and engaged in today.

Largely, my focus on results goes hand in hand with unrealistic expectations that I have the penchant for setting up for myself.  However, in sobriety, this tends to look different.  Something that I keyed in on this morning, while sharing with some other folks in recovery, is that when I stopped drinking I never really had ANY expectations of what might happen if I got sober.  I suppose I imagined that my body would feel better, but I never thought that I’d have the courage to resign from the corporate lifestyle I was living to pursue writing, training, and owning a successful health and wellness company, full time.

The other prevalent item of personal work that I’m engaged in is set around managing my depression.  Last year at this time I was pretty secure in the fact that I was in a good place with it as I hadn’t had too many episodes over the preceding year.  This year looks very different, as I’ve mentioned and recalled with frequency lately.   The good news is that, more than ever, I embrace the fact that depression is a thread in my life rather than dismiss it.  Plus, by uncovering certain hormonal deficiencies, my hope is that my depression will become more manageable with time.

It isn’t so much about not drinking anymore, it’s about everything else.  The compulsion to drink isn’t there like it used to be.  I can’t claim to say that this will always be that way, but today I feel pretty secure in knowing that, even in the hardest moments, the chances that I’ll drink are very slim.  That’s pretty cool.

Apart from drinking, I always forget that the 11th of February is also the anniversary of quitting chewing tobacco, three years ago.  Being my obsessive self I had to make both anniversary dates on the same day.  It’s just easier to remember that way.

With that, I’m going to grab my headlamp, an iPod full of Gareth and Armin sets, and my running shoes to begin the most important celebration of the year.  The one that reminds me that I’m still alive, kicking, fighting, surviving, and moving forward.


Central Oregon PTSD – “Dude, get over it!”

This narrative must sound like a broken record, but….here goes!

Some time ago I wrote about wanting  to let go of my resentments toward Bend, OR (A Comeback from Addiction ).  When I left town and moved to Corvallis in December of 2011, I was steeped in all sorts of questionable and sketchy behavior.  Today, more than six years later, I still find myself working through those resentments.  This past weekend, while visiting with my friend and mentor, Mike Larsen, he boiled it down pretty bluntly as only he can in his own unique caring way: “dude just (*$&%ing) get over it!”  I heard you man and I wish I didn’t have to complicate things as much as I do.  Unfortunately it’s a default setting right now so deal with it! 😉


Larsen – enough said.

On my initial journey across the country, from Massachusetts to Bend in 1998, along with my adventure mates, Matt Whitcomb and Justin Beckwith, I remember a vivid moment while heading west on US 20, cresting a rise somewhere between the ghost towns of Brothers and Millican and seeing Mt. Bachelor, the Three Sisters, and Mt Jefferson for the first time.  Immediately, upon the sight of the those majestic mountains, Central Oregon began to encompass an aura and magic to it.  Plus, as nordic skiers, we got the opportunity to be around our Olympic heroes who also lived in Bend – Pat Weaver, Justin Wadsworth, Ben Husaby, and Beckie Scott. We had found our new playground; for me, for the next thirteen years.  Largely, that magic and aura stuck with me until just a few months before I ran away to Corvallis.  During those months the distinct transition of Bend’s allure and ambience turned to a depravity as my main goal had gone from adventuring and fitness to chasing down the nearest cocaine dealer downtown.  Those last three months went on to create a resentment that I am still largely working on relieving myself of.  It seems ridiculous to think that just three months affected all of my memories of being in Bend for over a decade.

Recently one of my best college friends, Ben, and his family, relocated from the east coast to Bend.  Having them so close to me for the time being, geographically, is becoming more and more important as time goes on. When I visit them every so often it is refreshing to see the town through their optics and fresh eyes.  They see Bend for what it is, an amazing place. Each time I visit it does get a little easier not to pick up on the overly-abundant visual cues that remind me of the delinquency and indecency that I associated myself with towards the end of my tenure there.  Look, for me it’s very difficult to not drive down Newport Ave, Wall St. or Galveston Ave, without be cued off on a specific treacherous memory that exists at the various establishments on those stretches of road.  Most people see those areas for their great architecture, lush views of the Deschutes River, and the plethora of first-rate shops and restaurants.  It’s unfortunate that those views elude me for now; when I’m in downtown Bend I see the spots where I almost crashed my car, drunk as hell, or scored some blow off a dude at 2 a.m. on the street corner of Bond St. and Minnesota Ave.  Even this past weekend, those recollections still persisted in my memory bank.  Letting go of said memories is largely the key to me resolving my relationship with Bend, something that I’d like the future to hold for me.  The fact is in NO other town in the world do I have a concentration of so many close friends and confidants.  Three of my mentors live there!  It’s actually pretty freakin rad to be reminded of that.  At some point in time I absolutely see myself moving back there because, quite literally, Bend kicks ass.

I’d love to be able to remember the good stuff over the bad stuff, and the intrinsic work I’m doing is certainly helping. Training at Mt. Bachelor, tearing it up on the Tuesday night Sunnyside hammerfest ride, learning to trail run, the amazing memories of working in the area, and the most important part, the people and community, are among a few of the memories that I cherish.  The good news is that I’ve got a few folks in my life that are constantly helping me through my issues of letting go, not only with Bend, but with life.  I understand the simple fact that it’s a process and it will take time.

So for now, the journey to work through those resentments will continue.  As luck would have I’ll be back in Bend in just a couple of weeks to once again, be around some amazing friends doing what we do best…kicking ass in Central Oregon!








2018: The Year of Embracing Uncertainty

Yesterday I got a mysterious call from an Inglewood, CA, phone number. I found it strange as I don’t really know anyone that well in the L.A. area.  The woman on the other line was a casting agent for the reality TV show, on the Discovery Channel, called Naked and Afraid.  A few days earlier a friend of mine, thinking that screen-work may be a good fit for my future,  gave me an email address to follow-up with regarding a potential lead on the casting for a new season of N&A.  Causally, not thinking anything of it, I sent an email stating who I was and that I’d have an interest in learning more about the opportunity.  Then I get this phone call out of nowhere and had my first casting agency interview.  It was a total trip!  If the producer likes what he sees from my initial interview then I get to take the next step in the interview process and get into more detail of me and my story, as well as what being on the show actually entails.   I have no expectations of any sort with all of this.  Honestly, it was just flattering to get the initial call!  We’ll see, if I don’t hear from them in a few days then I know they’ve moved on.

As we draw nearer to the new year I find myself in a reflective state.  For better or for worse, I can never seem to avoid this eminent truth.  As I’ve mentioned before, 2017 has been a hard  year for me and I am more than ready to keep pushing on to leave all of the crap that happened behind me.  However, as I think back, many of the blows were rooted in certain expectations that I carried for myself, expectations that I owned as a portion of my identity.  I’m almost able to say, in an honest sense, that I am appreciative of the opportunities that I was granted over the past year to learn from my mistakes.  But honestly?  Yeah, I’m still a little pissed off.  Yet, I find myself playing the role of the victim less and less.


Looking over the Grand Canyon.  Pretty soon this will be my home.

At first glance, ambiguity has been a word that hasn’t meant much to me in the past.  In fact, the way I’ve lived over the years has been driven solely by concrete goals, athletically and financially.  I had expectations for everything!  And when I didn’t achieve those goals or expectations I beat the hell out of myself.  2017 was rife with physical injury, most notably a semi-torn achilles, a broken thyroid/low testosterone, severe depression, and a bad bout with overtraining syndrome (OTS).  Overall, the running/athletic goals that I set for myself this year did not come to pass.  At many points I believed, on paper, that I had failed.  From a financial standpoint it wasn’t much better.  It got so bad that there was even a time this year that I wanted to quit everything:  running, my business, my book, and being a dreamer pursuing his passions.  So yeah, those thoughts of “failure” still linger.  However,  I am slowly beginning to let go.  Enter uncertainty…

As I sit here today I am faced with an abundant level of uncertainty.  First of all, in the next few months I am moving to a town, Flagstaff, AZ, where I barely know anyone other than a few great folks in the running community along with some others that I met during my trip this fall.  I’m terrified!  Financially, I’m scrambling a bit but know that I have the skill and wherewithal to make shit happen.  Next, I have a book coming out…who knows what’s going to happen with that.   And my running goals?  Honestly, the biggest obstacle to achieving those is to simply, stay healthy!  That’s on me.  All of it is on me.  Add in the possibility of a reality TV show (I bring this up in a bit of a joking manner)?  WTF!

A mental shift has happened over the last month that has had a profound affect on the way that I process information.  Through the work I’ve done in therapy, among other certain avenues, I have become more and more keen to the idea of surviving and thriving in uncertainty.  Rather than completely obsess about not knowing what’s going to happen I am beginning to see uncertainty as opportunity.  I can’t tell you when, exactly, this shift happened, but it did, and I am grateful.  Sure, I’ve got to figure how the hell I’m going to move all of my shit to another state, along with my cat, which stresses me out to a degree.  However, I know that once I get there things WILL settle down…it’s just a matter of taking action and moving the process along.  A quote that I recently heard gives me added hope:  “If you follow your heart and your passion the universe will conspire to help you in one way or another.”


Earlier this year making my way through the open landscape of Northern Nevada.  For some reason landscapes such as this speak to me in a profound way.

With that in mind, along with further investigation, perhaps I have seen success when faced with the unknown.

In thinking about my attempt with sobriety I am reminded that at one poignant point in my life all I had left was uncertainty.  On February 11th, 2014, (the day I got sober) I had no clue what was going to happen with me.  Dialing life back to one day at a time seemed like a monstrous undertaking.  Early in sobriety it was a matter of literally not taking a drink each day.  In time, those challenges became much deeper and harder to face as I began to  slowly peel away the layers of the onion.  So far, the process is working as it has been almost 4 years since the last time I had a drink!  So, perhaps, this is evidence that I have embraced uncertainty to a degree.  I’ll take it.

Furthermore, I was engaged to be married at one point in my life.  The year was 2007 and everything was laid out for me.  All of the expectations that I had for myself were coming true: a soon-to-be wife, a house, the cars, the fancy six-figure salary, everything that I thought I wanted out of life was becoming reality.  Then, for countless reasons, it all blew up in my face.  At that point I was so transfixed on living a certain lifestyle that I completely lost sight of the things that really mattered to me, most notably fitness and health.  Within a matter of months all of the hard work that I did to create this perfect reality brought me to my knees, literally.  I lost everything financially and emotionally.   But after a while, I landed back on my feet because I chose to embrace the unknown…maybe it has been in my gut all along that uncertainty has led to great things!

Even as I look back to my high school years at Burke Mountain Academy, among the most terrifying period of my life emotionally, I somehow pushed through the adversity that I created for myself to come out stronger on the other side.  Detailed in my book, Appetite for Addiction, the Burke years played witness to ambiguity in the purest sense of the word.  Every single day, especially early on at Burke, I was literally terrified to show up amongst my peers, not knowing how they would react to me and my overly-shy and introverted self.  But, things played out as they did and ultimately the years at Burke set the stage for a more enjoyable and terror-less period of life that was to follow at St. Lawrence University.  Just writing these examples of my past ability to push  through ambiguity reinforces for me, that today, maybe I don’t need to be afraid of the unknown.  My history only goes to show that I’ve actually been effective in those situations.

Whatever happens in 2018 will be a miracle.  Hell, the fact I’m even alive and that I’ve stayed sober for this long is a miracle in and of itself.  And writing a book?  Huh?  I never thought that would happen.  Hell, I barely passed my writing courses at St. Lawrence! Moving forward I feel as though I just might have the pieces in place to continue to thrive in ambiguity.  It’s just a matter of drawing on those past experiences and engaging these effective character traits.  The tools I have picked up to help me through the process have certainly been heavy, but the more vulnerable and honest I get the better those tools  seem to work.  So, in a sense, maybe 2017 has been a good year, as this was the year that I truly began to learn from my mistakes and shortcomings. Only time will tell I suppose.  With 2018 being full of interesting things to come I’m here to say:  Bring that shit on!



On the Mend….Physically and Mentally

Last Tuesday, a full week ago, I found myself checked in to my local Emergency Room in an attempt to get help and reprieve from a 4+ week bout of sustained depression.  Today, I am still in a bit of shock for having gone through the experience.  That being said, since last Tuesday, each successive day has been just a little bit better and brighter.  Below is my account as to what has happened as a result of the bottom that I experienced.  Overall, my hope is that it’s just the beginning of another very important process that I must embark on to simply stay alive.

Blood tests have revealed that I have hypothyroidism, which helps explain many of the symptoms that I have been experiencing over the last month.  My loose understanding (as I am NO doctor and will never pretend to be) of  how a thyroid works is that it is a clearinghouse of sorts within the body, a gland that secretes essential hormones which primarily influence one’s metabolic rate and ability to properly synthesize proteins.  If a thyroid is operating below capacity (in my case 25% of it’s normal functioning ability), several things can occur including: lack of recovery from physical activity, low rates of testosterone, and an extended state of depression.  Over the past month these have been my primary symptoms.  Not included are the incessant and fierce pressure headaches that I have experienced over the same time frame.  Largely, as of today, the headaches have subsided.  To help assist in my recovery  I am currently taking a medication called Cytomel, a common prescription drug used to treat hypothyroidism.

So, how did I get to this point?  According to my team of medical professionals and mentors, who have been absolutely crucial throughout this process, the story started earlier this year when I overtrained.  From my understanding, by training above my means  for an extended amount of time, I dug myself into very deep hole of physical, hormonal,  and adrenal exhaustion.  After taking some time off to let my body heal throughout the month of May, I began working with a new mentor  from an ultra-running perspective who helped foster me through my overtraining symptoms and back to a place of relative normalcy.  By the late summer months I felt recovered and was running well again thanks to some solid professional training advice. However, the race I was training for in early September, Pine to Palm 100, was cancelled due to the awful and devastating fires in Southern Oregon.  The original plan of attack was to get through P2P and then take an extended period of recovery over the fall months to let my body heal from the race, as well as from any residual effects that were left over from overtraining.  At this critical juncture I made an error.  I still wanted to race in 2017 to at least have a solid finish, any finish really, under my belt.  Therefore I opted to sign up for Rio Del Lago 100 in November.  I was warned that extending an already aggressive training load for another 10 weeks would be risky, especially considering where I had come from earlier in the year.  Being my relentless-self I opted for the extended training period, which, in a roundabout way, helped lead me to the symptoms that ultimately landed me in the ER last week.

The idea here is that I never quite recovered from being overtrained.  My hope is that this current period of rest will help get me back to square one, not just from a running perspective, but in all regards.  Again, there is much more at stake than just a running career. Sure, there are other factors are work, for one being my predisposition with depression, as well as many other things.  However, the combination of everything ultimately helped lead to a perfect storm of sorts, which brought me to a place of sheer helplessness last week.

Another factor in this equation is that I’m preparing for a move out of Corvallis.  This has been on my mind for a couple of months now and just two weeks ago I was ready to be in a new town as soon as mid-November.  Logistics for the impending move were happening rather quickly and I didn’t realize the extra stress that said move was creating for me.  While respecting the need to take my foot off the gas and direct my attention to sorting out my health, my plans for moving are put on hold for a couple of months.  Ultimately I am planning on moving out of Oregon, which means that, in the interim, if I had moved suddenly then I would not have had the appropriate short-term health care services to rely on to help me get my shit together.  To move at this point, in a period of influx and  uncertainty, both mentally and physically, would have been entirely irresponsible on my part.

Today, from a symptom standpoint, I still experience the gambit of mental negativity that happens in conjunction with depression.  However, this negativity, along with my perpetual  pre-disposition for obsessive thinking, is beginning to ever-so-slightly veer in the right direction.  I can feel some sort of gradual rebound occurring.

Last week I put together a game plan for how I was going to attempt to manage my life in the short term while my body and mind healed from the agony of last month. It’s only been a week; for the most part, I have stuck to the plan.  Most interesting to me has been the revitalization of my creative mind.  I’ve played more guitar and wrote more songs, which will serve as a soundtrack for my memoir, than I can remember, perhaps dating back to college, some 15+ years ago.  Furthermore, I am writing better than ever, as is evidence from the revisions I am making to Appetite for Addiction.  I have no doubt that this book is going to be good.  To top it off I am becoming rather proficient in GarageBand, something I’ve wanted to do for quite a while.  Perhaps seeing Gareth Emery on Saturday night in Portland provided further motivation for this. During the show, my buddy, #10, pulled me aside and said: “what the hell are you waiting for dude, starting producing this shit (meaning EDM, electronic dance music), and learn to spin, people would go apeshit for you!”  Point taken #10 ;).  The process has started.

From an exercise standpoint, while respecting the fact that I need to take a break from running, I’ve been getting in some great walks in the woods.  One aspect to Corvallis that I will miss dearly after I move is my beloved McDonald-Dunn Forest and the extensive trail system that lies within it’s boundaries.  Normally a slave to my Garmin, I have left the watch at home on these walks.  Right now it’s not about heart rate, pace, mileage, or time;  it’s about breathing and appreciating the solitude and serenity that the forest offers me…if I let it.

The hardest part to reckon with in my recovery plan is the idea of just chilling,  as in, doing nothing.  My brain is wired to be uncomfortable with stillness, the thought of not doing something is hard for me to be at peace with.  That being said, I’ve managed to get a bit of couch time, getting lost in mindless Netflix documentaries.  Meditation has also been of great help in this regard.

Rarely do I look at the statistics for any given blog that I post.  Curiously, a few days after posting my admission of returning to the Emergency Room, I took a look to see what kind of impact my story had had, if any, on people.  The results were astonishing and worthy of particular note.  Within 4 days of posting the blog the post received more than double the views and visitors than any of my other previous posts.  I’ve got roughly 60 or so posts up and live and none of them comes even close to having the exposure as  While being amazed of it’s exposure it began to become apparent to me just how much interest a post on depression, a topic that is rarely talked about in a public forum, produced over a very short amount of time.  This tells me that conversation around the stigmatic topic needs to continue to be brought to light.  I will do my best in promoting this idea for it may just save a life someday.

Look, I know damn well that I’ve made some mistakes over the last year in many regards, not with just running but with both physical and mental health.  Normally concerned with the outsider view and perception of these mistakes, I’m becoming more comfortable about the idea of owning and learning from my experience, regardless of what other people think.  Largely, other peoples perceptions can and still affect me.  However, in an effort to break away from those chains that bind me to criticism from the outside, I am constantly reminding myself that I’ve got to fight for myself, on my own timeline, for my own reasons.  Why is that so hard to realize sometimes?  In my quest for  my own self-actualization, this question, along with many others, are important topics to drill down on with the appropriate people.  The journey continues…

Lastly, I want to personally thank the hundreds of people that reached out to me in support.  I cannot thank you all enough, your messages had a profound impact on me and I will never forget the love you all expressed.



Back to the ER…Yet Another Bottom

I checked myself into the Emergency Room yesterday morning.  I hadn’t done this since 2008 when I was drunk and suicidal.  I just couldn’t withstand the pain anymore and I was desperate for help, by any means possible.  I had had it with feeling like complete garbage, physically and mentally.

A few weeks ago I  wrote about “10 days of hell that must see the light,” (  describing the longest depressive episode that I’ve experienced to date.  Well, that ten days turned into 4 weeks; the gray, the apathy, and the exhaustion have refused to go away,  it still continues to persist today.  The overwhelming questions that plague me are: “where is the final bottom?” along with “will I feel like this forever?”

Just a few days ago, on Saturday,  I had the best day I’ve had in longer than I can remember.  For some reason, I woke up that morning feeling a respite from the stranglehold that depression had on me.  I was up in Portland, clowning around with a friend, and everything seemed good to go.  I felt “normal,” whatever that means these days.  However, during the days run I tweaked my hip.  At the time it didn’t feel like a terribly big deal and I largely brushed it off.  But, on Sunday, it was a different story.  My hip had tightened up over night and I was in pain.

On it’s own, a relatively benign injury, as was the case, is easy to manage.  However, due to my elevated emotional instability and depressive state the injury seemed like the end of the world.  While on the phone with a friend early Sunday morning I just crumbled.  I pleaded with him: “When the hell is this shit going to end, when are these fucking setbacks going to stop!  I’m so fucking sick of this!”  From that point on the good vibes I had going the previous day all but disappeared.  By Sunday afternoon I was back in bed, with the shades drawn, unable to move, wrought with the overwhelming feeling that everything was crumbling down once again.

Monday came, same thing.  My hip was beginning to feel better but it’s impact had set off another spell of oppressive  frustration and hopelessness, once again, pure apathy.  Then, I woke up yesterday (Tuesday) and succumbed to the tension in my head, the anxiety in my chest, and the relentless feelings of helplessness.  I needed more help.

My experience in the ER yesterday was not a good experience.  For the first time in my life I played direct witness as to  how some ER’s handle mental health issues.  Without going into the details of the experience, let’s just say I left in worse shape than when I arrived.  After being “discharged” I found myself in a fetal position, crying, lying on the cold linoleum of the hospital hallway in blue medical scrubs, pleading for help.  And I didn’t get it. All I wanted  was to feel better.

After gaining some sort of composure after the ER experience I scrambled to find the help I needed, visiting the the local county mental health office as well as making emergency appointments with my team of psychiatrists and therapists.  Luckily I was able to get in, be assessed, and come up with a game plan.  I should have just gone to this group of professionals in the first place.  I suppose I was in too much agony earlier in the morning to even consider that possibility.

Fortunately I was able to gain some sort of clarity, from a physical standpoint, of what is currently going on.  Blood tests, taken at the ER, revealed two things of significance. One – my testosterone levels had fallen well below normal again (earlier this Spring I was dealing with the same thing, however by summer I was able to recover). Two – my thyroid is out of whack.  Luckily, these two things can be fixed to a degree with time and patience.  The mental parts of the equation will prove to be  a little more tricky.

After hours of professional consult and self-reflection I have yet another game plan to address everything that is going on:

1). Take one full month off of heavy structured training (two full weeks off from running). I have not let my body rest (not counting the time off from injuries, which isn’t really “time off”)  in well over three years.  It’s finally time for me to take a break and let my body heal, fully, on it’s own.  If it takes longer than a month? So be it. I don’t want to go through this shit again, especially as I get older.  Therefore, Rio Del Lago 100, the race I’ve been training for is off the table. In 2017 I will not complete a single race that I’ve set out for. And that’s OK because there is a much bigger picture at stake here.  I’ll take my life over a race, any day.

2). Focus on my creative side which means writing and composing music.  My book is still coming along well.  In conjunction with that project I am also composing a soundtrack to go along with the book.  I used to sing and play the hell out of my guitar.  Firing both of those passions back up will be good for the soul.

3). Just fucking chill.  If I feel like binge watching Friday Night Lights, for the second time, just do it!  God, relaxation and me do not get along well.  It turns out that I actually might hate the idea of relaxing. I consume myself with endless expectations, pressures, and stresses, which is helping play into my recent demise.  I’m just fucking tired of being tired.

4).  Continue to work with my trusted health professionals to dial in what I need from a medical end.  This part will be crucial to my recovery.

I’m hopeful that this episode will pass at some point, it has to!  Yet, the last month has offered nothing to the contrary.  Living day-to-day is not working, it’s more like minute-to-minute.

I don’t wish depression, or any other chronic or perpetual disease, on anyone.  For me, it’s been absolute torture and hell.  To try and find the silver lining to this experience has been impossible, I’m just not in a frame of mind to even consider the good that may come out of this. Miraculously, and I really don’t even understand this part, I have not had one single craving to drink throughout this entire episode. In and of itself that is a pure fucking miracle.  Perhaps that says something.



Memoir Sneak Peek: A Vignette from Appetite for Addiction

August, 2011

Towards the end of summer I was fresh off a total burnout from road cycling, having all but quit the sport after a rough and embarrassing incident at that year’s Cascade Cycling Classic (CCC), a popular race on the Oregon road cycling circuit. My obsession and addiction with cycling had reached an apex. To me, cycling was everything; my identity, my image, my self-confidence. Until it wasn’t.  Coincidentally this was also the summer that I had met Lisa and we had begun our strange relationship.

Please don’t get me wrong, I love the sport of road cycling, and I will buckle down to prep for races from time to time, strictly due to my passion for the sport. The accounts of what I was like back when I was racing have nothing to do with the sport, necessarily. Most of what happened to me as a cyclist was purely a result of my own doing due to my fragile mental state.  I lived and breathed shaved legs, tan lines, and tight spandex.  Plus, I was in Bend, which was quickly becoming a mecca for the cycling community.

Around the time that I permanently relocated to Central Oregon, Lance Armstrong was already firmly placed into the lore of being an american sporting legend.  By that point he had won 4 consecutive Tour De France titles and cycling fever had enveloped the US.  Not since the days of Greg LeMond, a legend himself, had there been such a heavy stateside interest in the sport.  Lance was inspiring all sorts of people to ride and race their bikes.  I was one of them.  Bend, because of its history in attracting endurance-minded athletes, became a hot-bed for road cycling and I was keen to place myself right in the middle of scene.  I wanted to be a part of something and cycling was it.

From 2008 to 2011, when I took cycling very seriously, as an amateur Category 3 racer, I was in the midst of rebuilding myself from the financial and emotional downfall that I suffered in 2006/07 during my involvement with the fast and furious game of selling real estate. I traded the addiction of chasing money to the addiction of sport, in this case having an affair with my road bike.

In most ways, sinking myself into the sport of cycling was a healthy activity that I used to keep me in physical shape. Over the years of my involvement and exposure to the sport, I forged countless friendships that I still hold dear to this day, even though I am not around the scene as much anymore. By being the Team Director for one of the top amateur teams in Oregon at the time, I was able to learn a little about people management, sponsorship solicitation, and managing egos. This positive education has benefited me as I move forward in my current career in work and athletics. But for every positive, there is a negative.

One moment stands out in particular. In July of 2011, I led our competitive Cat 3 team (we liked to call ourselves a PRO-CAT 3 Team, due to our over-inflated egos and a bit of humor from my friend TJ) into the Cascade Cycling Classic stage race, a well-known Pacific NW classic. As the team leader, I rallied my teammates to believe that we could do some damage in the overall standings. We had a fast group of guys that summer and I was poised to see myself or a teammate stick it to all the young California punks that would come up to Oregon and race, thinking they were the shit. They were in our neighborhood and it was time for them to get a beat-down. In those days I had a blast being the guy behind our strategic approach as a team unit. It contributed pride and self-confidence to my minuscule and flimsy arsenal of personal attributes. Sending guys off in breaks, bridging gaps, setting tempo, attacking other teams, and taking advantage of other riders weaknesses was our Modus Operandi. Our team tactics did not always work as planned, but when they did, it was extremely satisfying, especially for the team leaders.  I used to love it when our team kicked the shit out of other teams and riders.

The first stage of that race was a 70+ mile effort with a mean and unrelenting three mile drag uphill to the finish in the Mt. Bachelor parking lot. Our team members had been solid all day, working together, bringing gaps, pulling back attacks, and looking out for each other. We did our best to set up our climbing specialists for the last ascent up from Sparks Lake. As we began the final ascent, I settled in mid-pack to survive with the group. I’m not a natural climber so I did not want to lose a ton of time on the first day of the race. At that point I was just trying to survive the climb to make it to the next day of the race. Half way up the hill another rider crossed his front wheel with my back wheel, which caused my rear deraileur to break, leaving my bike un-rideable. What happened next was a good indicator where my maturity and emotional instability was at the time. After the “rub,” I yelled “FUCK” at the top of my lungs, called the guy who hit me several profanities, and proceeded to throw my multi-thousand dollar bike into the woods. I threw a tantrum that a five-year-old would be proud of. It was an incident that I often refer to as an example of some severe childishness. And my reaction after the race feeling like the victim of someone else’s mistake? Drive down from Mt. Bachelor, go to the Circle K convenience store,  a shady corner store off of 14th Street in Bend, purchase three Ninkasi Tricerahops Double IPA’s, and proceed to drink all of them in one fell swoop. Once that was accomplished I felt worthy again, having all but forgotten what had happened in the race earlier in the day.

Looking back I feel foolish for having reacted the way I did. I had grown accustomed to displaying that type of reactionary and immature behavior, not just in cycling, but in life.  My reasoning stemmed from a few things, ego being the main culprit. For me to not finish that race as the “leader” damaged my ego like none other.  I deemed myself weak, unworthy, a soft cyclist, which is ridiculous, since it was all due to an incident that was out of my control.  I had failed at my job and I took it very seriously and personally.

Cycling was the only thing that I identified with; I was relatively good at it and with a shot-to-hell self-confidence and ego problem, I took any negative experience as a major blow to my self-worth. Any slip-up meant that I was worthless.  I prided myself by how fast I was in Time Trials and how aggressive I was in road races. It was everything to me. And when things didn’t go right, I lost my identity, and I drank to feel better and gain more confidence. It was a vicious cycle of addictions.

At the conclusion of CCC, finishing up with another road race on a Sunday, with a bruised ego in hand, I went on a self-induced, one month all-out bender. Alcohol, Cocaine, prescription pills, downers, anything that could use to get out of my mind.  Luckily for me, I was able to direct this aggressive substance abuse to prepare for a single event. Just like training for a race, building volume and tapering, I built my alcohol tolerance to an all time high in just a couple of weeks. Motley Crue was on tour that summer and they were coming to Clark County Amphitheater, just outside of Vancouver, WA, about a 3 hour drive north of Bend.  I was ready to unleash absolute mayhem and debauchery.

The concert weekend was shaping up to be fucking raucous, raunchy, and epic. The day of the show, a group of friends and I drove up to Portland in the early afternoon to start the party early enough to make the event as “Motley” as possible. We were on a mission to self destruct while our favorite band played the soundtrack.  I was going to live out another dream of sorts, a party with my all-time favorite metal band.

During the drive north to Portland from Bend, without any food in my stomach, I chugged a few  Four Loko’s, a disgusting, alcohol-filled version of Red Bull, as well as ingested a variety of mystery speed pills that I had stolen from a friend earlier in the day. When we arrived at our hotel in Portland, I was feeling really good, buzzed, and primed to ramp the party up even further. After we checked into our room, our group promptly bee-lined it to the hotel bar, the point when my memories start to get real fuzzy and surreal.

Again, with no food in my stomach, our group of four quickly lined up a dozen shots of Jack Daniels and proceeded to toss them all back, not giving a fuck about how much we’d already consumed that day. The more motley we were the better.  It must have only been 4 or so in the afternoon, and I was completely shit-faced and incoherent. After some exploits  in the bar our group boarded a bus that was driving a bunch of folks up to the show at the Amphitheater just north of Vancouver. Desperately needing a second wind, I took another handful of stolen speed pills on the bus ride, knowing that I might have gone too far too early in the day.  I had felt this many times before, almost like my head was separate from my body.  Inside I felt euphoric, tingly, excited.  My brain felt like it was spinning out of control.

I vaguely remember arriving at the show. The line-up for the evening began with some local metal band followed by Poison and then the Crue. After the combination of the local opening band and countless $8 twenty-ounce Coors Lights, I blacked out.  I had finally gone over the edge.  According to my friends I was still kicking ass when Poison was on stage, singing along to every single word of their smash hits “Fallen Angel,” “Ain’t Nothin but a Good Time” and “Talk Dirty to Me.” Aggressive fist pumping predominated the action at ‘80’s metal concerts. In that atmosphere, with that number of substances in me, I tended to not give one single fuck as to what I was doing. It was heaven. The next snippet of memory I have was the time I briefly became conscious while leaning against a random tour bus after a security guard had escorted me and a friend out of the arena. “What the fuck is going on?” I thought.  I was puzzled and nauseous and drunk as hell, barely able to hold myself up. It turned out that I had been asked to leave the arena because I was too intoxicated. “Are you fucking serious?”  No one tells me what to do at a Crue show.  Whose call was it to kick me out of a Motley Crue show? I was going to have words with somebody. It was just a matter of who that poor son of a bitch was!

Somehow, miraculously, after being kicked out, I got back on the actual bus that had taken us to the show in the first place. I have no clue how I got there. It made no sense.  Also reassuring was the fact that all of my friends who accompanied me were on the bus as well. This scenario also made no sense. It was illogical to think that we’d all end up in the same place considering how fucked up we all were. Confused and dumbstruck, I eased my way into another blackout.

Later on in the evening I awoke in bed at our hotel still dressed in my concert attire, trying to find comfort that I was safe and not dead. Part of me just wanted to die, I felt rancid and awful.  It was midnight. I had accidentally lost the last four hours of my life. Fortunately, my friends, knowing that I still had had nothing to eat that day, brought back a bag of Taco Bell food to the hotel to help nurse me back to health. What a godsend.  Chulupa’s and Gordita’s never tasted so good.  My friends had been having a blast without me, having seen the show, continuing to party in my absence. I felt a little jealous knowing that I had missed out.

After the Taco Bell feast, things get murky again. Next up in the sequence of events, a friend of mine, Laura, randomly showed up at the hotel to stay and help me in remedying my destroyed body.  After she appeared, I, yet again, blacked out.

The next morning I woke up in a complete drunken haze. In a completely different hotel room, with Laura by my side, the group of friends from Bend busted in saying that we had to leave immediately to stay on schedule, one of them had to be at work later in the day. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t even think. I told them to leave without me, effectively stranding me in Portland. I felt sick and all I wanted was to be on the cold hotel bathroom floor with a toilet beside me. Resting my head on cold linoleum felt like heaven.

Once I was forced to check out of the hotel, after requesting two different late check-outs, Laura loaded me up in her car for a tumultuously bumpy ride to her apartment. I had to make her stop a few times on the ride so that I could poke my head outside of the car to vomit. Later that afternoon, after a short and pukey nap, I woke up in Laura’s apartment snuggled up in a blanket on her couch. It was heaven, if heaven meant being hung over and sick with a bucket by my side to catch any of the spew that was still coming out of my body. The rest of that day was spent doing intervals back and forth from the couch to the bathroom. No pill, nor any type of booze, anything for that matter, was going to help me get through this period of pain, sickness, and withdrawal. At this point, time was my biggest ally.

Ultimately, I ended up catching a bus back to Bend the following day. That ride was absolute hell. My two day hangover was still in full force as my sickness continued. The end of that bus trip culminated with my running into the bathroom at the bus stop to get sick once more. Once home safe my solution to my sickness problem was clear. Go to the nearest 7-11, purchase three CAMO XXX Malt Liquors, drink accordingly, and get “well.” With liquor in hand, with plenty already in my system, I once again blacked out. It was the only way to cap off a Motley fucking weekend.