Brian Cuban's Blog, page 6

Echos Of Trauma

It sometimes seems like my entire life is processing either the direct or secondary trauma of my past. Traumatic echoes of events that, for the most part, years and decades past, seem to invade every sense, as well as my dreams.

The very direct trauma of bullies ripping off my pants down to my Fruit-Of -The Loom underwear, tearing the pants into shreds and throwing them out in a busy street. The mile walk of shame to my home. So traumatic, that I can show you exactly where it happened in my hometown of Mt. Lebanon, Pa.

The red robin I allowed other kids to pressure me into shooting with a BB gun at sixteen years old. A senseless act of cruelty that still haunts my dreams. Did it feel pain? Will it be missed? The trauma of watching it suffer and failing to come to grips with how my teenage self could be so uncaring and vicious.

The image of the dead animal in the roadway will bother me for days as I project and internalize its trauma.

The family of the young lady I represented so many years ago. A tractor-trailer rear-ended Their daughter and died, trapped in the vehicle as it burned. Her suffering. Her family’s plight.

There was a time when I allowed many of these traumatic echoes to play a role in a litany of unhealthy and self-destructive behaviors. How much impact did they have? I can’t say. Correlation is not cause. What I can attest, is my sub-conscious having decided to preserve these moments as endless ripples of water pushes further and further out from the source but never settling into a peaceful state within the framework of my reconstructive memory.

I  utilize various methods of self-care to deal with these feelings. It has not always been the case. The projection of pain, suffering, guilt, and shame consumed me. I wore it all like a skintight suit affixed to my body with super-glue.

While there are some commonalities and stereotypes as to what is “trauma,” it can take many forms and be uniquely subjective in how it’s processed. Life-changing trauma to one person may be easily shrugged off without emotional or biological consequences to someone else. In my anecdotal experience, this disparity can result in feelings of guilt and shame. We compare the experience and flog ourselves for not taking the lessor of the emotional routes.

There is no shortage of direct and secondary trauma in the helping professions, including legal. When it occurs within a professional framework that does not encourage vulnerability and portrays therapeutic self-help as weakness, the issues can boil over, and they have. Our profession has the highest rate of problems drinking along with some of the highest rates of depression, anxiety, and suicide.

Rocky Haire is a Dallas based personal injury lawyer. He is no stranger to the secondary trauma of his clients. He says,

Personal Injury law is a steady flow of injuries and death, each case bringing its unique markers of potential secondary trauma. 

—–a three y/o little girl under a truck—hit and killed while her aunt was holding her hand as they walked along the road. Her yellow dress was somehow still clean. I remember her shattered mom & dad looking to me for something—anything. 

 —– a kid who was electrocuted & caught on fire in the CareFlite. His mom hated me—because I was the only one, she could saddle it with. I accepted it without hesitation or regret.

—– A child who was hit head-on by a drunk driver going over 100mph and his dad was the first responder. He was so brave in my office—even as he cracked and fell apart.

—–  A beautiful, lifeless high school girl wearing a cardigan sweater, her brown hair just right—and her face crushed. I have hundreds more.

  How do you start a conversation with broken parents? The survivors? The dads tend to compartmentalize and check out—the moms take a direct hit nuclear strike while taking care of yourself at the same time. 

  I remain detached, for the most part. I’m the lawyer, right? I’m not supposed to be emotional. 

The way I most effectively process secondary trauma and help the survivors deal—is to help them heal when they have experienced their own trauma through loss of a loved one or other tragedy that is the focus of a personal injury claim. 

 I tell them, “You have to forgive. The person didn’t do it intentionally and this unforgiveness is killing you. Look at you. It’s rotting your bones, and it’s time to let it go. You have to. I’m asking you to.” They usually look at me (a little surprised) with a sad rage—but it subsides. They all say, “You have no idea.” and they’re right—but also, they know I’m right. I have felt the crushing weight of hate and resentment begin to lift off.

 Helping them be free from that horrific ball & chain, I believe, is how I deal with secondary trauma. If I can get them to forgive—it somehow releases me, too. There’s a part of me that continues to see those pics—I still see their broken, decapitated, crushed, burned bodies sometimes—but I know a body is just a vehicle to get us around while we’re here. Nothing more—and death isn’t final. 

  Without that hope, I couldn’t do what I do. Knowing the emotional damage is healing allows me to move on with them.

 In the interest of full disclosure, my focus wasn’t always as healthy as it is today. For years, I drank — a lot. I wasn’t mean or abusive; I think I just needed something to suppress it. My self-medication didn’t work & evolved into what it is now.

      Of course, how Rocky deals with secondary trauma is quite possibly, not how you do it in your law practice. There is, however, a universal lynchpin across the board — the importance of continuing self-care. We are taking care of ourselves so that we don’t start exhibiting unhealthy signs and engage in destructive coping mechanisms and continue to provide clients with the highest l.

I reached out to, Mauve O’Neil a local Dallas therapist, she says,

Having helpers in all careers like attorneys, healthcare, education as well as first responders being better equipped to manage stressful situations, regulate emotions and taking better care of ourselves will also result in better client outcomes for those we serve. We can choose to take time and effort now or we will be forced to do it later…

  Here are some ideas to get started with:

RECOGNIZE IT CAN AND WILL HAPPEN!

None of us is immune to fatigue/burnout, so we all need self-care prevention;
Identify the areas you may be most susceptible to unhealthy reacting;
Assess your workplace for how it supports/encourages discussions about care;

MAKE AN ACTION PLAN NOW!

Write down things that will help you when you need care;
Care can be emotional, physical, social things;
Whatever works for you to regulate, relax and refresh!

PRACTICE YOUR PLAN!

Regularly, perhaps weekly try out one of the items to see how it works;
We don’t wait to “need” the self-care plan; we practice it all the time!
If something doesn’t work or fit for you, try something else;

REACH OUT FOR AND TO HELP OTHERS!

Share with others what is on your plan;
Ask others what works for them;
Support each other in your weekly practices and keep adding to them

 

From my anecdotal perspective in listening to the stories of other lawyers, the trauma problem is two-fold. We not only have to deal with and process our trauma, our story, but we also have to process and deal with the trauma and stories of those we help. A double duty that even the most skilled of therapists and helpers struggle with. Figuring out a self-care plan vital and will be unique to the person. There is no shame in asking for professional help in putting that plan together. Start today.

Thanks to the following people for their invaluable contributions:

 1, Maeve O’Neill, MEd, LCDC, LPC-S, CHC, CDWF/CDTLF

Dawn D’Amico, Psychotherapist, Educator, and Consultant in Delafield, Wisconsin.
Rocky Haire, Esquire,

 

When It Comes To Mental Health, Don’t Mind Your Own Business.

I wrote the for the Texas Bar Journal. Republished with the permission of the State Bar of Texas

 Lawyers are 3.6 times as likely as non-lawyers to suffer from depression. We have the highest problem drinking rate. It seems like once a month I read about a lawyer dying by suicide(this month has been no exception). We are fourth in that category.

It breaks my heart each time I learn that we have lost another colleague. I may see it on Facebook, Twitter, or a news article. It is rare that suicide is specifically mentioned, but there may be a request in lieu of flowers for a donation to a mental health organization or there may be commentary about the person’s struggle with mental health issues.

We can’t bring ourselves to say the word. We make the donation. We grieve. Maybe tweet out or Facebook post the number to a suicide crisis line. We talk about reaching out. Then we lose another. And another.

In 2005, I stood on the precipice of becoming a tragic statistic as a result of my mental health struggles. That summer, after decades of depression, alcohol, and cocaine addiction,  I lost all hope. I looked in the mirror and saw a monster, ugly inside and out. A circus freak who deserved to be locked away in a pitch black dungeon, shackled to the walls so my “sickness” did not infect anyone else.

In those aphotic moments, it suddenly made perfect sense to me. I would do my family a favor by relieving them of my burden. Self-cull the Cuban herd of the lone black sheep. I did not see a selfish act. I had no concept of “selfish.” Living in the dense fog of suicidal ideation, it was an act of love. A thought process that may seem unfathomable to anyone who has not dwelled in that type of darkness, with seemingly no way to climb out. Days spent in bed, crying and hoping for

an end to the pain of loneliness and isolation with no way to articulate it to those who care.

It was a close call. I was lucky to have family and a friend who did not mind their own business. My brothers showed up at my home. They dragged me kicking and screaming to a local psychiatric hospital for what would be my first of two trips over the next two years.

As they pulled me out of bed and forced me to get dressed, evidence of the depth of my problems were strewn about the room. Empty and half-full bottles of booze on the floor. Cocaine lines on the nightstand. Xanax tablets strewn over the imported marble top of my dresser. In addition to the pills, I was chugging whiskey as a sleep aid to come down from the cocaine high—a difficult if not impossible way to engage in the competent practice of law. As we walked out the door, I heard my younger brother, Jeff, mention addiction and drinking issues. My older, Mark, focused on depression. They were both right.

The drive to the hospital consisted of me screaming at my brothers to take me back home and leave me alone. I wanted the people who loved me most in the world out of my life. They were trying to save me.

As we walked through the doors of the psychiatric facility, it dawned on me that there was going to be an attempt to have me committed. I was not going to let that happen. I put my law degree to use. I made it clear, sitting with the attending psychiatric physician, that I was not a danger to myself or others. I convinced him that I had no intention of harming myself. To the chagrin of my brothers, they could not keep me there. When we returned to my house, they took my cars keys and demanded that I not leave for two weeks so I could sober up and get my “head on straight.” I recall thinking that was fine because my cocaine dealer made house calls. My family was no different than any other. They struggled to understand my problems and were learning about addiction and major depression in the moment, while also trying to save my life.

Tough lessons under any circumstances.

It would take one more trip to that hospital after a two-day drug-and-alcohol-induced blackout before I would begin my long-term recovery journey. I often reflect back on those brutal moments and wonder why I am still here. There was clearly a timing factor. People did not mind their own business at the right moment for intervention to occur before I completed the act of suicide.

Tragically, that is not always the case. Whether its depression, addiction, or other mental health variables, we can’t be there every moment and those tragic and life-changing/ending thoughts can come quickly and without warning.

The good news is that we all have the ability to play a significant role in changing the course of a life by simply doing what my friend and brothers did. By stepping outside of our comfort zone. By not minding our own business. We can look within ourselves and pledge to pay attention. To lend an ear. Here is a simple method I use to engage when I suspect someone is struggling even if I have no idea what the issue may be.

Me: “(First Name), you looked stressed today, everything OK?

Anything I can do to help?”

Possible response: “Appreciate it, I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

Don’t walk away! Repeat the message.

Me: “Glad to hear that, but I want you to know that if you want to talk, I am a good ear” (or something like that).

What you have done is provide a message that can prompt someone into thinking about getting help even if he or she is not ready at that moment, and with the quick repeat message, you have reinforced it and provided a window for the person to change his or her mind. In those few seconds, people do change their minds. The tap on the shoulder comes as you walk away. Or maybe you get a call or text later in the day.

Possible response: “Now that you mention it, can we talk?”

Regardless of the response, you have now become a vital cog in positive mental health messaging. No accusations.  No judgment. Just empathy and support.

The person may not be ready to talk about it or not want to talk about it with you. They may reach out to someone they have a comfort level with. It doesn’t matter. The messaging is as important as the response. The knowledge that people do care is implanted and reinforced. I had a lawyer tell me that he was not ready when I stepped out of my comfort zone, but he never forgot that I cared and after a cumulation of people

not minding their own business, he sought help for both his depression and problem drinking.

Each time we don’t mind our own business, it could be that one moment that changes the course of someone’s life. It also could be one of a series of touchpoints that eventually gets that person to seek help.

Not minding your own business will not save everyone. As long as there is human suffering, there will be tragedy. We cannot be there every moment of the day when someone is struggling, and I know from experience that the thoughts and desire to act can come on fast without warning to anyone else. Not minding your own business, however, may be the one moment that you need to save just one person by interrupting a terrible, dark process. Take that chance. Be uncomfortable. Reach out. Interrupt.

Pledge to ask someone how he or she is doing and let him or her know you are there for an ear. When you see how easy it is, think about doing it again and again. It costs nothing but some time. Those few seconds can change the course of a life. The benefits can last a lifetime.

 

 

Working Your Recovery Online

I have on more than one occasion, encountered lawyers/law students struggling with alcohol or drugs, who want support, but are not ready to venture out into a more public recovery world whether it be counseling, mutual-aid(12-step) etc. They are stigmatized and afraid that to do so, will risk someone finding out and jeopardize careers.  One more than one occasion, I have heard a lawyer express fear of being recognized by someone on their jury who is also in a 12-step group etc. No amount of discussion dissuades them from that perceived reality.

I have, in these instances provided resources for online support in the hope that at some point, a jump to a more personal, brick and mortar, form of support will be made.

An online resource that is user-friendly, offers complete anonymity, and a wide variety of mutual-aid support ranging from 12-step to Smart Recovery, including video meetings, is “In The Rooms”.

To be clear, I do not view this as the ideal mode of support, but it is an option and as anonymous as a person wants to be. It can be a stepping stone to more brick and mortar mode of recovery.

In The Rooms is an online social network dedicated to the global addiction recovery community for people seeking help, in recovery and their family, friends, and allies of recovery worldwide.

They put it as follows:

“We are not trying to replace Face-to-Face fellowship meetings; rather, ITR is a safe and secure place to come and socialize the other 23 hours a day you’re not in a meeting and to connect with other recovering people around the world.

InTheRooms.com transcends the boundaries of all 12 steps and non-12 step fellowships socially while maintaining the integrity of each by having 40 different fellowship groups represented. ITR currently has the largest AA / Alcoholics Anonymous (208,000+ members), NA / Narcotics Anonymous (155,000+ members) and Alanon (26,000+ members) groups in the world.

For the first time in history, this allows the social interaction between fellowships not found when attending regularly scheduled meetings of any one of these fellowships. We are bringing together members of the global recovery community socially to experience a vast array of tools that can be used to enhance and expand one’s recovery experience and social connectedness.”

The site is not only conventional 12-step support.  You will be able to find:

Faith-Based meetings

Yoga and meditation meetings

Refuge Recovery which is Buddhist Recovery

Meetings for agnostics in both AA and NA

Support for family members

Meeting for grief and codependency

Meeting for people suffering from chronic pain

Meetings for people on MAT (Medically Assisted Treatment)

Closed specialty meetings for men and women

Non-12 step meeting for Sex Addiction

 

Ron Tannebaum, one of the founders says:

“A user will never see their name on any search engine as a member. They can also stay as anonymous as they choose.”

 You can view a short documentary about the site here.

Just one more resource to begin your recovery.  One less barrier.

 

 

Jeffrey Epstein Did Not “Commit” Suicide

Not long ago, I spoke at a wellness event in Missoula Montana. The audience was primarily bar association executives.  Prior to the talk, I chatted with someone about a family tragedy she had experienced, having lost someone close to her to suicide. I, of course, preach for discussing such things with the proper, non-stigmatizing language but, it still came out. I said,

“When he committed suicide”

The gaffe was like going to say hello to someone but as the words come out, realizing that you don’t know the person. You try to pull them back, but they have passed the lips of no return into the history of uncomfortable life moments.

I apologized profusely. She was forgiving. Our discussion continued on. She has probably forgotten those two seconds of her life. They are etched in my consciousness. An embarrassing, learning moment. A reminder that I am human and make mistakes. We all do. Even the New York Times, when they report on such events.

As an example, look no further than the reported death of now deceased, sexual predator, Jeffery Epstein. Below are three headlines regarding the event.

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The irony here is that TMZ got it right.  The Times, not so much.  The Miami Herald takes the shame and stigmatizing portrayal of suicide to a  level I have frankly never seen from a respected major news publication. I get that there are personalities involved given the author’s previous reporting on the matter. I also get that the infamy of the deceased makes such headlines flow from the lips without much thought.

It, however, does not matter.  Media and advocates must give thought to how such language plays into the larger picture. How the media portrays suicide should NEVER hinge on personalities or whether we like or dislike the person who has died.  When that happens, stigma becomes a popularity contest.  Is it a parent who leaves a family?   Who you don’t like?  Who I don’t like?  Emotions can always take us to the pre-determined result we want to reach. Media in its reporting should not make such distinctions unless it’s going in the op-ed section.

It’s simple. When discussing suicide in the media, “committed suicide” is generally agreed upon by advocates and treatment professionals as a harmful and stigmatizing way of describing the act.

Here is the primary reason we should use “died by suicide” instead of “committed suicide.”

The term, “committed” carries a historical implication that suicide is a crime or a “sin.”  Religious arguments aside, this takes it out of the mental health conversation and into a moral one. On the morality playing field, it can have the effect of stigmatizing and shaming those who have suicidal ideation. This can have the effect of discouraging a struggling person from seeking support.

So why “died by suicide” instead?  There is no morality or judgment embedded in the term. It is a simple description of an event.

What about “completed suicide?”. Some notable awareness advocates prefer this term. I don’t. Here is why. “Completed’ has a general positive overtone. Completing a suicide is not positive.

The AP Style guide instructs not to use the term “committed suicide.”  They provide other alternatives that are fine if for some reason, “died by suicide” does not work within your framework

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A  review of the overall general reporting on the Epstein death is positive in terms of mental health language. The vast majority of stories I looked at, use the correct terminology.  The Times did not.  The Herald is beyond the pale.  We should all try harder to change the language of suicide. It matters.  We don’t want to shame people into suffering in silence.  The more people that talk openly about it, the more lives that can be diverted into a positive mental health trajectory. Language matters.

 

Eating Disorders Took My Daughter And Changed My View Of Lawyer Wellness

I first met Steven Dunn through my eating disorder advocacy. I was actively bulimic for over two decades and have been in recovery for just over twelve years.   Steven had not long before, lost his daughter Morgan to anorexia nervosa. We talk often about advocacy issues and support each other in our work to raise awareness.  His journey is an important one for our profession to understand. Here it is.

The legal profession demands excellence. It requires intelligence, guile, compassion, integrity and a sense of duty and honor. Trial work particularly tests all aspects of the human condition.

Those qualities and the trials and tribulations we attorneys face can steel us as we face the greatest challenge a parent can possibly encounter … the mortality of our beloved child. And the stress and mental strain of that battle far exceed anything our law practice can possibly throw at us.

I had carved out a niche law practice, representing corporate debt collectors for violations of the Fair Debt Collection Practices Act. I had been admitted pro hac vice in over twenty federal courts outside the State of Texas. Respected and passionate, or so I thought, I believed I had found a calling. And then, life got in the way.

I am the proud father of a vivacious, beautiful, intelligent daughter who was 17 years old at the time when eating disorders first made their way into our life.  She had the benefit of private school education, a comfortable house, good friends.  Unfortunately for her father, she was far too much like me, was far too brash, embraced life fully and yet had obvious flaws. (A future litigation attorney if ever there was one!)

In February of 2011, while attending a movie with a friend, Morgan began to feel light-headed and dizzy.  She left the theater and while walking out, passed out. She fell forward fracturing her jaw. Paramedics rushed her to the emergency room where blood was taken.

Her diagnosis? A combination of her weight being 86 pounds, her losing consciousness, her decreased level of potassium were all indicative of  Anorexia Nervosa.  A probable eating disorder. I didn’t know enough at the time to be deathly afraid. I should have been.

Morgan’s mother and I scheduled appointments with specialists, with counselors, and nutritionists. Amongst the scheduled counseling sessions were mandatory family counseling sessions.

And yet, her counselor became more alarmed and strongly recommended that we contact a heart specialist. And then you hear those words that chill any parent to their very core.  “Mr. Dunn, your daughter’s condition has worsened to a point where she needs extensive, hospitalized treatment.  One of her heart valves is leaking.  She continues to lose weight.  She is malnourished.  Without this treatment, it’s not a matter of  “if,” but a matter of “when” she is going to die.”

And just like that, your law practice, the professional life you had built for over thirty years, seemed not so important after all. Helping a multi-million dollar corporation save $5000 on a case? Engaging in discussions about objections to interrogatories? Convincing opposing counsel that their client has no actual damages and the case is simply about his own attorney’s fees? You start to realize that those “professional truths” which you held so dear throughout your career have very little meaning. An you wonder who you really are.

Especially when compared with the task before you. You find that for females between the ages of fifteen and twenty-four who suffer from Anorexia Nervosa, the mortality rate is twelve times higher than the death rate of ALL other illnesses. You find that Anorexia Nervosa has the highest premature fatality rate of any mental illness.

And if you think we attorneys or law students are immune from it, you are mistaken. This past February, Brian Cuban wrote an article published on the internet website, “Above the Law.” He quoted some alarming statistics:   “We can look to a recent study of mental health issues in law school published by the Journal of Legal Education, which found 27% of law students (18% of male respondents and 34% of female respondents) screened positive for eating disorders. Yet only 3% of respondents had actually been diagnosed.”

And so, the journey began. Morgan fought these eating disorders for 7 long years. There were so many hospitals and treatment centers, doctors and nurses. There were so many prescription drugs. The seizures she began to experience frightened us. And my focus on the practice of law continued to wane. So many family counseling sessions. So few individual sessions for me. And the stress and mental strain mounted.

The last two years of her young life were spent exclusively with me. I took her to weekly doctors and counseling appointments, many of which I attended. And yet, Morgan and I still laughed. Countless hours were spent playing backgammon. And how this emaciated waif so ill, could manage to whip me 2 out of every 3 games will forever remain a mystery. We watched Game of Thrones together every week. We shared a love of Mambo Taxis. She laughingly referred to me as “Her Twin.” When she walked into a room, people knew she was there. Though her body was slight, her personality was huge. And during that time, my once comfortable law practice continued to deteriorate.

I consulted with doctors and fought seemingly daily battles against this disease and the insurance providers which routinely denied payment for life-saving treatment. With each denial of authorization, with each deterioration in her health, the stress level increased. I wrongly believed this was my form of therapy. I could use these battles as my own form of counseling. I am a warrior. My perceived strength and perseverance would sustain me. How foolish I was.

I had never been a proponent of pharma drugs unless absolutely necessary. No drugs for anxiety or depression for me! Instead, I read internet sites on coping with fear, anxiety, depression. By sheer force of will, I would beat back those emotions. They were signs of weakness! They would not control me!

And yet, my focus on the practice of law continued to blur and erode. Motions to Continue hearings, extensions to respond to discovery, rescheduled depositions. A greater loss of focus and clarity. And the mounting realization that I could no longer serve my clients as they needed. I started to refer clients to other law firms. I realized that “Fear” was constantly present … and it was becoming my master instead of my servant.

Fear can be a trial attorney’s best friend. We harness it to research more deeply, to motivate us to look for every possible legal angle in a case, to explore how we and our opponent are going to argue a case. Fear is that driving force that finds you up at 2:00 a.m. the night before a trial begins going over your opening argument one last time. It hones our skills. As attorneys, we learn to embrace it because we can control it.

But, when your child’s life hangs in the balance, Fear escapes your control and gets you in its icy grip. No stirring closing argument is going to deter Fear and bring your child back to health. No well-researched brief is going to persuade this disease to leave your loved one in peace.

And then … your child breathes her last. On that day, you feel your soul, the very best part of your heart, leaving as well. For me, that day was October 30, 2016. A fog descends on you. The practice of law is out of the question. You merely … exist. A few visits to a grief counselor and you believe they are reading from a book studied in a Philosophy 101 Class.

A short time after Morgan’s death, a friend gave me a card which in essence said: When confronted with an unspeakable tragedy, one of three things happens: (1). It destroys you; (2). It defines your existence in a negative way, or (3). It fills you with incredible strength and unshakeable resolve.

Grief destroying a person is far too common. The local Dallas legal community felt the sting of grief taking life far too soon. One month after Morgan was taken, well-known attorney Brian Loncar was found dead of an accidental drug overdose just two days after he buried his own beloved youngest daughter, Grace. Grace had taken her own life. Those who knew Brian believe that it was a broken heart that claimed him.

For me, I was left with a shattered law practice, a shattered life, and a broken heart. The number of times I have thought, “if I got to do it all over again.”

And yet, in one of the many journals Morgan left behind, one of the many messages of hope she stated, “I can seem to help everyone else … I just can’t save myself.” And so, the mission for The Morgan Foundation came to fruition. And with that, perhaps a purpose for continuing Morgan’s legacy was born.

After all of these years, and so many false starts and missteps, I learned to get out of my way and let my soul find me. And when it did, its purpose was made clear. Advocacy dedicated to helping those suffering from eating disorders and at the hands of the dysfunctional mental health system. Using 35 years of courtroom experience to cajole, convince and push companies and treatment centers to focus on the patients … and not just their profits. Giving two TEDx talks. Writing weekly articles on the mental health industry. Using the skills we attorneys learn as negotiators and researchers to help those who suffer.

The practice of law is slowly reemerging even as grief continues to hound me every day. But just as we attorneys learn to use Fear to motivate us, so too I must use grief to motivate me, to inspire me, to live a life of substance and purpose. And perhaps at the end of my journey, the words on my tombstone can read, “Steven Dunn, He Was a Damned Good Daddy and In His Beloved Daughter’s Name, He Saved Lives.”

**Steven Dunn is a Dallas based attorney and founder of The Morgan Foundation.  It is dedicated to developing and implementing community-based counseling and assistance programs involving community leaders, university professionals, counseling communities, and families. Our goal is to increase the accessibility of adolescent mental health care in schools, churches, and communities with free to low cost services in accordance with the newly created Texas Health Care Consortium.

 

The Sober Curious Lawyer

The sober curious movement is taking off. When I first heard the term, my baby-boomer, twelve-step mentality was to immediately associate it with “alcoholics” who wondered what it is like to be sober. I was way off target. It is a lifestyle movement being embraced by millennials at an ever-increasing rate.  “Sober curious” bars that offer only “mocktails” are becoming more prevelant.

The movmeent is particularly relevant to mellinieal lawyers. A demographic in the legal profession that has a problem drinking rate of over thirty percent. You read that right. Over one in three. As someone who has not taken a drink in over twelve years as a result of problem drinking, I do not think I am the best person to comment on what the movement means beyond that.  I reached out to someone with more recent and relevant experience. Here are her thoughts:

Sober curious.  Curious what that means?  So was I when I first heard it.  The simplest definition that I have found is this.  “In a nutshell, identifying as sober curious means you know from experience that alcohol doesn’t make you feel great and you don’t drink it often, but you’re not willing to put an all-or-nothing label on yourself.”

I had not heard the term when I first started living it.  I love to run, and I was listening to the Spartan Up! Podcast when they had an episode with the founder of One Year No Beer.  OYNB has a simple premise – you don’t have to be an alcoholic to choose not to drink, and if you give it up for a year, you will feel amazing.

My first reaction was a properly British “pish posh,” as I was not ready to give up my nightly beer.  But given my fitness goals, I had started giving it up regularly for a short period before racing events.  I sat with the idea for a while and eventually started growing the length of time that I went without a drink.  It was amazing – I actually did feel better, despite my initial reluctance.

But then, it was time for another legal conference.  And the pressure.  Finish checking in on the first night of a conference, and where has everyone gone, to the bar of course. Walk in, and offers of drinks (or the drinks themselves) pop up left and right.

I am no teetotaler; I’m an Irish girl who loves a good strong beer.  But there is a serious issue when we have a profession that we already know is stressful, that we already know suffers widely from problem drinking and high levels of depression, then encourages and cultivates a drinking culture without any counterbalance.  The options as I see them are to participate in the ritual, stand out like a sore thumb (and make everyone think you’re an alcoholic) by publicly abstaining and drinking nothing but water, or stay home.

The pressure to make these choices starts in law school, often amid brutal peer-pressure to fit in.  My law school tenure was unique to some degree. I entered at eighteen years old and was not legal drinking age until the final semester of my third year.

The 1-L class regularly congregated at local watering holes for TGITs (thank God it’s Thursday I wanted to fit in and felt intense pressure to attend. My age was never a barrier to either my classmates or the bouncers.  Drinking culture and peer pressure don’t care about age.  It seemed that every law firm that came to court students threw a cocktail party, and every student club trying to attract members hosted an open bar.

In my experience since graduation, the Biglaw social networking culture still revolves around drinking, making it easy for summer associates to assume that everyone drinks every night. They are not too far off.

Firms love to keep associates inside the office. The firm I worked at held networking evenings with on-site alcohol (from which we were expected to return to our desks and continue working).  I remember raiding the kitchen with some other associates one ultra-late night looking for a wine bottle opener.  We drank while cite-checking a brief.

This troubling culture also extends to conferences.  The booze flows shockingly free.  I have even seen a hangover bar at morning sessions of a legal conference – complete with Emergen-C, Lifesavers, and coffee.

In attending these events, I have learned that I am not the only one with reluctance to drink.  Friends and colleagues who saw me order water often boldly started conversations with me, asking if I was pregnant or had a drinking problem (amazing what being less than sober will do to your filter when talking to professional colleagues).  Once I assured them I was neither pregnant nor an alcoholic, many opened up that drinking also made them feel awful, and they wish there were less of it in the legal culture.  Sober conversations at morning events included the same topic.

How can we begin to bring the cultural shift of the sober curious movement to our legal life?

I would like to see the growing sober curious movement start to take hole within the legal profession, offering a far better alternative – a new normal where events look much as they do now, but there is room on the menu for non-alcoholic options that take the stigma out of choosing not to drink.  Let the sober curious among us have a place at the proverbial bar.

Talk about it openly. Instead of the conversation being a heavy-handed “we need to stop drinking in this profession” message that falls on deaf ears, we need to open conversations into choosing to drink little or not at all as an issue of health.  Look how easily we talk about food allergies now; no reason we cannot be talking about a choice not to drink just as openly.


Remove the focus from alcohol. Events that tend to get very alcohol-heavy could be just as good with the main focus being some other aspect of them.  Clio’s Cloud Conference is a great example.  The Clio After Dark event is alcohol-heavy, but it is also a big showcase for Clio’s Reisman Awards and often for the venue that they choose to host the event.  The company really does an excellent job of encouraging attendance for reasons other than the alcohol.  Of course, attendees do manage to often take the party elsewhere across town and into the streets for lots of after-party drinking.


Offer the sober curious a drink. If you have ever been the one choosing not to drink at one of these events, you probably noticed that your options were water or soda.  I don’t drink soda, so my choice is usually water.  For those consuming alcohol, there is often an extensive menu of specialty cocktails, sometimes themed to the event and sounding really enticing.  The sober curious would love comparable mocktail menu. Water gets really dull and is very obvious.


Start early with sober curious events. This movement really needs to hit the law schools and law firm summer associate and new associate events.  Start making sober curious a viable option early, when currently excessive drinking is the cultural norm.


Offer early morning activities that are genuinely can’t-miss. Legal conferences have gotten onboard the wellness train by offering events like group runs and yoga at hours like 6:30 or 7:00 am.  They are fantastic but sparsely attended.  If early morning events catered to the broader audience who would otherwise stay out late excessively drinking, there might be more incentive to skip the whiskey.

Given the culture around drinking and the overall societal interest in sober curious, it’s time for the legal profession to open its eyes to the possibility that maybe not everyone is looking to drink, and offer more options for those who choose to abstain.

Megan Zavieh is the creator and author of “The Playbook: The California Bar Discipline System Practice Guide.” At Zavieh Law, she focuses her practice exclusively on attorney ethics, providing representation to attorneys facing disciplinary action and guidance on questions of legal ethics. Megan is admitted to practice in California, Georgia, New York and New Jersey, as well as in multiple federal courts and the U.S. Supreme Court. She podcasts on Lawyers Gone Ethical, blogs on ethics at California State Bar Defense and tweets @ZaviehLaw.

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A Conversation With My Fourteen-Year-Old Self

I suspect that talking to your inner child is not particularly appealing to males, especially older men as a tool in dealing with depression, alcohol and substance use issues.  Why?  It requires having to be vulnerable in a very “female” way. That is how society conditioned us, especially the baby boomer and Gen-X demographic. Males are the protectors of women and family. Men do not show weakness. We do not reach back in time and pull out the fear, shame, and uncertainty of a teenage boy.

My anecdotal experience tells me that lawyers tend to be not much different as a group if not even more closed off to that child. We are trained to exploit vulnerability in the adversarial process. We are not as good at looking inward and backward.  This can be especially true when trauma threads through life experience.

In my recovery, I am not sure I would be where I am today if I had not dropped the masculine expectations and explored the teenage Brian’s loneliness and need for acceptance. It is one of the hardest things I have done in recovery because it’s counter-intuitive. It continues to be very cathartic as a healing tool.  I do it in therapy. I reach back in time at home I allow that little boy Brian to have his say on paper with expressive writing.  Here are some conversations I’ve had with the young Brian. He answers me back in my dreams and in my day to day recovery. I love him. It took me a while to get there.

Dear Brian:

I see you in my dreams. It’s nineteen seventy-five. You are fourteen-years-old alone in your bedroom. You are sitting a table playing with your baseball cards, putting stamps in the album given to you by your brother Mark. So alone. Wanting to be loved. Wanted to be accepted. Wanted to be included in the lively conversations in the Mt Lebanon High School lunchroom. The after-school parties. Trips to “Mickey-D’s. The prom.  Holding hands with a girl. That first kiss that is so fearful and elusive.

You can hear the kids chattering about seeing group “Super Tramp” in concert. You are sitting at their table but invisible. Non-existent. Wanting to exist, if only for that moment. Please ask me to go! Please include me! I won’t ever ask again.

You know the answer. “We don’t include fat kids in our group.” You will never be one of us. You will never date one of us. You will never go to our prom. You will be alone forever.

So many decades have passed. I am approaching sixty. Of course, you know that but I want you to also understand the lessons I have learned You are not alone. I am always with you, guiding you.

I will take away your pain and absolve you of your shame of body and self. The self-blame. It’s not your fault. You are a child. You have your whole life in front of you. Know that your mom loves you. You are too young to understand this now.

You were never taught to stand up to the bullies who made fun of your body. The bullies who assaulted you. Forgive yourself for that. It’s ok to be quiet. It’s ok to be shy. You are a beautiful little boy. Love yourself. I love you. You are enough. You will always be enough.

Find a safe place and have a chat with your inner child now and then.  Pick an age/time that resonates with you on a deep emotional level. Have a chat. Regardless of your life experience, you might be surprised at what he/she has to say.

A Morning Of A Depressed Lawyer

April 2010. Three years into my recovery for problem drinking and cocaine use. I am also in the midst of a major depressive episode.

I’ve dealt with depression since my mid-teens. Feelings of worthless and the overwhelming desire to isolate are familiar. I can’t put my finger on what brought this bout on or when it even began. Sometimes there is a specific trigger, but more often than not, there is no bright line moment.  I am unable to calibrate the slide from normality as I define it. Working. Writing. Enjoying the company of my girlfriend. My beagle, Peanut. My cat, Useless. Family Dinners. Working out. None bring either happy anticipation or enjoyment of the moment.

This moment has covers pulled over my head; my face buried in the pillow. Here come the tears. Not random, scattered whimpers. Industrial strength death sobs, so deep and hard that I can’t catch up breath. My lungs so raw and constricted, it is like drawing a breath in sub-zero weather.

Why? I don’t know. I’m taking my meds. No one has died. My dog loves me. My girlfriend loves me. My family, of course. If I am around them, there will be concern and questions. I respond with my trademark, “It’s all good.” It’s not. It’s excruciating, but if I can’t articulate it to myself, why should I drag them into my waking nightmare.

The best thing I can do today is sleep. Make some lunch in a few hours if I can find the strength and desire to eat. I love to eat. We love to eat out. Our favorite Mexican restaurant, ten minutes down the road. The best grilled-chicken fajitas in Dallas. On a “normal’ trip, I can smell and taste them before we walk in. Today, the taste buds don’t work. If it’s cardboard, what’s the point.

Enough time in a self-induced zombie-trance and the day will be over. I can take a pill and coma myself through the night. The sun will rise. Rinse, wash, repeat. Each day slides into the next without a delineator.

My weekly appointment with my psychiatrist is tomorrow. I will cancel it. A library of lies at my disposal. I’m traveling. The stomach flu. Anything to not face the couch of guilt and lies. I’m not going to be vulnerable or honest, either with him or myself.

I am ashamed of my weakness, and shame knows no hourly rate. I must be doing something wrong. I am a weak semblance of a human being. All the features that define me on the outside are still there. The receding hair, protruding nose, and serious brown eyes that people recognize. The mandatory pleasantries. Once more, “It’s all good.” It’s not. It is the inside that is different. I am hollow, like a chocolate Easter rabbit on the inside and just as fragile.

Why the hell am I depressed? Three years sober! I posted it on social media. The accolades and “one day at a time” responses propped me up for a bit. If only my depression is a simple as my sobriety. Don’t drink. Done. Be happy. Be happy. Be happy. I am happy. I am happy. Self-talk…. not working. Pull myself out of it. Do something!

I know I have to fight. I have seen the alternative. A psychiatric hospital. Suicidal ideation. I’m human. I want to feel giving and receiving love. Who wouldn’t? It happens every day, every moment, across the globe. Why not me? Why not today.

Think! That is what lawyers do, right? We are a profession of thinkers. So many times, I have told myself I can compute my way through these mornings. Process information bytes. Spit out solutions. The real thinking is the realization that I must use the tools therapy has provided me.

I will start easy. I will take Peanut out for a walk. Getting out of bed and outside is often half the battle. The fresh air. The stimulation. Robin song. Peanut barking at squirrels, dragging me on her Pickett’s charge to the tree for control of the animal kingdom.

Pull up the number to my therapist. Spit it the harsh truth. I’m not, “all good.” I’m struggling. He reminds me to start small. Have you showered yet? Have you eaten? Be mindful of each moment in the climb. Take a little longer in the shower and think about what’s next on a “normal” day. Shower meditation and mindfulness work for you. Writing? Get out of the house and do it. External stimulation is important. Meds? Let’s talk about adjustment at your appointment tomorrow. Maybe we need to make a change. That’s how anti-depressants work. Don’t stop because you think they are not working. Keep climbing. Get that workout in, even if its ten minutes.

I climbed. I showered. I ate. I got through it. I can’t predict when I will have to rise again. Some days it will be a step-ladder. Others it will seem like Mount Everest. Each summit begins with a small step. Then the next.

DEPRESSION RESOURCES:

The Lawyers Depression Project
Lawyers with Depression
Your Lawers Assistance Program
In The Rooms(Focus is 12-step but there is also depression support)

Father’s Day Without My Father

Today is the first father’s day without my dad. He passed on July 10th, 2018. The first that I will not either see or speak to him. This dates to my earliest memories. Through college, law school travels, and personal troubles, I picked up the phone.

He was not a big gift guy, but when he moved to Dallas in 2001, as much as we could, there would be fathers day dinners and lunches. Still, always the call. Always the asks. Am I doing ok?  Do I need any money?  I never turned down the cash. 

Last year, as he approached the end, dementia also took its’ toll. I walked across the street to his house where he was winding down in home hospice. I sat in my usual spot next to his bed. I held his hand. I put my mouth up as close to his left ear as I could. I whispered. “Happy Father’s Day, dad. I love you”. He did not respond, but I could feel his grip on my hand tighten ever so slightly. I’m told that the hearing is the last sense to go as death approaches. I know he heard me.

There are so many things I will miss with him.

I will miss our trips to Vegas. I inevitably lost every cent I had without exception. He would slide a few chips over to me with his wink, trademark grin, and standard, jovial refrain, “you’ll get my bill in the mail.” 

The long road trips to the Catskills or the “Jewish Riviera” we took every summer in my early teens. We always stopped to see his mom on our way out of town. My brother Mark and I fought over who got to hold the candy so it would last the entire journey.  Mark always won out. The candy was always gone.

My long runs from our home in Mt. Lebanon to Oakland, where I attended Pitt Law School.  I took a breather when I arrived at his auto-trim shop, Regency Products, five miles into the run. He never wrapped his head around my desire to run thirteen miles, including going over Mt. Washinton, instead of taking the bus. He would open the 1950’s soda machine with a key. We would catch up in the waiting room on the ripped up couch that had probably been there since the Korean War. He would show me the antique cars they worked on. I am not a car guy but my dad, even with just one eye, could look at any older car passing on the street and tell you the make and model year.

I will miss him trying to parallel park with his one eye(he lost one in an industrial accident). He hit the front bumper of the car behind him. He then tapped the rear bumper of the vehicle in front. He turned his head back to us and winked with a “close enough.”

The conversation we had after I opened up to him about my mental health struggles will remain etched in my mind and heart. He said, “I love you, move in with me. We will get through this together”. I did, and we did.

I will miss traveling the world with him on ships. My dad loved to cruise. My wonderful older brother made sure he had those opportunities after my dad worked his entire for one purpose-to make sure we had them.

I miss the feeling that he is right across the street from me. That I can go over any time day or night and it will be no different than the very first time. Sometimes I still feel that then realize he is gone. Emptiness fills the void.

I miss his voice. I have saved voicemails, and we have video, but with live conversation comes warmth and connection. It’s not the same, but it’s all I have. I will listen, watch, and cry today. I will go see him. I will play some Frank Sinatra at his grave.  My father’s day gift to him. There will be no bill in the mail. My dad gave for love. Love of family. Love of life. One of his favorite sayings was:

“Today is as young as you will ever be. Live like it.”

I understand that not everyone has a relationship with his/her father to have context for this. If you do, pay that bill early with the connection. Tell your dad you love him. What my dad says about living life? Do that. For so many years, I did not get it. I do now.

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One Last Whisper

June 2018. I process the jumbled, nighttime collage of dream images and plant my feet on the floor. Leaving town in three hours. So much to do. I tell myself that if I don’t see him, there will be another day. Visits are no longer conversations. They are silent kisses and quiet whispers.

Two months ago, things were better. Conversations more frequent if, sometimes jumbled. Interspersed with words spoken to family and friends long past. An April birthday celebration of fantastic clarity and dialogue. I wanted it to be a miracle portending more time. I’ve read about reality. One last rally of brain, breath, and love. I decided that day, it’s was a miracle. Tomorrows are for truth.

The truth is that we are tethered, one passing day at a time. I don’t want to un-tether, but I am leaving town. I must see him. In the vast spectrum of nightmares that have haunted my life, the worst living nightmare, would be to not say goodbye. To not have whispered one last time, “I love you, dad”.

I do everything I can to be the loving scientist. To understand and predict the moment so I can be at his bedside. I am driven to know what to expect. To understand the wind-down process. Research every symptom, vital sign, and change in skin color. Look for academic precision in predicting the end as if that will tell me something the six senses do not. The sixth is brutal. It comes from the heart.

Three months ago, there were machine-gun like moments of conversation and clarity. Six months, one of our family dinners at his favorite restaurant. My emotions don’t understand how that has transitioned to this day. Hoping for one more whisper.

I walk across the street, to his apartment. A journey, that each day is more liked fighting through quicksand. The guilt of not leaving five minutes earlier. An hour. The anticipatory self-flogging for not staying long enough.
His long-time companion answers the door. We hug. She’s been crying. She is a rock. An angel. By his side every awful moment I am spared when I walk out that door and traverse that twenty-five yards back to my safe haven of distractions.

Is he eating? Has he said anything? I don’t want to hear what I already know. The morphine gives the answers but I have to ask. I have to. I have to.

I place my right hand on his wrist. Passing the warmth of my hand to his. I can feel his coldness gradually take hold as the blood flow directs itself to vital organs so I can have one more day. The skin is fragile. A razor-thin membrane stretched across a drum. The mottling. The blue fingertips. No need to ask. I have done my homework. If I were a casual acquaintance, I would not recognize him. The caregiver senses my pain. She puts her hand on my shoulder and reassures that the body releases endorphins to compensate for wasting. He is not in pain.  I put my mouth to his left ear.

“I’m leaving for New York today dad.”

“It’s ok to let go, dad. It’s time.”

“Your sons will take care of each other. You did a great job. You taught us to take care of each other like you and your brothers.”

I pull back my head. We are in a time/space vacuum. No nurses. No ambient noise of any type. I am five years old. We are tethered. We always have been. I stand up and bend over him. I squeeze his wrist and whisper. “I love you dad”

His eyes are closed but his lips almost imperceptibly part as if, preparing to whistle.

“I love you, Brian.”

My dad did not speak to me again. He passed ten days later. We each got our last whisper.

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