My Brother

Sean and I December 2009

The Fourth of July reminds me of my brother, Sean. It has always been his favorite holiday. When he was a kid he used to save up his allowance, and collect money from all the little neighborhood kids for an annual fireworks run to Breezewood, Pennsylvania with my dad. On the big night they'd gather in my backyard and  ignite their colorful prizes in the shadows of the larger explosions bursting above Catonsville High School. Sean would decorate our house with small versions of the wall-sized American flag that hung in his bedroom, and excitedly await the parade. As for the rest of us, we all liked the holiday well enough, but to Sean, it was better than Christmas.

Being a decade older than my brother, the age difference between a fifth grader and a college student created a divide that didn't often lead to conversation. I looked out for him. I picked him up from school. But, although I was mildly curious, I never knew whether my youngest sibling was really patriotic, or just somewhat of a pyromaniac. 

At 18 years of age Sean joined the U.S. Marine Corps. He kind of pulled a fast one on all of us. There was a war in Iraq. He was barely out of high school. Yet, somehow, it seemed fitting and I thought, well, he did always have a thing for the Fourth of July.

Sean spent his 21st birthday in Iraq, and so when he returned, celebrating his favorite holiday was much more adult, or at least, it involved much more alcohol. While my dad sought sanctuary, closed away in the quiet of his room,  my brother and his friends got wasted in the yard shooting roman candles at the most drunk in the bunch.  Dozens of twenty-one year olds stumbled around on the deck testing their limitations on booze consumption. And so, it surprised me that year, when, at 9:30 sharp, Sean rounded up the crowd and lead them across the street to see the fireworks. He was still excited. 

By the end of the following summer, due to excessive drinking and a diagnosis of PTSD, Sean had found himself in an accident, the truck wrapped around a telephone poll. He walked away with a broken collar bone and a hefty prescription for Vicodin.  By Christmas Sean's possessions started slowly disappearing, his television, his laptop. It was unfortunate that the proverbial signs were spotted so quickly, or at least, it was unfortunate that we were able to identify the telltale marks of addiction because we had already had the experience with my other brother, Ryan. Unlike Sean's need for pain killers, benzos, and eventually heroin, Ryan pawned his instruments so that he could smoke crack. Now both of my brothers had escaped into their own heads.

The story hasn't yet found it's happy ending. Ryan is probably off drugs, but now battles the mental strains that have scarred him. I haven't seen him in a few years. He lives somewhere in New Jersey, a liability of the state. Sean, is fortunate enough to have some support from the VA, although they did little to help until four months ago when he became homeless on the streets of Baltimore City. One doesn't get diagnosed or treated with PTSD until one starts having real problems, and the heavy user is not provided with in-patient treatment until he has "tried" out-patient. When out-patient treatment isn't intense enough, and the user is rung up buying heroin on the street corner, he is no longer likely to get in-patient treatment. It's a cyclical, shitty system.

Tonight, as I heard some premature fireworks exploding down the street, I couldn't help but wonder, on the Fourth of July will Sean be aware that it's his favorite day? When the fireworks at the Inner Harbor burst high overhead, will he feel a nostalgic tug, or will he simply be annoyed at the lights and crashes that prod him as he tries to find sleep under the awning of Lexington Market? Sean is 25 years old.




***Note***
Sean is trying to get into a program through the VA. If he gets in it will take him off the streets.


***Note***
6/24/12
I spoke with Sean today. He called me from the VA. He has finally been accepted into a dual treatment facility for PTSD and addiction. We have been trying to get him in for the past 6 months and he was finally admitted 2 days ago. Because of the massive amount of vets coming home at this time, intake to these types of programs is highly sought after.

Vegas Baby

Las Vegas, people either love it or hate it. Well, more precisely, people either go once for a weekend, have never been, or find themselves returning time and time again. Somehow, I've found myself falling into the latter category. Although I've never directly picked Vegas as a destination vacation (business trip, free-hotel vacation by default, wedding, etc), I keep finding myself in this neon city in the desert.

**NOTE: It's funny that when I mention the forecasted heat, it's ALWAYS the people who have never visited who say, "yeah, but it's a dry heat." They are also the ones who advise you that 3-4 days in Sin City are plenty.***

Anyhoo, I've visited the strip and Old Vegas. I've lounged by pools, dined, drank, and (minimally) gambled. And although I've never killed a stripper, met Mike Tyson, or *sigh* made it to the Fat Elvis show, I feel like I've started to experience the city. From private, open-bar pool partying at the Wynn (bragging), to having a tranny shoot a jello shot into my mouth via an Andre-the-Giant sized syringe (bragging), I've seen enough to know that, well, I haven't seen enough.

This past Friday I landed in Mccarran International Airport after a few hours of sleep. As I waited at the cab stand, spray-tan melting through my white shirt, I was looking forward to the pool, something frozen and alcoholic, and the reason for my trip, David and Molly's wedding.

Let me preface this by saying, I am not a wedding person. That is, I love going to weddings, but I've never been the girl who dreamt of the perfect white dress. I think I was like 8 when I decided I didn't prioritize house/kids/husband. If those things happen, they do, but it's not my life's mission. If the bouquet ever sailed my way, it would splat in front of my ridiculous heels a la Samantha Jones. 

All this being said, and now that you know I don't automatically gush over anything with an isle, a tiered cake, and the chicken dance, David and Molly's wedding was... perfect.

Congratulations, and thanks for letting me be there, David and Molly!

Everything was gorgeous: the guests, the location, the weather, the night...I'm glad that I could be a part of it. 

I don't exactly see Vegas in my immediate future (twice in less than a year hurts the liver), but I know I'll be back. After all, I never did get that Corona-Rita.

xo, I gotta go.

-Fitz