Brian Cuban's Blog, page 8

Is An “Unhealthy” Lawyer An Unethical Lawyer?

In itself, of course not. Every situation is different. Every person is different. This is why I was shocked to see a quote come out of the American Bar Association Mid-Year Meeting in Las Vegas. It circulated in social media. ABA President, Robert Carlson addressed the audience on mental health wellness in our profession. I am told it was an emotional, impassioned plea for our profession to take care of ourselves and take care of each other. A wonderful message; but also this from Mr. Carlson:

“If you are not a healthy lawyer, you are not an ethical lawyer.”

 My initial reaction was that it had to be a misquote. He could not be taking the position that the mere fact of being “unhealthy” (I am assuming he is only referring to it in the context of mental health issues) makes a lawyer “unethical.” There had to be a greater context that was not captured in the quote. I asked those who were there. Was it a misspeak? Did he clarify?  Those in attendance while, supportive of the overall message, offered no further context to the quote itself. To my knowledge, there is no transcript of the speech.

The quote standing on its own, leaves me puzzled and troubled.  What’s the conduct? What disciplinary rule has broken by merely struggling? To claim that a lawyer dealing with a mental health issue in itself is unethical conduct makes no sense.

Can an untreated mental health issue lead to a violation of a disciplinary rule and malpractice? Of course. Look in the back of any state bar journal.  It is very possible that some of those  who have been suspended or disbarred will also be struggling with a substance use or other mental health issue. That’s what can happen when a lawyer allows consequences to catch up with the problem instead of seeking help at the earliest possible point. We can all agree that this happens. Many of us have seen it happen. We can also all agree that correlation is not the same as cause.

Let’s be clear. The mere fact of struggling with a mental health issue whether it be depression, substance use, alcohol, etc., does NOT, in itself make a lawyer “unethical.”  The fact that a lawyer may not yet be addressing those issues, does NOT, in itself, make a lawyer unethical. Is a lawyer who is not taking care of himself/herself from a mental health standpoint in greater danger of doing something that jeopardizes a client, not to mention the lawyer?  Yes, it can range from actual malpractice to not working at a level that gives a client the equivalent work effort to the fee paid or even conduct that violates not only the disciplinary rules but breaks the law.

We should all take care of ourselves, so the consequences don’t catch up to the problem. We should take care of each other. Healthy lawyers are good for the profession in general.

What we should not do is shame each other with generalizations about what it means to struggle. This stigmatizes and could keep someone from seeking help. A mentally healthy lawyer is a better lawyer. A healthy lawyer will be a happier lawyer on both a professional and personal level.  A healthy lawyer will be at less risk for conduct that is unethical. A healthy lawyer is better able to help colleagues who struggle. That is the narrative that inspires and heals.

I Will Never Forget Frida and Menashe Sterenberg

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Fifteen years ago, I came across old photos belonging to my mother. One was a photo of a man and women with what appeared to be their two young children. I asked my mom who they were. She said,

“That is your grandfather’s(Fred) sister, husband, and children. They were murdered in the Holocaust.”

What? I did not know my grandfather had a sister. I didn’t realize we had relatives lost in the Holocaust. My grandfather died in 1983. A stroke had taken away much of his vocal ability. Before that, we had never discussed his family in the “old country.”  I was aware we had relatives in Israel. I met one of them when I was very young.

When I asked my mom to tell me more about the photo, she related that Fred had two other brothers. Yosef, who immigrated to Palestine, which would, of course, would later become Israel, and Louis or “Levi” who had lived in NYC. I had many questions. Were more of my family murdered in the Holocaust? Where the smiling couple and children in the photo even my family? What were the children’s names? How did they die? My mom had no answers.

Over the years, I made efforts to start a family tree. It was difficult without the starting point of a living person on that side of the family who I could speak with about the photos. My mother is an only child. Her mother had extended family, but they were unable to help. Fade memories. Dead ends. I became resigned that I may never solve the mystery.  I imagined how they may have died. In a ghetto or concentration camp. Shot in the back of the head and jumped into a mass grave. A death camp gas chamber.

Fast forward to 2012. I had not forgotten the photo. I would pull it out of my desk now and then. I would focus on the eyes and facial expressions. What were they thinking at the moment the photo snapped? Did they know the fate that awaited them?

There was a clue. Yiddish writing on the back of the photo. I had it translated. It read, “Murdered by the Nazis.” Nothing to tell me who they were. I asked my mom to send me the rest of her old photos. Another photo of the couple and children. Pictures of family in Israel. There had to be living relatives who know the truth. How do I contact them? Why didn’t we stay in touch? I decided to start at the beginning.

Re-creating family history was like putting together the pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle without knowing what it would look like completed. Early on, it was successful. I obtained information on my grandfather and his middle brother, Louis. Many records were on Ancestory.com The oldest brother, Josef was more difficult. He left the town they were all born in Noua Sulita, Romania, and emigrated to Palestine.

Fast forward to 2013. I was able to track down a Boston relative on the side of Fred’s brother Louis. His grand-daughter. What do I do now? I was so nervous! I wrote out my script.

“Hi, I am Brian Cuban, My grandfather is Fred Feldman. His brother was Louis Feldman, your grandfather. We are related.

I called. As one might expect, she was skeptical. Some guy calling out of the blue and claiming blood relation.  I thought I had hit another road-block. I expressed my disappointment to my brother Jeff. He pointed out that it was probably a big shock. I should relax. I would hear from them.

Jeff was right. Two weeks later, the phone rang. It’s was the granddaughter of Lewis. We had a pleasant conversation. We exchanged the photos we had. Then the big Holocaust reveal. She sent me among other images, the exact same picture I had of the unidentified couple and their children. Like mine, there was Yiddish writing on the back of her photo. I had it translated. It said,

“Menashe, Frida, and children.”

My big break, Fred’s brother, Yosef sent the same photo to him and Lewis as a remembrance of their sister Frida. I had made the Holocaust connection. I had a great aunt. Her name was Frida Feldman-Sterenberg. Her husband was Dr. Menashe Sterenberg. Their children were Raya and Yitzhak.

Once I had the names,  dominoes fell. I  accessed the Yad Vashem Holocaust Testimony database. There were several Holocaust testimonies for Frida and family including the circumstances of their deaths. Here is what I learned so far about their short lives.

Fast forward to 2019. I received an email from a person who saw this story posted in a facebook group related to Noua Sulita Romania.  His father knew and worked with Menashe.  He had more information about his life and death. Here is the relevant part of the email:

“The reason why I decided to write you is that Dr. Menashe Shterenberg was a very good friend of my father Dr. Nisan Pesach and they both worked together in Novoselitza after the Russain occupation in 1940.”

My father was a big patriot of Novoseltza and published a number of books about this very famous Jewish shtetel, which inhabitants were murdered by Nazis and which does not exist anymore. In his first book he describes how in summer of 1946 he and my Mom Esther tried to find the body of my murdered grandfather (who was brutally killed on July,5 1941 by local Romanians). Before they found my grandfather, few weeks earlier they found a body of a man, who was  keeping a body of small child and there was a phonendoscope in the remaining’s of his clothes… As my dad wrote, “That was all what remained from our dear friend Menashe Shterenberg and his lovely daughter Rayechka… His wife lost her mind and perished in Transnistria together with their son Yzia (Yitzhak)“.

Now the story is as complete as it probably will ever be. My great aunt’s husband and their son Raya were one of the over 800 Jews murdered during the summer of 1941.  They are buried in a mass grave just outside of Noua Sulita (Below).   My great aunt and their son Yitzah died in one of the Transnistria concentration camps.

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The soldiers who murdered my family may have died later in the war. They may have survived and lived the full lives they denied my family and many others. I will never know. They will remain nameless, faceless, murderers, relegated to the images I give them. I sometimes, relive the pain, fear, and desperation, Menashe, Frida and family must have felt.  I take some comfort knowing that as long as I live and tell their stories, their memories will carry on.  I hope that one day I will make the journey to Noua Sulita and tell them I have not forgotten.

I will never forget my great aunt Frida Feldman-Sterenberg, Menashe Sterenberg, Yitzhak Sterenberg and Raya Sterenberg who were among the eleven million murdered in the Holocaust. I hope you won’t either.

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Changing The Language Around Suicide

I recently had the honor of addressing lawyer wellness at the law firm of Winston & Strawn.  I was telling my story and was at the part describing being suicidal in the summer of 2005.  I was about to say, “I decided to commit suicide.” I caught myself. Instead, I said, “I decided to end my life by suicide.” This might seem on the surface, to be an inconsequential distinction.  Not long after I spoke, I received an email from a lawyer who attended the event.  It in part read:

“…thank you for using the term “died by suicide” instead of “commit suicide.” 

The person went on to relate personal experience around suicide and why it meant so much that I used the language I did.

The evening after the event, I happened to read a recent article written for the ABA Journal. It is about suicide in the legal profession. An excellent article, with one exception. One of the headings is, “Why Do Lawyers Commit Suicide.”

I don’t blame the author for using the term. The conversation about how we describe suicide is not yet a mainstream discussion.  A search of articles I have written may very well reveal the use of “committed suicide.”  I continue to learn. This is simply a teaching moment.  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 a tragic event.

News reporting agencies are on board with this language. 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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As to the ABA article, I urge them to be part of the solution on this issue.  In the future, when reviewing submissions, if the term “committed suicide,” is present, unless it is a quote to a source, ask the author to change the language.

How Are Those New Year Resolutions Going?

You are now nine-days into your New Year’s Resolutions (If you make them) I’ve done a lot of “resoluting” in my life.  I loved and hated hem. I adored the hope and fantasy of a new Brian (As I defined that). I despised the loss of  hope that inevitably followed.

In college and law school there were many Non-binding contracts with myself. Study harder. Be more outgoing. Make some friends. Drink less. Get drunk less. Stop binging and purging (I was bulimic). Lose lots of weight (even though I was of average weight) Each resolution lasted few a few days. Then the drinking binge. The food binge with the resulting purge. The inevitable “what’s the point.” Anger. Shame. Defeat. Depression.

After law school, I sunk further and further into depression and problem drinking. I added cocaine addiction to the mix. Resolutions still came but adjusted to fit the problems of the day.  Snorting less cocaine. Changing drug dealers (yes that was an actual resolution), switching to Jack Daniels and Diet Coke from Rum and Diet Coke. Taking cabs instead of driving after my DWI. Taxis were great. I could snort more cocaine and drink more without the risk of arrest.

I don’t remember making any resolutions to better a better law student or lawyer. To better serve my clients. To not take cases I was not competent to handle. To not sell my clients down the river to avoid a courtroom.

My last resolution was January 2006. I vowed to stop drinking so much and quit using cocaine. I had met a woman I knew I wanted to share my life.  Her love would be the difference. You can imagine how that worked out. Addiction is a disease. It takes more than love to deal with it. We moved in together. I didn’t stop. I even traded Dallas Mavericks championship tickets for cocaine. In April 2007, I took my second trip to a psychiatric facility. Pain Shame. Defeat. Cycles were repeating.

I began my long-term recovery from drugs, alcohol and my eating disorder in April 2007. I decided that it was time to do something different. Yearly resolutions were not my path to sobriety and self-love. Instead, I chose to live my life one day at a time. I would focus on the day I was in rather than projecting the future. I would no longer set myself up for failure and another cycle of relapse and shame.

My recovery became about daily goals. One day sober. One day without sticking my finger down my throat. At least one 12 step meeting per day. (Alcoholics Anonymous is the most well known 12-step group).   A session with my therapist. Lexapro to deal to even out my clinical depression.  Allowing myself to be vulnerable. Dismantling the brick wall I had built around my feelings decades ago, one brick at a time and living my life one day at a time.

As the years passed my goals built on that base. Doing what I love most. Writing. Sharing my recovery in as many forums as I could. Hitting the pillow each night with the knowledge that I may have touched one person.

Today, I also have daily affirmations. To do the next right thing and learn from the wrong thing. That builds resilience. Using mindfulness in my decisions either in preparation or reflection.  That often occurs during a hot shower rather than a traditional meditation session. To do at least one thing to take care of my mind and body. Finally, each day, to love me and allow others to love me. Each day, I tell myself, I am enough.

Whatever your resolutions in the New Year, be sure to love yourself and take care of you every day. Build on that. Take it from me. Playing catch-up sucks.

The Lawyer’s Depression Project

I recently became aware of an incredible mental health resource that has been flying under the radar. It is the “Lawyers Depression Project” (LDP).  It is a grassroots effort to address depression and other mental health issues in the legal profession.  The project is the brainchild of Joseph Milowic III, a partner at the law firm of Quinn Emanuel.

The LDP consists of attorneys, law students, law school graduates pending bar exam and or admission, and others in the legal field who were diagnosed at one point or another in their lives, with major depression, bipolar disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder, general anxiety disorder or another mental illness.

It is also for those who are suffering but not formally diagnosed or who simply feel that something “isn’t right” but have not sought formal mental health help.

Joseph Milowic says this about this group:

  “We want you to know that if you are suffering, you are not alone, and there is a great deal of benefit in connecting with others who are dealing with similar issues.    We host a confidential forum at www.knowtime.com  and weekly online peer-to-peer support group meetings, offering members the option of anonymity.  Meetings involve candid explorations of health and mental health experiences, impacts on legal practice, and tools for effective management and work-life balance.

Here are some examples of meeting topics and member questions:

I’m wondering how many other attorneys have told their work they struggle with depression/anxiety and what their experience has been?

 

I’d like to ask the group whether knowing what caused/led up to their depression helps or hurts their recovery?  If they don’t know, how much is it hurting/helping? 

 

What are your most important self-care practices?  Why it is important to prioritize yourself?     

 

How has your experience with depression, anxiety, or other mental health issues added value to your life or your work?     

 

Media and social medias impact on our mental health, whether you participate and/or limit your intake.  

 

Isolation, loneliness and/or feelings of disconnectedness; how we cope, the challenges and benefits of socializing/connecting, and accessing feelings of connectedness. 

In only four months, the LDP has more than 100 members. All of their services and technology are provided at no cost to members (they have a web forum, chat room, and video conferencing technology for use by members).

Here are some of their stories:

Joe –  My name is Joe Milowic.  I am a partner at Quinn Emanuel.  And I suffer from depression.  I was diagnosed with major depression over a decade ago.  For a long time, I did not feel comfortable admitting this to my colleagues for fear of being perceived as incapable or unproductive.  This was especially so as a young associate because I was worried people would be less likely to entrust me with important matters if they knew that I sometimes go through periods where I lose motivation and focus. My doctor warned that depression often comes back later in life and can be even worse the next time.  Over the years, I battled it off and on, in what I would describe as cycles of high productivity and occasional ruts that I just need to work through.  During the ruts, I would lose motivation and need to remind myself that it is only temporary—it is an illness and that life is not in fact pointless.  I came to realize that depression is an illness like any other illness and it deserves to be recognized and treated as such without fear of stigmatization. I realized too why depression is so dangerous – when your mind is ill, you can actually believe there is no point to anything, including living.  And unfortunately, sometimes, when you don’t realize you’re sick the results can be tragic, particularly for those we leave behind.  These realizations were a turning point for me, and I decided that speaking out from my position as a partner at Quinn Emanuel would enable me to be more impactful in speaking out about mental illness.  And the fact is we should be talking about this, because you can succeed in Big Law, and at a top law firm, even if you suffer from depression.  I’m committed to these matters in hopes that someone who is suffering from depression, like I was, will read about my experience and get help


Julia – I was diagnosed with OCD after my first year of law school.  Although I had struggled with the symptoms for many years before that, it took a summer externship fraught with anxious thoughts and compulsive checking of things ranging from my research cites to the door of the judge’s chambers to make sure it had in fact locked behind me, to realize that I needed help.  Now 15 years later, I know how to manage my compulsive checking behaviors.  Yet I also want to be more transparent about the footprint of the other side of the OCD equation – obsessive thoughts and rumination – and what that means in my professional and personal life.  LDP has provided a supportive and inclusive environment for me to share my insights about OCD.  The calls also serve as a weekly affirmation that it is okay to be committed to one’s mental and physical wellbeing.  I feel very lucky to be part of the LDP team.

 

Reid – My name is Reid Murtaugh. I am an attorney in Lafayette, Indiana.  I grew up in a world where I felt I had to keep my diagnosis private.  I kept it private through law school and the first seven years of my law career.  In January 2017, I disclosed my bipolar II diagnosis in an article published in the Indiana Lawyer newspaper.  My disclosure allowed me to reach out and connect.  A colleague shared Joe’s article with me.  I shared my story with Joe and he invited me to participate.  LDP is the peer community that I hoped to discover when I started this journey.

 

David – David Evan Markus, Esq., serves as judicial referee in the civil parts of New York Supreme Court, Ninth Judicial District, and has served in multiple senior legal and policy roles throughout New York State government, including under New York Chief Judges Jonathan Lippman and Judith S. Kaye, and the New York State Senate.  Also an ordained rabbi, Markus serves as pulpit clergy at Temple Beth El of City Island (New York City, NY), as North America’s only pulpit rabbi also to serve full-time in government.  Markus brings to his LDP facilitation his additional certification as a multi-faith spiritual counselor.  He serves as rabbinic faculty at the Academy for Jewish Religion in New York, faculty in spiritual direction for ALEPH (the seminary of Jewish Renewal), and founding builder for Bayit: Your Jewish Home.  Markus previously has taught political science and judicial administration for Fordham University, and administrative law for Pace University’s graduate program in public administration.  Markus earned his rabbinical ordination and spiritual director ordination from ALEPH, his Juris Doctor magna cum laude from Harvard Law School, his Masters in Public Policy from Harvard University’s John F. Kennedy School of Government, and his Bachelor of Arts summa cum laude from Williams College.  He lives in New York.

 

Lisa – My name is Lisa Smith and I am the Deputy Executive Director and Director of Client Relations at Patterson Belknap in New York City. I’m a former practicing lawyer and was diagnosed with major depressive disorder when I checked myself into detox for substance use disorder in 2004. I learned that my alcohol and cocaine abuse was directly related to my previously undiagnosed depression. I had been self-medicating with alcohol and drugs, which led to a horrible downward spiral that lasted more than 10 years before I got help. Since I started appropriately treating my depression with medication and therapy, I have been able to stop self-medicating and I’ve been sober for almost 15 years. I was terrified of anyone in my firm learning of my substance use, so I had resisted seeking the help I needed. I’m committed to smashing the stigma around these issues so that we can all understand the resources available to us and feel comfortable reaching out for help. We all deserve to be healthy and happy. I’m thrilled that lawyers now have this incredible community of support — no one needs to work through these issues alone. I chronicled my journey in my book, Girl Walks Out of a Bar, and co-host the podcast, Recovery Rocks.

 

Meredith – My name is Meredith Siller Rimalower. During my time as a Big Law associate, I observed how the legal profession can attract, exacerbate, and reward certain behaviors that are actually symptoms of anxiety, depression, and substance abuse. So great is this need that it inspired me to make a career change, and I am currently in the process of becoming a licensed psychotherapist hoping to work directly with the legal industry. With the ABA’s recent findings on the prevalence of mental health disorders in the legal industry, I firmly believe that fighting the stigma and providing mental health assistance to legal professionals is no longer optional. LDP is a huge step forward in the direction of fighting the stigma and providing peer support. Through meetings and online forums, LDP is an easily accessible, pressure-free environment where lawyers can share and truly be heard, without judgment, among thoughtful, intelligent, and compassionate members.

 

For more information about the LDP, please contact josephmilowic@quinnemanuel.com or joe@knowtime.com.

Will Your Holiday Office Party Enable Problem Drinking?

It’s that time of the year again. Holiday Parties. Spiked eggnog and lampshades against the backdrop of a legal profession replete with problem drinkers.

Almost two years after the groundbreaking study, alcohol is still ingrained in our culture.  Booze centered conferences. Top-shelf stocked offices. At one event, I saw high-level lawyers so intoxicated, they had trouble walking.  I shudder to think what those holiday parties will look like.

Things, however, do appear to be changing for the better. There is a conversation. Many firms have signed on to the ABA well-being pledge. I have no doubt they will be taking a balanced approach to their holiday events.

You however, don’t need a pledge to throw a great party that both celebrates the season and is not wrapped around booze.  There, of course, is nothing wrong with having alcohol at an event. We are not a profession of teetotalers.  It is all about balance and boundaries.

Provide enough non-alcoholic options.  Encourage an atmosphere that is inclusive for those who choose to not drink.  Put a limit on the amount of alcohol available. Limit the number of drinks per person.  Have a plan in place to ensure that anyone who does have one too many, does not put anyone else at risk.  Have a confidential and compassionate plan to deal with such issues while also protecting the firm from a risk management standpoint.

Keep in mind that for someone in recovery or struggling to find sobriety, the pressure of alcohol-focused gatherings can be intense and isolating. This can be a big issue for younger lawyers who tend to be more social in general and who may feel pressured to attend.  We know from the recent ABA/Hazelden Betty Ford Foundation study that the millennial age group is at a higher problem drinking risk.

Michelle is a lawyer practicing at a small firm in Seattle. Here is what she has to say.

“For someone in recovery, the holiday party scene can be a source of professional and personal anxiety. Everyone has a bash.  Attendance is critical to maintaining goodwill at your own firm.

I had to both network and protect my privacy.  I would explain that I was recovering from a cold or on other medication. That meant I couldn’t try the spiked eggnog or holiday cocktails. This led to feelings of shame. It further compounded my stress, and almost led to relapse on more than one occasion.

Upon reflection, the holiday parties I attended were not scheduled for the benefit of the staff or the firm team.  They were events to celebrate the shareholders’ success.  We were not given the impression that sobriety and mental health was a firm priority. A majority of the attorneys drank to excess without firm safeguards.

I realized that I needed to own my recovery. Making excuses about why I was not drinking was unhealthy for me.  I stopped making them and began to say that I do not drink. I then noticed that people were not paying attention to what I was or was not doing. I saw that while we were the minority, there were others who did not drink. My fear of questions about it or about my recovery never came to fruition. I became more comfortable and empowered in my sobriety while keeping up social obligations.

I recommend that anyone in recovery be familiar with their drinking triggers and level of comfortability in being able to say “no thanks” to alcohol (or here in Washington, to marijuana edibles, etc.). Do your best to choose events where you know you will have the support of friends or colleagues who know about your recovery.  If you’re in a 12-step program, talk with your sponsor before going. Have a plan in place specific to your situation to deal with the stress and temptation you may feel.

I also recommend that partners or staff in charge of planning, make sure there is equal access to non-alcoholic beverages. If there is a holiday punch or eggnog, there should be the same non-alcoholic option.”

If you are in recovery and worried about the pressure holiday parties bring, have a plan going in.  Didn’t make it through the holiday circuit sober?  Hiccups happen.  Talk to your lawyers Assistance Program. Does your area have a “Lawyers Helping Lawyers” group?  Your law firm may have an Employees Assistance Program.  Talk to someone.

Have a safe and happy holiday season!

 

 

Unresolved Trauma : A Hidden Gatekeeper To Wellness

If I asked one hundred people how they define “trauma,” I might get eighty different answers. One person might talk about their broken leg. Another would talk about physical or sexual abused. A veteran may talk about a war experience. A bitter divorce. The loss of a  parent, sibling or child.  A beloved pet. It might have happened last week, last year, or fifty years ago. It may be an event another person may not consider traumatic when applied to their life experience. It does not make it any less real. Trauma is subjective and personal.

One trauma in my life that imprinted deep into my psyche was bullying. An event that took place over forty years ago yet for a long time, played out like a full-length movie in my mind and dreams. For many years, it played a role in how I defined my self-worth.

It began with the usual one-mile walk home from my high school. The usual group of kids I tried to ingratiate myself with as a symbol of acceptance and status. It began with a pair of shiny gold bell-bottomed disco style pants my brother Mark had given me. The disco era of Saturday Night Fever and John Travolta. It ended with a physical assault. Fat teasing escalated to an event that would change me for decades.

“Love the gold bell-bottom pants Cuban, don’t quite fit you though. Do you think you’re John Travolta? Can you even sit down without them tearing?

My brother gave me these,  I said.

“Yea well, he’s not fat, you are. He should have given you some stretch pants and a bra from Sears to hold up those boobs. Those pants look ridiculous on you. They are about to burst.”

Yea, they are a little tight, but I like them. I said,

“A little? Your fat ass looks like a bag of cats trying to get out. What do you think guys? ” Those pants gotta go Cubes. We can help you with that.”

The grabbing, pulling and tearing began. With each tiny rip, the intensity of the assault escalated. The pants were gone. Torn into shreds. Tossed in the middle of a busy street. I gathered up the pieces. I walked home in my underwear. For decades after that, I looked in the mirror and saw a fit pig who needed a Sears bra. A pig who would never be loved or accepted.

I did not tell a soul. I hid it deep inside where I could tell myself I was over it. I adapted to it. I convinced myself that it was weak and counterproductive to open up the wounds of the past.

The reality was the injury had been open since those terrible moments. It would take decades and a lot of therapy for me to understand that vulnerability to heal trauma is a good thing, not weakness. I realized that even with long-term addiction recovery, trauma was still driving my daily thought process which made me more susceptible to relapse.

While not scientific, I am comfortable stating that lawyers as a profession, have a difficult time in this area. In speaking with many lawyers and law students about addiction and depression issues, it is not uncommon for me to hear about traumatic events that have been rationalized and dismissed.

Sexual abuse. Physical abuse. Mental abuse. A few of the types of trauma revealed yet never dealt with or only in a superficial way. An avoidance mechanism to digging deeper. This is something I was great at.

“I’m in therapy, so I am dealing with it.”

I was in therapy but lying to my psychiatrist or leaving out critical facts about events that injured me to the core of my identity. Shame knows no hourly rate. More comfortable to leave things off the couch then face the past. Easier to gauge my trauma by those who appear “strong.” Maybe those who post in social media to “get over it” or “stop ‘whining.” Good for them. They are not you. My guess is that they are less than honest with themselves about the impact of trauma on their lives.

Here is something I did that may help you. I made a list of every single event in my life I could remember that I considered traumatic. Nothing was too small or too big. I read it to my therapist. It was the first step. Acknowledging the trauma. It starts there.  Give it a try. There is no doubt in my mind that allowing ourselves vulnerability in looking at our past or ongoing trauma is a gatekeeper to wellness and something that has helped me stay sober and deal with depression.

Five Minutes In A McDonald’s Drive-Thru

The combination of late night heat, humidity, and alcohol make every breath feel like my last. By the time I get to my car, I am soaked as if I have stepped out of the shower. I turn the air conditioning to full blast. Cold air makes contact with the sweat. The sensation creates a chill that moves from my toes to my forehead, like a fast-moving virus. I have a cure. Somewhere in my pocket is a baggie of snow-white, magic elixir.

A fumbled dredge through the crumpled dollar bills and loose change tears the plastic. As it reaches the threshold of freedom from my pocket, the elixir explodes like a freak,summer snowstorm. Fingernails become surgical instruments as I attempt to recapture enough to snort some lines on the back of my hand.

Thank god for the 24-hour Mickey-D drive-thru. Fifty feet from my place. Though the morning red-robins will soon begin their song, there is still a long line. It’s difficult to distinguish the snow from the other crap on my lap as I try to reconstitute another line. One eye remains on the cars in front of me. Big Macs, french fries and colas pushed out the window like a piston.  An arm moving back and forth.  In and out. A voice from the speaker.

“May I take your order”?

“I’ll have five Bacon Egg and Cheese McMuffins and a Diet Coke.”

An image in the rear view mirror catches my attention. A police officer waits behind me. His stare directs a lie detecting laser beam that pierces my rear window and penetrates my mind. He can see my fear. He knows.

My hands tighten the grip the steering wheel. I am sure they will leave imprints. I wait for the blue and red rotation. There is a quick “honk” instead. I had not noticed the space in front of me as another order is filled.  A slight tap on the gas. Not too hard. Don’t want the card to jerk forward. He’s waiting for an excuse to hit the lights and change my future. My hand sweeps back and forth across my lap, then the passenger seat. I have to wipe away the evidence. My pupil dilated eyes stare back at me in the rearview mirror. The visible perspiration intensifies paranoia. He has to see this. The arctic blast of the air conditioner no longer stems the flow.  His face is replaced by a  vision. Standing outside the car drenched in sweat and handcuffed. Humiliated in the drive-through line for the other cokeheads and barflies to see. They will snicker at me as they get their food. Maybe they will think about the grace of God.

The figure in the mirror has changed again. I see my father. The stare of disappointment. His heart will break when he gets the call from jail.

I inhale until there is no room in my lungs to take in more oxygen. My heart tries to free itself from my chest with each exaggerated, pounding beat. My body is rigid and locked in place as if I have died and Rigamortis has set in. I am about to die.

Another car moves forward. The piston hand. Big Macs. French Fries. Soft Drinks. In and out. A monotone, robotic voice.

“Thank you for coming. Enjoy your meal.”

One more car and I’m home. One more…

He’s almost on my bumper. A perfect view into my vehicle. I notice how well lit the drive-through lane is. What the hell is the guy in front of me ordering? Get your fucking food so I can get out of here. I will play with the radio. If he sees me playing with the radio, that will signal normalcy. Just a person with late night munchies. A pregnant wife food run. Anything but what I am.

A crackling, amplified voice. An irritated tone.

“Please pull forward. You’re up”

It’s not the drive-through guy. The voice is from behind. A loudspeaker. It’s him. A light, staccato, double tap of the car-horn.

There is no piston hand moving from the service window. There is a teenager’s head poked out. Inviting me to advance five more feet towards escape and freedom.

My foot moves in a slow and deliberate movement to the right from brake to gas. Too hard and my car will jerk.  He will know. Too soft and he may rear-end me. He will know. Breath. Relax. Inhale. Exhale. The white snowflakes on my jeans and car rug look the size of snowballs.

An odorous blast of french fry grease and Big Macs.

“That will be seven twenty-five, sir.”

My cash is on the passenger seat covered in white dust. A quick glance back. He appears to be talking into a microphone. The lights come on. Blue and Red rotation. Each rotation has a different message. Handcuffs. Jail. Loss of love. Loss of Family.

I grab the ten dollars off the seat.

‘Keep the change.”

I pull forward towards my altered future.

The lights are now next to me. They are in front of me. They are out in the street. I had not noticed the car accident. I move out into the road and creep past him.  There is no acknowledgment. He’s too busy slapping handcuffs on a drunk driver. My breathing calms. My flow of sweat slows. I can see the sun rising as I pull in front of my place. I will clean the car later. Maybe a few more lines can be found. I’m hungry.

Squirrel Hill Is My Beating Heart

I recently visited my mom. She lives in Mt. Lebanon, which is a southern suburb of Pittsburgh. She still lives in the house we grew up in. I make several trips a year back to the town of my childhood.  This particular trip, however, was more than just a routine visit home. It was in part, to take a purposeful journey into my past. To reflect. To honor.  That journey begins in Squirrel Hill.

My mom’s life with my dad did not start in Mt. Lebanon. After a few moves, they settled in the predominantly Jewish community of Squirrel Hill, on Hobart street.  Our grandparents on both sides also lived in Squirrel Hill after emigrating through Ellis Island.

There were Sunday trips to my father’s parents who lived on Munhall Street. The smell of plastic covered furniture that squeaked like a mouse when my father moved during his naps. Stretched out full length. Quiet snoring that I can still hear when I am alone at his grave. Mark gave me “Nuggies” on my head while we lay on our grandmother’s forty-year-old carpet, watching television.

Mark and I  battled for control of the black and white television. I preferred cartoons. Mark preferred movies. I changed the channel. Mark pushed me aside and turned it back. A wrestling match ensued, stopped by the irritated grunt of our dad woken from his nap. The oft-repeated growl of:

“Cut it out.”

His edict came as our grandmother called from the kitchen for us to get our bologna sandwiches and ginger ale. We ate in front of the television. When the shows were over, it was time to explore.

Our grandmother’s basement meant hidden treasure. Books written in Russian or Yiddish. They smelled of must and mold, but to a ten-year-old child, it was the smell of adventure and places far away. I might strike gold. Find a coin or two. Old photos. More treasure from the old country. A connection to the past I did not yet understand. The drive back home always included a stop at the Isley’s Dairy in Oakland for the mouth-watering, melt in our mouth, chocolate covered Klondike Bars.

I pulled up in my rental car, in front of that house on Munhall street. Condo’s and cars parked bumper to bumper. Not the house of my childhood, yet it was. I became tunneled visioned, blocking out all evidence of the present. Mentally projecting images of decades prior.  A car in the driveway. Should I knock? Maybe they will let me go upstairs to the forbidden, haunted room. It was off limits to me and my brothers. I thought of ghosts, murders, and monsters. Why couldn’t I go up?

I would not know for over forty years that it was off limits because they rented it out to tenants. Even into my adulthood, I thought of it as the room of Chiller Theatre ghouls, and flesh-eating zombies. I stood outside the home. I wanted to go in. To walk upstairs and open that door. To quell the fears of the little boy still inside me. I drove on.

My next Squirrel Hill stop was my Nanny’s house. My mom’s mother. Like my father’s parents, they settled in Squirrel Hill after coming to the US through Ellis Island.

Visiting  Nanny meant bus trip to her place on Phillips Avenue s alone or with my brothers. More plastic covered furniture. Their forbidden treasure was the old black traveling salesman trunk under the bed. When my grandfather was napping on the couch or watching television, I pulled it out inch by inch so as not to make a sound and alert him.  No coins or books. There were socks, shirts, and ties he sold up and down Murray and at clothing shops in downtown Pittsburgh. The real treasure though was the money he kept hidden in his bible under an old wooden table stand. My heartbeat quickened when he pulled it out and said in his gravel voice, as he handed me ten dollars:

“Don’t tell your nanny I gave this to you.”

As he put the money in my hand, I had to also promise not to tell her where his cash stash was.

Saturday trips to Kennywood Amusement park were my favorite times with nanny. We also spent time walking up and down Murray Ave. A stop at Murray News for baseball cards and comic books. A hot bowl of Matzah Ball soup at Rhoda’s Deli. Sometimes my brothers and I just spent the day watching the Three Stooges while we flipped baseball cards.

I, however, lived for Kennywood. The walk from the bus stop to her home. Her exaggerated, high pitched voice calling out to me in a heavy Russian accent.

“Brianola! “Brianola!

I’m coming Nanny!

When I got close to her house, she would break into as close to a run her heavy set frame allowed. Book and lunch bag in hand. Our hands clasped. We turned and walked back to catch the bus. Next stop. Kennywood.

Walking into Kennywood with Nanny was like the Magic Kingdom. It smelled of popcorn and cotton candy. Another ten dollars to spend on food and rides. I didn’t tell her about money from my grandfather or his stash.

Nanny found a bench under a shady tree and sat for hours with her book. I first played the penny arcade a few feet away. I circled my way through the rides, cotton candy and hotdogs. I had to stand on my toes so I was taller than the “you must be taller than me to ride this ride” sign. As a tall child, those inches mattered and got me on the “Jackrabbit” rollercoaster. I loved the weightless feeling as the coaster “jumped” the track. The reality was that it never lost contact, but I was flying.

As the early evening shadow replaced sunlight, I made my way back to Nanny. She had not moved. She bear hugged me.  Her hugs were love incarnate. Once more we boarded the bus. Home to Squirrel Hill. I saw her head rest against the window. Eye closed. I didn’t wake her until we arrived. Another loved soaked hug. She waited with me until the bus came. Back to Mt. Lebanon.

Once more, I parked my car in front of a place I had not walked into in almost 40 years. Nanny’s house. Once more I stood on that sidewalk. I approached the door. I peered in the window. I did not see the updated and modernized. I saw a little boy sitting on his Nanny’s lap. I saw three brothers watching The Three Stooges.

That was Squirrel Hill. It runs deep in my family and will always be part of my beating heart. I mourn for my fellow Jews who had that taken from them. I honor them. I remember them. I cry for them. I stand with the Jews of Squirrel Hill and Jews everywhere as we collectively grieve their loss. I stand with the city Pittsburgh. My hometown. My black and gold.

“

Shirts And Skins

My yellow, “Number 2” stops and stutters along the last sheet of clean paper in my homework notebook.  Almost worn to the nub, there is only a small sliver of wood to fit between thumb and index finger.  I’ve spent more time studying my mom’s signature than for a final exam.  Grades are less important than the need to avoid shame.   Anxiety spiders into my fingertips. I have a death grip on what’s left of the pencil. The tip snaps. A lawyer of fine graphite dust covers my sick note, The signature is gone.  All that remains is a mess a tiny rubber eraser can’t undo. I turn to a blank page and pull a tiny red sharpener out of my desk drawer.

The cautious, clockwise turn reveals a new tip.  I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand next to my bed. Only a few minutes before I am supposed to be out the door.

“You’re going to be late for school Connor. I’m about to leave, You’ll have to walk.”

Mom’s voice booms from the downstairs kitchen.

“That’s ok mom. I will walk today.”

My concentration returns to the note. This time, slow and methodical. There is no pencil left if it breaks.

“Connor Has Not Been Feeling Well. Please Excuse Him From Gym Class” 

I toss the worn out stub in the trash.  My hand moves to my stomach and rubs in a circular motion.  It remembers the last Dodgeball shirts and skins. It remembers the pain. It remembers the embarrassment.

“Womp!”

A hard rubber, overinflated red dodgeball slams against my exposed gut.  A purplish bruise rises from the pale, freckled,  flab. The feeling of being stung by a thousand bees. A painful reminder of my unworthiness.

Womp!

A direct hit from another direction. I stagger backward, my right foot catching on an untied shoelace. Unable to stop the fall, my right elbow slams into the floor. Searing pain distracts from stomach discomfort. I roll over onto all fours. I can see my contorted face reflected in the polished basketball hardwood. Sweat, floor polish and my zit cream mix penetrate my nostrils.  I want to puke. I can hear kids laughing despite the ringing in my ears.  Keds tennis shoes squeak against the gym floor as the game continues.  Jukes and pivots to avoid being womped.  A tear forms.  It separates from my eyelid. A slow-motion descent, splattering on the back of my right hand. Don’t cry! An adult voice from the bleachers.

“Get up Connor, you’re not hurt. Move around. Work up a sweat. You could lose a couple pounds.”

A gentle hand is on my shoulder. A nice smell. A soothing smell. The tip of blonde hair brushing against my pimpled and sweat glistened back. The stinging subsidies.

Are you ok Connor?  

I recognize the voice. Maggie from homeroom.  She was playing volleyball with the girls on the other side of the gym.  

“Yea, thanks, it doesn’t hurt much. I’m fine.” 

Her hand never leaves my shoulder as I push myself to my feet, covering my stomach with my hands as I regain my balance.

“I’m glad you’re ok. See you tomorrow.”

“Yea, see you, and thanks for coming over.”

Her head turns over her right shoulder and smiles as she walks back to  her side of the gym.  The memory of her hand and smell stay. The stinging in my gut is fades.

A shrill whistle. The kind I hear watching the football team run drills as I walk by their practice on my way home.  This day of torture is over.  The class is over. Shirts and Skins is over. I hate shirts and skins.

The garage door opens. I hear my mom’s car backing out. I pull the pencil out of the garbage.  A new note.

“Maggie, thank you for helping me. You are  very nice”  

Connor. 

If I hurry, I can leave it on her desk before she gets to homeroom.

I bound down the stairs, two at a time.  A door slamming behind me, not in fear of shirts and skins but in anticipation of a conversation with Maggie.  Today won’t be so bad.