In 2019, Andrew Walsh, a former graduate student of mine, researched and wrote Video Game Addiction 101 under my editorial guidance. I had become particularly interested in the topic after the World Health Organization created a new diagnosis in 2018 called Internet Gaming Disorder. Two of the points I made at the end of the book were that (1) I expected this problem to grow in depth and scale and (2) there was way more that we didn’t know than what we knew.

I supervised Ben Munck for 20 months when he was providing therapy to teenagers in Union County, NJ. During the course of our work, one of the most common presenting problems was excessive video gaming. I asked Ben to write an article about it. I edited and added to it, but the vast bulk of the work is his. He has done a nice job in expanding my knowledge about the problem and offering up some solutions.

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I frequently encounter adolescents who describe spending most evenings gaming online, with low engagement in school responsibilities, difficulty following through with appointments (medical visits, school meetings, therapy), and reduced interest in in-person peer interactions. Some report that their online gaming communities feel like their primary source of belonging, identity and social support; they may view professional gaming or streaming as a future plan, or even as an escape from anxiety, depression, loneliness or social stress.

This post is not intended to pathologize gaming. For many teens, gaming is a normal hobby, a way to connect socially, and a source of enjoyment. The clinical concern tends to arise when gaming becomes the primary coping tool and begins to displace key developmental tasks such as school engagement, sleep, healthy activity and in-person relationships.

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Two Examples (De-identified)

Julio was a high-school student who spent most evenings gaming online. He struggled to schedule or attend appointments (medical visits, school meetings, therapy) and described gaming as the only place he felt competent, calm and socially connected. Over time, his in-person social engagement became minimal. He began to view becoming a full-time gamer or streamer as his main plan for adulthood.

Mary described real-life social settings such as hallways, lunch periods, and group work as overwhelming. She reported past peer conflicts and difficulty trusting friendships. Gaming became her primary social world. She valued her online peers more than her in-person friendships and spoke frequently about “going pro,” competing and streaming as a path forward.

In both cases, the pattern looked similar: reduced school engagement, limited in-person social contact, and a growing belief that gaming success could solve deeper emotional and developmental challenges.

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Gaming Disorder

When clinicians talk about problematic gaming, the issue usually is not just lots of hours; it is functional impairment.

The World Health Organization includes Gaming Disorder in the ICD-11 under disorders due to addictive behaviors. The defining features include impaired control over gaming, increasing priority given to gaming over other activities, and continuation or escalation despite negative consequences. (who.int)

In other words, gaming becomes the central organizing force of daily life, even when it clearly harms functioning.

The American Psychiatric Association includes Internet Gaming Disorder (IGD) in DSM-5 Section III as a condition for further study. This is an important nuance; it remains a clinically useful framework when impairment is present. (psychiatry.org)

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How Realistic Is Going Pro?

It is not impossible. However, it is pretty unrealistic as a life plan, especially when it becomes a substitute for treating depression, anxiety, avoidance or social skill deficits.

A helpful analogy for teens and parents:

• Many people love basketball.
• Very few play professionally.
• Fewer still make stable long-term income from it.

The same is true for esports and streaming. A very small fraction of gamers earn consistent, sufficient income and the pathway typically requires:

• exceptional ability
• high-volume training
• competitive placement
• strong support and structure
• tolerance for instability, injury risk, burnout and shifting game popularity

This matters clinically because some teens do not just dream about gaming; they begin to use the dream to justify dropping school effort, avoiding social exposure and disengaging from real-world skill development.

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Mental Health, Burnout, and the Gaming as Escape Trap

Excessive gaming is associated in many studies with:

• depression
• anxiety
• lower life satisfaction
• social withdrawal
• sleep disruption
• difficulty managing daily responsibilities

A systematic review of the association between social media use/video gaming and mental health outcomes in youth noted that excessive gaming is associated with adverse mental health outcomes, while also emphasizing the complexity of directionality and contributing factors. (pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov)

This aligns with what clinicians regularly see: gaming becomes less about entertainment and more about avoidance and emotion regulation, especially when a teen lacks other coping strategies.

A central clinical question becomes:

Is gaming one part of life, or is it replacing life?

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Physical Health: Sedentary Lifestyle, Pain, and Sleep

Many heavy gamers (not only professionals) experience:

• disrupted sleep cycles
• reduced exercise and sunlight exposure
• poor posture and pain complaints
• fatigue and academic decline

Even without dramatic injury, chronic high-volume sitting plus late-night gaming can steadily reduce mood stability, motivation, and resilience.

Physical injuries are a real issue in esports. As orthopedic hand surgeon Dr. Levi Harrison explains, repetitive motion injuries often include wrist and hand problems: “Repetitive motion injuries come in many forms. There’s carpal tunnel syndrome, which compresses the median nerve in the wrist, causing pain and numbness.” (vice.com)

One professional player described how quickly pain can show up with high-volume play: “If I play for too long, I’ll get pain at the end of the day,” noting that too long meant eight hours. (cbsnews.com)

A related risk is that gaming culture can reward pushing through pain rather than responding early. As another pro player put it, “Of course, if we’re in the middle of something important, I’ll suck it up and keep going.” (vice.com)

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What Adults Should Watch For

These are the signs that gaming may be shifting from hobby to impairment:

• Grades falling or school avoidance increasing
• Increasing irritability when gaming is limited
• Sleep reversal or chronic sleep deprivation
• Loss of interest in prior hobbies or relationships
• Frequent missed appointments or poor follow-through
• Social withdrawal from in-person peers
• Escalation of time spent gaming despite consequences
• Gaming becomes primary method of calming down, coping or feeling okay

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When to Seek Professional Help

It is time to consider professional support when gaming-related impairment persists or worsens despite reasonable limits and support at home. Warning signs include:

• School failure, chronic academic decline or school refusal
• Severe sleep disruption or sleep reversal (staying up most of the night gaming)
• Significant mood symptoms such as depression, panic, persistent anxiety or increasing irritability
• Aggression, intimidation or unsafe behavior when gaming is restricted
• Withdrawal from nearly all in-person activity, relationships or family interaction
• Lying, stealing or other escalating behavior related to gaming access
• Increasing substance use, including stimulants or heavy caffeine intake
• Any self-harm behavior or suicidal thoughts

If a teen expresses suicidal ideation, threats of self-harm, or statements such as wanting to die, do not treat this as attention-seeking. Seek immediate assessment through emergency services, a crisis line, or a local emergency department.

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Practical Strategies for Parents and Professionals

1) Don’t argue about gaming; argue for balance and functioning

A common mistake is focusing on gaming as bad. That creates a power struggle and misses the clinical point. The focus should be:

• sleep
• school engagement
• physical health
• responsibilities
• relationships
• emotional coping capacity

2) Use a Family Media Plan

The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends individualized boundaries rather than one universal safe hours rule. It emphasizes structured limits and screen-free times such as meals, bedtime, and time with friends. (aap.org)

3) Screen for mental health and comorbidity

If impairment is present, don’t treat gaming in isolation. Consider screening for:

• depression
• anxiety disorders
• ADHD and executive functioning issues
• social anxiety
• trauma exposure
• substance use patterns

4) Therapy: treat the function, not just the behavior

CBT approaches can be useful, especially if you target:

• avoidance cycles
• emotion regulation deficits
• cognitive distortions (gaming is the only thing I’m good at)
• identity foreclosure (I’m a gamer, that’s all)
• behavioral activation and social exposure

5) Replace, not just restrict

Limiting gaming without adding structure often fails. A better plan is:

• limit plus replacement activity
• predictable schedule
• graduated exposure to real-life competence (workouts, clubs, volunteering, group activities)

6) Physical activity as a mental health intervention

This is not a nice extra. For many teens, consistent physical activity improves:

• sleep
• mood
• confidence
• social exposure
• stress tolerance

7) Build a dual-path future plan

A practical approach for teens who want esports:

• keep gaming as a hobby or structured goal
• continue school and career skill development
• treat “going pro” as an aspiration, not the only plan

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Final Thoughts

Gaming can be healthy recreation and real social connection. However, excessive gaming with functional impairment is associated with meaningful risks: emotional, behavioral, social, and physical.

Julio and Mary reflected a pattern commonly seen in adolescent work: gaming became an organizing identity and a coping strategy, while school engagement, sleep and in-person relationships eroded. The “going pro” fantasy can intensify this pattern when it becomes a justification for disengagement rather than a structured, balanced pursuit.

The healthier pathway is not demonizing gaming; it is restoring balance through structured limits, therapy when indicated, sleep stabilization, real-world activity and a realistic future plan that does not depend on an extremely rare outcome.

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Ben Munck was born and raised in NJ. He earned his MSW from Rutgers and has been providing therapy to teenagers for the last three years. When he isn’t working, he enjoys rock climbing, concerts and international travel.

It’s been just over six years since I wrote my last article on suicide. The first suicide piece discussed my family’s experience with suicide and the horrible question that so many survivors ask. The second entry described how someone’s suicide feels like a nuclear bomb went off in your life and the suicide domino theory. The third post went over how almost every survivor asks “why did they do it?” and how there is never a satisfactory answer. It also dives into another terrible yet common survivor’s thought, “how come I didn’t see it?”

So many new things happened in those six years: I returned from my Army deployment; COVID impacted everyone in the world; my play was published, I created a bi-weekly Veterans group and a bi-monthly therapist group; my father died in my arms in Belize; I hiked every 4000 foot mountain in the Northeast; I’ve watched in horror on the assault of American laws; I spent a fortune on a series of massive home repairs; my Uncle died; I experienced two loving romantic relationships; and the Dodgers won three World Series.

Throughout those positive and negative events, I continued to give speeches and conduct trainings on suicide for the US Army, the New York State Police, several dozen labor unions, a variety of treatment programs and over 20 conferences.

I often counsel and speak on grief. It’s a tough subject for almost everyone. People don’t know what to say, so they often say nothing. Planet pretend. Which is awful. The best thing one can do when someone dies is to write about them.

Some grief is a bit more complex, as there can be some regret, guilt, anger, confusion or unresolved issues sprinkled in. Suicide often causes brutal complex grief in the survivors. When my close friend took his life, I experienced a deep sadness, occasional fits of anger towards him, misplaced guilt and confusion about why he did it. The best way to deal with complex grief after suicide is a combination of individual therapy, writing, group therapy and getting out in the world.

When I rejoined the Army in 2014, I was told by a few Colonels that the Army was highly motivated to reduce the high suicide rates of soldiers and Veterans. I told them that the Army would have to address its culture around alcohol, reduce the stigma of seeing a counselor and increase the number of Army counselors tenfold. The Colonels were incredulous and I told them they we should change their wording from highly motivated to slightly motivated.

Over the years, families, the media, public officials, schools, universities and therapists have all asked about or offered plans on how to prevent suicide. There was a pretty good article in the New York Times this past November that discussed the problems that therapists face:

Suicide rates continue to rise; it is now the third leading cause of death worldwide among those 15 to 29. But despite decades of research into suicide prevention, it is still very difficult to know whether someone will try to die by suicide. The most common method of assessing suicidal risk involves asking patients directly if they plan to harm themselves. While this is an essential question, some clinicians, including Dr. Galynker, say it is inadequate for predicting imminent suicidal behavior. A better solution, they say, is to identify and treat the symptoms that lead to a suicidal state of mind: a condition they call suicide crisis syndrome, or S.C.S.

Dr. Galynker, the director of the Suicide Prevention Research Lab at Mount Sinai in New York City, has said that relying on mentally ill people to disclose suicidal intent is “absurd.” Some patients may not be cognizant of their own mental state, he said, while others are determined to die and don’t want to tell anyone.

Schools of social work, counseling and psychology seem to love pushing the Columbia Suicide Severity Rating Scale. I believe it can be helpful in determining the depth of someone’s despair and their immediate and intermediate risk of attempt. However, I do not think it is a good way to assess if someone is having thoughts of suicide.

In 2010, I did a bit of a dive into Victor Frankl and I’ve been asking my clients about their purpose and community ever since. I found those that lack one or the other to be much more likely to be anxious or depressed or to engage in process disorders (alcohol, drugs, gambling, sex, food, shopping, video games, social media). Those lacking both were more likely to have some passing thoughts of suicide.

And yet, plenty of people without purpose or community are not suicidal. A vast majority of them, in fact. They aren’t happy and are operating at a sub-optimal level but they aren’t thinking about killing themselves. They unexcitedly drudge on through life, often to the exasperation of those that love them. A good therapist (or athletic coach or mentor or religious figure or teacher or wise older relative) might nudge them towards purpose or suggest a few communities.

Back to the suicidal people. A history of trauma is a risk factor. I have trained my students, interns and supervisees to use the Adult Trauma Checklist and the Stressful Life Events Screening Questionnaire to help explore a client’s background [To be clear, I do not want nervous mothers or concerned friends or frightened lovers to be using these psychological screening tools on those they are worried about. If you fit into any of those categories in the previous sentence, get that person to a therapist who understands trauma. And if you are a therapist, get them to see someone who isn’t you].

So, if someone lacks purpose and community and has a history of trauma, that’s a red flag. One side effect of trauma though, is that it can negatively effect one’s sense of self and therefore, their purpose and community. It’s a real chicken and the egg conundrum.

Everything I’ve written so far has been prelude to this: I ask three questions that can help address suicidality a little more [Again, to be clear, while I am writing this for everyone, I don’t want lay people asking these questions and then washing their hands of the situation].

Who do you care about in this world?

The more people named, the better. The more intense the level of care, the better. Pets are great. I treated a guy back in 2005, who, when he was arrested, thought about killing himself but didn’t because he didn’t know who would take care of his dog.

What kind of things do you like to do?

Sports. Books. Movies. TV. Video games. Travel. Eating. Museums. Plays. Parties. Painting. Swimming. Hiking. Puzzles. Comics. Shakespeare. Civil War Battlefields. Yoga. Biking. Pottery. Croquet. Gardening. Fixing cars. The more activities they like, the better. The higher the intensity, the better. The more expertise, the better. If they do these things with other people, the better.

What would you like to do in the future?

Do they want to watch their team win a Super Bowl one day? Do they want to travel to the South Pacific? Do they want to see their kid graduate from high school? Are they waiting for the next Radiohead tour? The more stuff they are looking forward to, the better. If they have stuff they want to do that’s a ways off in the future, the better.

——-

When someone can’t name anyone they care about, don’t have any activities that they enjoy and have no future plans, that is an alarming situation. I’m not going to hospitalize them or ship them off to rehab just on those answers, but it helps me get a much better grasp on the situation.

These questions aren’t foolproof. My friend who took his life in 2018 had lots of people he cared about (and cared about him), had loads of things he enjoyed and had a bunch of future plans. And he took his life anyway, to everyone’s surprise. Was it unresolved trauma that bubbled up to the surface one morning and overwhelmed him? Was he determined to die for a few weeks and was cagey about it? We’ll never know. That’s the horror of suicide. We can improve our screenings and treatments, but we will never get to zero suicides. We can try though. And we should.

Ten years ago, Regina Diamond became the first guest writer on this website. I’ve been after her for an update for well over a year, and to my surprise and joy, this popped into my inbox this morning.

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The Next Chapter: Blessings, Loss, and the Long Work of Becoming

When my story was first published in 2015, it ended at redemption.
I had survived addiction, incarceration, and reentry. I had graduated from college, earned my master’s degree, completed parole, and begun working in the very systems that once shaped my life from the other side. It was a story with momentum and resolution. It appeared whole and resolved.

And in many ways, it was.

But redemption is not the end of the story. It is the beginning of a much longer, messier chapter.

After the Applause

In the years that followed, life unfolded quickly. I got married. I began working with NJSTEP. I became a mother. I bought a home. From the outside, it looked like everything I had worked for was finally falling into place.

And in many ways, it was.

I was living the life I once prayed for.

Motherhood, however, cracked me open in ways sobriety never had.
After my first child was born, I experienced prenatal and postpartum depression that I did not yet have language for. I was functional, high-achieving, and deeply unwell. I returned to work. I kept going. I told myself this was normal—that sadness, irritability, and emotional numbness were simply part of adjustment.

Then the losses began.

Grief Without Pause

Within a single year, I lost nine people—my grandmother, my uncle, my cousin, my aunt, my sponsor, and others I loved deeply. One loss followed another, barely leaving space to breathe in between. And then COVID arrived.

The world shut down. Grief became collective, but mine was already overflowing.

I was raising a toddler, caring for a newborn, navigating depression, and trying to function in a world that suddenly felt fragile and unsafe. I moved through my days on muscle memory and survival instinct—the same instincts that once kept me alive in addiction and incarceration, now reactivated in a different form.

I did not drink. I did not use.

But I was not okay.

The Illusion of “After”

There is a tendency to talk about an “after”—after sobriety, after prison, after trauma — as if there is a finish line where life becomes manageable and predictable. As if surviving the worst of it means the rest will be easier.

What I have learned is that healing does not eliminate pain; it changes how we hold it.

I had done many things right—and I had also made mistakes. I drifted away from meetings. I stopped asking for help. I withdrew from the community that had once held me and leaned almost entirely on my partner. Still, my marriage unraveled. Still, my mental health faltered. Still, life demanded more of me than I felt able to give.

By 2021, the relationship I believed would last my lifetime was breaking down. What followed were years of emotional turbulence—back-and-forth decisions, hope, disappointment, and the slow realization that love alone does not sustain safety or wholeness.

In 2024, I chose myself.

I chose stability.

I chose healing over familiarity.

That choice did not come with relief so much as responsibility—the responsibility to rebuild again, this time as a mother, a professional, and a woman who knows exactly how much she can survive.

A Shift in Belief

When I first got sober, structure saved my life. Ritual grounded me. Over time, my spirituality expanded beyond the confines of any single framework.

I explored what resonated and released what did not.

I stopped searching for certainty and started paying attention to alignment. I no longer believe spirituality shields us from suffering; I believe it helps us stay present inside it.

I still believe I am protected.

I still believe I have a purpose.

But I no longer believe purpose is static.

The Work That Remains

Today, I find myself at another crossroads.

My children are growing. My career is evolving. The systems I once fought to enter reveal their limitations more clearly. I carry lived experience, professional expertise, and a deeper understanding of how trauma, motherhood, grief, and survival intersect.

I am no longer interested in being a “success story” that reassures people everything works out neatly.

I am interested in telling the truth.

The truth is that healing is cyclical.

That stability can coexist with pain.

That purpose can change without disappearing.

And that surviving once does not exempt us from having to survive again.

What has changed is this: I trust myself now.

I trust my ability to ask for help.

I trust my intuition when something feels misaligned.

I trust that rebuilding does not mean starting over—it means building differently.

Moving Forward

If the first chapter of my life was about survival, and the second about redemption, then this chapter is about wholeness—learning how to live fully with everything I carry.

I am still sober.

I am still committed to justice, education, collective care—and to my children and the life we are building together.

I am still becoming.

And this time, I am allowing the story to remain unfinished.

——-
Regina Diamond

Bill Moyers died in a NYC hospital on Thursday, June 26th. The Times got a fantastic piece out about him almost immediately. It discusses his role as President Johnson’s Press Secretary and public television journalist. He won over 30 Emmys (the current American President won zero).

It didn’t mention how he helped design the Peace Corps or get very much into his investigative journalism on the US Government. It only briefly mentioned his then wildly famous six-part interview with Joseph Campbell.

Still, it’s a great obituary and captures much of the man, at least as a professional. I long admired him and finally got to meet him when he was 81. He wasn’t diminished at all.

We met at a dinner party in NYC for Hazelden Betty Ford Board members in the winter of 2016. When my mother learned that Bill Moyers and Judy Collins would be there, she had me email the host to see if I could bring her along.

There were about thirty people at the event, and my mother somehow managed to sit right next to Bill at dinner. I had been hoping to ask him all about President Johnson and Dr. King and Robert Caro, but, alas, I only was able to exchange a few words about the 36th President with him.

Bill asked my Mom about where she grew up (Minnesota) and what she did (English teacher) and then peppered her with specific questions about the Midwest and the teaching profession. While I watched and listened, I figuratively prayed that she wouldn’t talk about how her sister killed my grandmother (a real dinner party downer). She didn’t; at least I don’t remember her talking about them.

On the drive back to New Jersey, I told her that we (well, she) missed a great opportunity to talk to one of the most connected American men of the second half of the 20th century. “He wanted to ask me questions,” she retorted. “He was very curious.”

That perfectly described Bill Moyers. Despite being the most interesting person at a pretty interesting dinner party, he interviewed my Mom. It made her feel special. And he learned a little bit more about Minnesota and public education.

Bill and I would talk a few more times over the next couple of years. I gave him some Cuban cigars. My Mom bought their dining room table when they sold their New Jersey home and gave it to me as a present. The table is notable because President Johnson, Maya Angelou, Hubert Humphries and a few dozen other true luminaries dined on it.

In the fall of 2017, I interviewed Bill and Judith and their son William at an event at Rutgers on addiction and family and public policy. William had a very public problem with drugs in the late 80s and early 90s and eventually got sober in 1994. Bill and Judith learned about addiction and became powerful advocates for treatment. Near the end of the interview, Nancy, their granddaughter, joined us on stage and talked about her own recovery as well. It was quite the moving scene.

A few days after the event, William posted this photo and wrote:

This is probably the last time my parents will take the stage to help me carry the messages of hope and healing that are the essence of my advocacy work at Hazelden Betty Ford. Judith and Bill have always walked the walk with me from the moment I hit bottom in 1989 (the first time) through the successes of my professional endeavors and through the lowest of personal lows of my human imperfections. In 28 years never have they wavered. And so here we are, one more time, last Friday at Rutgers sharing our family’s experience, strength and hope so that other families like ours can know that they are not alone and that recovery from addiction or mental illness is indeed possible.

We had lunch after the event. I told him about Ayad Akhtar’s “Junk” and urged him to see it at the Lincoln Center. “You must see it. If you don’t like it, I’ll pay for the ticket.”

He saw it twice and loved it. He thanked me via email. I passed that along to Ayad (whom I had just met when my father recognized him in the lobby after we had seen “Junk”). Ayad emailed Bill back.

From that, came this interview, the last of Bill’s astounding career.

Bill Moyers. Husband. Father. Presidential Aide. 30+ time Emmy Winner. Journalist. Advocate. Interviewer. Public Servant. Recovery Advocate.

Brilliant. Hard working. Charming. Generous. Circumspect. Principled.

And he made my Mom feel special.

What a life.

Thanks, Bill.

In addition to the individual therapy I provide, I also conduct 5-session mental health evaluations. I find it both unprofessional and ludicrous that most agencies and clinicans diagnose someone in one or two sessions. If you are facing a problem with a job or school or legal issues, you want a highly trained and experienced professional with an ability to assess, diagnose and write to complete the evaluation upon which so much depends.

There are currently four social workers that work under me on a part-time basis. It is a diverse group that can handle a vast variety of problems and diagnoses. I have been involved in their training and supervision in all cases for several years and some for over decade. Prices for sessions with them range from $100 to $200 and can be conducted online or, in some cases, in person. I have full confidence in all of them. Additionally, there are about a half-dozen other therapists that I’ve trained or worked with in NJ that I am happy to recommend (and most of them take insurance and one of them takes medicaid).

Since the start of COVID, I’ve run a free, online group for Veterans every other Wednesday night starting at 8 pm. Sometimes I cut the group at 9, other times we stay on until 920 or so if the topic is heavy. The most common issues that members bring to group are, in order, marital /divorce, PTSD, alcohol problems, back injuries and/or a general sense of feeling purposeless. It’s a support group, not clincial. There are no records or notes. Potential members must be screened by me before their first group.

Also since 2020, I’ve run a free support group for therapists. We meet every 4 to 8 weeks, online. Most of the participants are former students or trainees or employees or colleagues. Interested professionals should email me.

Finally, I’ve updated my presentation page. While I continue to speak around the country on both suicide and marijuana, my most popular talks over the last year have been on social isolation and social media (they are often combined into one presentation). I’ve also recently created a training to address sports gambling by young males.

When I was in Mexico this winter, I met a 30 year old man from Seattle who had just been let go from Google. His undergraduate degree was from Yale and his graduate degree was from MIT. “Surely I thought my educational background would protect me,” he said as we ate before a long hike up a volcano.

He had spent the last year working on projects related to utilizing AI to handle tasks that human workers had previously been able to complete. “I knew some of the employees that were working on the project would be let go, but I didn’t think it would happen to me.”

I expect we’ll hear that refrain over and over through the rest of the 2020’s.

In January, a few news outlets asked, “If the economy is doing so well, then why are so many tech companies laying off workers?”

Those outlets engaged in what I consider to be both lazy and irresponsible journalism. Tech was doing very well in January; they are doing even better now, eight months later. Their executives and boards found that AI could handle the jobs of a several thousand workers at a fraction of the cost. That’s what happened to the young man from Google who I met on that Mexican volcano.

This will happen more and more over the next few years.

A couple weeks later, I met a 35 year old New Yorker who worked for Amazon 25 hours a week while living in Mexico City. “There is shit I can do that AI can’t yet. But I have no illusions. I easily make Amazon about 20 million dollars a year, but eventually AI will be able to do my job. I figure I have about three years.”

We had met at an AA meeting and he reached out to me a few days later to meet for coffee. “I have to figure out what I’m going to do next.”

Twenty years ago, I was told that any job that can be moved overseas will be moved overseas. Fourteen years ago, I told my Rutgers students that any job that could be done by someone on a computer would be at risk for losing it to someone who lived in a cheaper area in the US or another country. Now the question one has to ask is, “Can my job be done by AI right now? What about in five years?”

AI will probably continue to improve at writing, but highly skilled writers should continue to keep their (sadly) underpaid jobs.

Here are the skills that are (currently) AI proof:

1. Managing people. This is different than training. This is dealing with how workers’ soft skills and personal lives affect their jobs and getting them to complete tasks. You have to have some basic people skills. The better you are at this, the safer you’ll be. If you are shy or don’t like people, you may be in a bit of trouble.
2. Public speaking. As of yet, there aren’t any AI robots that can get up in front of a crowd and deliver a speech that hits on a bunch of different emotions. This is an incredibly rare skill, but it can be developed and improved with practice.
3. Complex problem solving in a fast paced setting. AI still hasn’t figured out how to handle more advanced problems on the fly, so if you are someone who is cool under pressure and has a lot of experience coming up with solutions to sudden and random crises, you are good. For now.
4. Sharing of self to help others. AI will never know what it’s like to lose a friend to suicide or have a parent die in their arms. AI can’t connect with someone in the throes of addiction and show by example that there is a solution. AI will never know heartbreak, or financial insecurity or the fear of physical decline. A good social worker knows when to strategically share experiences like these to help a client.

One more thing to think about: if your work can be done in person, try to do it in person. For social workers who do case management or individual or group therapy, you are (a) usually more effective with your clients if you meet them in person and (b) you are less likely to be replaced by an AI therapy chat bot.

It was a social media issue. Of course.

One of the therapists I supervise is a director at a long-term substance misuse treatment program. The following conversation took place during one of our supervision sessions last summer.

T: What is your take on addressing clients’ social media? Is it a privacy violation?

FLG2: Looking at someone’s public social media is not illegal. I think employers should absolutely look at job candidate’s public social media. Ethically, I discourage it for therapists. Programs and agencies should have a very explicit social media policy that all employees and clients are aware of. So, follow your company’s policy.

T: We don’t have one.

FLG2: Well, then you need to implement one.

T: Noted. But I’d like to talk to you about this particular case.

FLG2: Proceed.

T: One of our clients is a well known social media influencer. He has over 2 million followers when you add up Tik Tok, Instagram and YouTube.

FLG2: Tell me about the client first.

T: White male. Early 20s. Massive problem with marijuana, alcohol and ADHD medications. No drivers license. No job. On probation.

FLG2: Before he came to your program, where did he live?

T: Friends. An on and off again girlfriend. A lot of hotels and AirBnbs.

FLG2: Got it. Ok. What is the theme of his influencing?

T: This is going to make you nuts.

FLG2: I’m prepared.

T: You’re not.

FLG2: Ha. Just tell me.

T: He posts on health and wellness.

FLG2: Get the fuck out of here. (pause). Hahahahaha. Of course. What a world we live in. Does he actually make money from this?

T: Yes. Over a hundred thousand dollars already this year.

FLG2: But he has nothing to show for the money.

T: Nothing. All on drugs and events and travel. He has no savings.

FLG2: I assume he hasn’t paid his taxes.

T: Wow. I hadn’t even thought about that.

FLG2: Something to address down the road.

T: What do we do in the meantime?

FLG2: Is he still making health and wellness TikToks while in treatment?

T: Yes.

FLG2: Jesus.

T: One of the staff members brought it to me. They were particularly galled by the comments of his followers.

FLG2: Tell me.

T: “You are so smart. You are so wise. Your message is so powerful. You’ve changed my life. I want to be just like you. How did you figure everything out so early?”

FLG2: Jesus Christ. Brutal. (pause, thinking). Don’t do anything about it right now.

T: Really?

FLG2: It’s not our job to police the internet. It’s not our job to reveal all the frauds and phonies and terrible advice that is ubiquitous now. Even if we wanted to, we couldn’t.

T: But it’s not sober behavior. And he’s used his income to fund his drug use.

FLG2: I know. But he has to come to that conclusion. You can’t force him. Think about it. If you make $150K a year making three videos a week and then you are told you have to stop it or you’ll get kicked out of a treatment program, which would you pick?

T: I see your point, but I don’t like it.

FLG2: I don’t like it either. (pause). This is so much of what I do in public policy and business consulting.

________

There has been long history of anti-intellectualism in the United States*. In the last 10 years, we’ve seen a stunning rejection of expertise. People have their own facts, they claim to do their own research. I am absolutely appalled by the financial, romantic, social, political and health advice that people get online. Youth, looks, a catchy musical clip and horrendous advice combined into a 20 second video is the new God of the 2020s. I have mixed thoughts and feelings about it, but ultimately, I believe that people are free to watch stupid shit and make terrible decisions. Caveat emptor, indeed.

________

* Anti-intellectualism is hostility to and mistrust of intellect, intellectuals, and intellectualism, commonly expressed as deprecation of education and philosophy and the dismissal of art, literature, and science as impractical, politically motivated, and even contemptible human pursuits. (Wikipedia)

by Briana Borges

I now fully understand the phrase ”Fuck Cancer”

I was on the fence about doing this assignment due to it hitting home pretty hard. I laughed to myself in class when I read the bottom of the screen: “Only do this if you accept the fact that it may bring up a number of difficult thoughts and emotions.” I’ve fabricated quite a few stories in my lifetime for the sake of an assignment but I told myself I would actually put some blood, sweat, and tears into this journal. I thought about only grazing the surface of my grief but it would be an injustice to not at least attempt to write about what I experienced this past July.

I have quite a complicated relationship with death, which is awfully rooted in denial. I often wonder whether it’s due to being exposed to it so early in my childhood. It seemed to constantly surround me as my loved ones were forced to mourn time and time again. Life-long family friends, grandparents, former teachers, distant relatives…the list goes on. Cause of death ranges from breast cancer to multiple gunshot wounds. Honorable mention to my father’s brother, Nelson, who overdosed and was discovered on my 18th birthday. I was notified just as I was about to blow out my candles. Each death I was hit with stung but none of them ever really broke me. I hadn’t experienced the kind of loss you see someone choke up on decades later. 

They found a mass on my uncle’s liver in late November 2021. I was sitting at my dining room table when the news was mistakenly delivered to me. I drove to therapy in complete silence that day. In the following months, the updates gradually slowed as his health declined. At the time I didn’t know it but the diagnosis was a ticking time bomb, the tumor violently spreading to the rest of his organs. I could not live with myself if I didn’t visit him like I had promised, so I left for Brazil with my mom on June 4th, 2022.

 I melted into the pure skin and bones that lay quietly on the mattress before me. I held back my tears. He could barely stand up on his own. His beautiful brown eyes, once full of life, were now sunken and distant. After everyone fell asleep that night, I sat on the cold kitchen tile, facing the reality of the disease that was swallowing him whole. I stared into the complete darkness, pleading with a God I hadn’t spoken to in years. The grandfather clock on the wall seemed to sync up with my heartbeat. I spent the entire month of June soaking in every last possible second I had with my uncle. I laid with him for hours, gently tracing all the new wrinkles on his hand. I caressed his arm which was now thinner than mine. We didn’t need to speak. I spoon fed him on bad days, even though I knew the food wouldn’t stay down for long. I made sure he was comfortable, always placing the small purple pillow between his knees and evening out the one underneath his neck. Occasionally he would catch a glimpse of a tear streaming down my cheek and ask me why. He would apologize for not being able to “play with me” or take me on motorcycle rides like we used to. I assured him he would soon get better and we would do it all. Together, we clung onto these empty promises, finding solace in the future that would forever be out of our reach. 

Crowds of people came to visit daily. My uncle was so loved to the point where it was almost annoying. Neighbors, friends, guards who worked at the prison across the street, priests. Each and every person had their own ridiculous stories to tell, and would stay for hours at a time. It was my mother and I’s duty to keep them entertained as my uncle retreated back into his room. His friends became one of the few things I looked forward to. I grew fond of these strangers who cared so deeply for my loved one. They kept his spirit alive.

 Two weeks into our stay, my mother went to a doctor’s appointment with my aunt and discovered that the entire time my uncle had not been undergoing chemotherapy to shrink the tumor but merely palliative care to help with the pain. On top of that, his cancer had spread from his liver to his bones. This was not to be shared with anyone, especially my uncle. The document that contained his diagnoses was carefully stashed away somewhere in the house. With no formal education and limited medical knowledge, he was entirely reliant on my aunt. She shielded him from the harsh reality, carefully withholding the extent of his illness. I felt trapped in this facade, with no choice but to play along. I’m still not entirely sure whether my aunt was truly unaware of the severity of his disease or if she was in complete denial. Either way, things couldn’t have been worse.  

Less than eight months after being diagnosed, he was already unrecognizable. His distended abdomen, swollen limbs, and gaunt face were all undeniable indicators that his body was failing him. As his condition worsened, doctors were removing over 15 liters from his abdomen weekly. He could no longer sit up or walk, his legs far too weak to bear the weight of his own body. He began isolating himself, spending a majority of his time in his bedroom away from any guests. He didn’t want to watch soccer games anymore or look at old photographs. Our laughs and singing were replaced with a heavy, uncomfortable silence. Deeply embedded in this uncomfortable silence was an unspoken understanding. I was glued to his side from morning until night. 

Even in the midst of it all I was able to convince myself wholeheartedly that he would make it out unscathed. This delusion dampened the desperation, which allowed me to care for him as I watched him slowly slip away. I continued to compartmentalize, shoving the pain down as far as it would go with no intention of it coming up anytime soon. To no one’s surprise, my coping strategies were doing far more harm than good. My mother was the first to notice the physical toll the situation was taking on my body. My jeans were practically falling off from all the weight I dropped, almost 10 pounds in less than three weeks. A direct consequence of the lack of sleep, isolation, and non-existent appetite. Initially, I was given the opportunity to stay until the end or leave before things progressively got worse. My choice to stay was overruled by my mother’s concern. She lay by my side that night, heartbroken by her own decision. 

The very next day, I packed my things and prepared for the five hour drive to the airport. I spent the entire afternoon laying with my uncle in silence. I hugged him one last time. We agreed we would see each other again.

The man next to me took advantage of the free alcohol and drunkenly talked practically the entire nine hours of the trip. I kept my legs tightly crossed and glued my body to the cold, plastic wall of the plane. I arrived in EWR after two days of travel, unbelievably exhausted. For the first few days of being home, I tried to keep myself busy. I took apart my closet, violently scrubbed my kitchen cabinets, and for the first time ever pulled weeds out of the front yard. I called every night to check in. One day, when my aunt passed the phone over to my uncle, he could no longer remember me. A few days later, he was taken into the emergency room and slipped into a deep coma. He remained in this vegetative state for a number of days and began having seizures. 

It was July 12th when they broke the news that he had finally died. I remember it being one of the few days where I was able to refrain from thinking about it all. So much so that the contents of the phone call caught me by complete surprise. My cousin’s fiance drove us home from the beach and dropped me off. I assured her I was fine.

 I took a long shower and quietly crawled into bed. My house was empty, with all of my family out of the country and now focused on the funeral. For four days and four nights, I lay very still in the darkness of my mother’s room. My best friend would come over at night and leave in the morning for work. Upon her return, she would often discover that I had not moved an inch. Although we exchanged very few words, her presence was my only sense of comfort. Some relatives came by, with nothing to offer but cliches and cold hugs. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still harbor anger for their actions during this time. Although grieving a death of this magnitude alone was excruciating, I preferred isolation over their obligatory visits.

I haunted the hallways of my home, suffocated by the few remaining memories my body failed to repress. Around a week or so after his death, my family returned. Hugs were exchanged and life went back to normal. I seemed to be the only one stuck in my own emotional abyss. I have little recollection but by this point it must’ve been the end of July. 

I wore my grief like a cloak, my body standing no chance against the unbearable weight settling over my shoulders. I felt like you could smell death on me from miles away. There was a thick, unforgiving fog constantly surrounding me. There was no clear sense of direction or purpose. I went searching for distractions of any kind. During the day, I wanted to be anywhere but home. On weekends, I buried myself in nights out, falling asleep on couches and bathroom floors. I lashed out and cut communication with a few family members. I continued to isolate and compartmentalize but the more I ran, the more the feelings seemed to follow.  My only true saving grace during this time was therapy. Twice a week, without fail, successfully moved me away from denial and closer towards acceptance. I brought my daily habits back, like walking and writing. I look back and laugh now but I spent a lot of time speaking aloud to God and my uncle and whomever else may have been watching over me. Who knows if they were even listening. Little by little, the once unbearable weight had begun lifting off my shoulders.

I still have difficulty accepting the reality that I will never see my uncle again. There are days where I choose my words very carefully when speaking about his death, so as to not shock my own system. A majority of the pain lies in forgetting his face, his laugh, and his touch. I can wholeheartedly say I am eternally grateful for this journal as it forced me to acknowledge the pain I had almost completely detached from. Although my grief still weighs heavy on my heart, I now wear it with pride. It is a constant reminder of the unconditional love I have for my uncle, and serves as a powerful testimony to my ability to overcome even the darkest of days.

I’m sure one day we’ll meet again.

_____________________

Briana is a dedicated professional from Union County. She will graduate with her MSW from Rutgers in 2024. She serves as an intern at Prevention Links at the Raymond Lesniak Recovery High School. Her role involves providing counseling, advocating for resources, and creating a nurturing environment for the students. Briana’s experiences have equipped her with the knowledge and skills necessary to make a meaningful difference in the lives of the youth she serves.

---

Someone reached out to me on Facebook last month and asked if I had retired. “What gave you that idea?” I responded. She remarked that she couldn’t understand how I could be still working if I was hiking so much around the world. “Well, first off, I don’t have kids. What’s that joke? If you have a shit job but no kids, you are rich. If you have a high paying job but you have kids, you’re poor. Ha. But no, I’m not retired. I just figured out what pays the most in 21st century America.”

“What’s that?”

“Politics.”

I could tell you more about the conversation, about how she was upset that I was working for both Republicans and Democrats. And how I responded that it would be stupid to cut off half my potential clients. I could spell out exactly how she questioned my principles and how she was outraged when I asked her what country she lives in. But I think you get the point. So I’m just going to share with you a snippet of a conversation that occurred in a Southern Republican Governor’s Mansion from late January after I had completed my Winter 46 in the Adirondacks. I’ll put it in the form of a play. I am the consultant (TC). The Governor is (GOV). Bob (B) is the Governor’s chief of staff and Kate (K) is my assistant.

GOV: Thanks for coming down.

TC: Well the check was convincing.

GOV: Ha. How was your flight?

TC: Terrible. We had to connect in Atlanta.

GOV: Sorry.

TC: Not your fault. But if you get elected, you’ve got to make it so people can get a direct flight from New Jersey to your state capitol. You know, everyone agrees that if you can’t fly somewhere directly from Newark, it’s not a serious place.

B: (stepping in to break the tension) Ahem. We really do appreciate you coming down here. And you are right…there should be a direct flight from both New York and DC to the capitol. Something for us to work on with the airlines.

K: (jumping in) Just give them a tax break. They’ll do whatever you ask.

GOV: (smiles, looks to Bob) See, this why we brought them down.

B: Can you tell us about some of your policy plans that can up the Governor’s profile?

TC: Of course. There are three things that you can start doing in your state today. Job creation through international prisons. Freedom and child protection through guns in schools. Cost savings by cutting lazy public workers’ salaries, benefits and pensions. All three of these will put you at the center of the political world. Republican votes will love it, liberal pansies will hate it, and everyone fucking cable news channel will talk about it. Win, win, win.

B: Interesting. Let’s start with international prisons.

TC: As you are painfully aware, two of the federal prisons in your state closed because of the Obama administration.

K (sees GOV and B shift uneasily and jumps in): We know that Obama’s soft criminal justice policies caused the economic meltdowns in both Madison and Springfield. Frank is suggesting that you reopen those prisons immediately.

GOV: How would we do that?

TC: Who does prisons better than the United States? (pause). No one. We’re the best. And I have to say, your state has an amazing track record when it comes to incarcerating her citizens. Now we have these empty prisons and all of these highly skilled correction officers out of work. What I suggest is that we let the world know that they can send their prisoners here. To your state. You’ll house them, feed them, cloth them and put them to work.

K: For the more repressive states, we’ll play down the “house them and feed them” parts and play up the “punishment” parts.

TC: That was Kate’s insight. She’s very smart.

GOV: (smiling) Clearly.

TC: Obviously some countries are richer than others. But everyone has to pay the same rate.

B: (getting in the mood) After all, we aren’t fucking communists.

TC: Exactly Bob, exactly. We aren’t fucking communists. So the countries that can’t pay as much need to pony up some political support for you Greg.

GOV: What does that look like?

TC: Ha. I don’t know. But think of it like “The Godfather.” Some day you may need a favor, and that day may never come, but if it does, Cambodia needs to step the fuck up.

GOV: Fantastic.

TC: Anyway, you’ll get paid for every prisoner, get some political support and you’ll immediately create 2500 jobs in Madison and Springfield. You’ll bring those towns back. Obama destroyed those towns. You Greg, fucking saved them.

K: And once you do it here, if you are elected President, you could do it in other states.

GOV: Jesus. We don’t need to hear anymore. You’re hired. When can you come aboard?

TC: Greg. Thank you. (puts his hands in prayer). Thank you. But I really want to talk to you about the other two proposals. Remember, this is a three part plan.

GOV: (giddy, like a child) Ok, ok.

TC: There are so many school shootings. Kids dying everywhere. Those pussies in Texas just sat there as kids got murdered. The DC politicians do nothing. Bush did nothing. Obama did nothing. Trump did nothing. Biden has done nothing. You can solve it. Do you want to solve it Greg?

GOV: I do, I really do.

TC: Does he want to solve it Bob?

B: He does, he really does.

TC: Kate?

K: Thanks Frank. You are going to arm the children.

B: What?!?

GOV: Hold on Bob, let her speak.

K: Boys in first grade up can carry rifles. Boys in fifth grade can carry handguns. Girls in fifth grade get rifles and girls in eighth grade can have handguns.

GOV: (looking at the TC) Why do boys get guns earlier than girls?

TC: Kate?

K: (not missing beat) Females are too emotional.

B: Wait a second. Why are we doing this?

TC: To stop school shootings Bob.

B: Well, excuse me for asking, but what happens if a kid shoots another kid. The Governor will be flayed.

TC: Bob, you are sounding very weak on the 2nd Amendment right now. Are we going to be able to keep you on? (the Governor and Kate both look at him)

B: (stuttering) Well, what happens if a kid shoots someone who isn’t a school shooter? Are we going to punish the kids?

TC: Well, no. We aren’t going to punish children. Jesus, Greg, what is with this guy? The kids will be put on a 30 day gun time out. And then they’ll have to do some remedial training.

K: We’ll punish their parents for not teaching them proper restraint. Some of them will need to go to prison, which will help us reopen the state prison that closed in Bakersville last year.

TC: Look Greg, I know this one is controversial, but it is going to make Twitter explode. You are going to be on the cover of Time.

K: (stands up and takes a fake issue of Time with the Governor on the cover) “The Most Dangerous Man in America or The Next President.”

TC: And when people ask that, you know what you fucking say Greg?

GOV: No, what do I say?

TC: Both. “I’m the most dangerous fucking man in America and the next President.”

B: I don’t know….

GOV: Not another word Bob.

TC: Last one. We’re going to cut teachers salaries and pensions immediately.

GOV: Their unions won’t go for it.

TC: Those liberal teachers unions? Who only back Democrats? Who cares? You put it on a ballot.

K: A special referendum. So important it is held next month. This won’t give them a chance to organize or get their messaging out. Meanwhile, you just play up how the teachers groom kids to become bi-sexual, make them read books that put down white people and basically don’t teach them anything. Bob, you have kids. What did your kids learn on Zoom during COVID?

B: (happy to be included again) Not much.

K: (saying it slowly) Not much. Exactly Bob. So, Governor, what are these teachers actually doing?

GOV: I don’t know.

K: Exactly. And we don’t pay for I don’t know. So we’ll leave it up to the voters to cut their pay.

B: How will we attract new teachers if their pay is low and they have no pensions?

K: We’ll offer them free iPhones and super strong cannabis.

GOV: Do you think they’ll go for that?

K: Generation Z is incredibly stupid. They’ll do almost anything for weed and iPhones.

TC: But we aren’t only going to cut teacher’s salaries. We are going to cut law enforcement salaries and their pensions too.

GOV: Our voters love the police. They won’t go for it.

TC: Well, that’s why we aren’t going to put it to a vote. We’ll let the cops do it to themselves.

B: How?

TC: The older cops will vote for lower salaries and pension reform, we don’t call it elimination, we call it reform. Anyway, the older cops will push it through if we give them a little bonus and a few extra days off.

GOV: Won’t it seem like we are buying them off?

TC: Greg, don’t be so naive. With all the budget cuts in the newspapers down here, there are no state house reporters to be found. You’ll let the older cops know about the bonus and time off through back channels. The public will never hear about it. All they’ll know is that their genius Governor got the cops to lower their own salaries and save the tax payers a whole heap of money.

B: Amazing. I had my doubts about this, but your plan is fantastic.

K: Thank you Bob.

B: What about our rivals in the primary?

TC: Nikki Haley.

K: A woman. Ha. Republican voters aren’t electing a female President.

TC: Unless her last name is Greene. (pause, everyone nods).

GOV: Pence?

Everyone: Hahahahahaha.

Bob: DeSantis.

TC: Well, Ron has a fucking true genius on his staff. Going after children’s books and immigrants and Disney was brilliant. Kate is going to find out which staff member proposed those ideas and try to lure him into our camp.

B: What about his military service?

TC: We can beat up Ron on his military service.

K: We can plant a rumor that maybe he blew a general to get promoted. We can make it appear like it came from Trump’s team.

GOV: I don’t know if the public will go for attacking someone’s service.

TC: Greg, hello? John Kerry was destroyed for his service in Vietnam. Trump shit all over McCain’s imprisonment and the primary voters loved him for it. Fuck Ron’s service. Fuck any opponent’s military service.

B: That’s all well and good, but how do we defeat Trump in the primary?

TC: Well, it’s a longshot. If we defeat him, great. But if you lose, we’ll have drawn so much blood that he can’t win. Then you’ll be the heir apparent in 2028.

GOV: How do we bloody him up? Nothing seems to stick.

TC: Kate?

K: A vote for Trump is a vote for Biden. (silence)

B: What does that even mean?

TC: It means they are both criminals. Take every chance to tie Trump to Biden.

B: That’s crazy. Trump criticizes Biden all the time.

K: Just keep saying they are buddies. Part of the same DC cabal. “A vote for Trump is a vote for Biden.”

---

* I want to thank Jonathan Swift, Mark Twain, and Jon Stewart for the spiritual inspiration for this piece. If you haven’t figured it out yet, please check the date.

My father died a year ago today. November 19, 2021. We were snorkeling off Laughing Bird Caye National Park in Belize. He had a heart attack in the water. The guide brought him to shore. I arrived shortly after and took over CPR duties from some helpful strangers. I told him that I loved him and I wanted him to fight, but if he had to die, that I gave him permission to go. We gave him CPR on a speedboat as we motored towards the mainland. Upon our arrival, the doctor declared him dead. Within minutes, I thought about a 17 year old client who lost his State Trooper Dad to a 9/11 illness when he 12. I thought about four close friends who lost their fathers in their 20s. He was 82. I was 45. I thought about all the people I know with absent or shitty fathers. My dad was an exceptional man. Unsparing in his demands and criticisms of me growing up, for sure, but those forged me into who I am today. The last 15 years or so were spent as friends and equals; it was a wonderful relationship.

During a trip to Minnesota in the fall of 2018, I noticed my Dad was falling asleep while sitting down throughout the day. A week later, we were in DC and my uncle told him that he should see a cardiologist. My father was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. Scary, especially because his father, the original Frank Sr., had congestive heart failure and died of a heart attack in 1980. After his diagnosis, my Dad did three things that truly surprised me: he changed his diet, started to exercise regularly, and he took medication as prescribed from his doctors. That last one was a particular shock, as my Dad had polio and lived in an iron lung all throughout second grade. The doctors told him he would never walk again. He did and forever distrusted their advice afterwards, until the fall of 2018.

I sent a group text to about 15 of my friends. I told them what happened. That I had a lot to take care of, with phone calls and a police report and arranging cremation and figuring out how I would get his remains home. And that we were still on to hang out the day after I got home and what I needed most from them was not to be weird around me and, if they could, be prepared to tell me or write me stories about my Dad.

I made a bunch of phone calls within 2 hours of his death. I called his girlfriend, his brothers, my sister, and a few of his friends. I knew it was extremely important that each of them find out from a voice at the other end of a phone, rather than a text or email or newspaper clipping or social media post. Despite my sorrow, I had to deliver the news and explain what happened and let them know what he thought of them (in most cases) and what they might do to deal with their grief and remember him.

Immediately after his death and for a few weeks after, I kicked myself for taking him snorkeling. Hard. “What the fuck was the I thinking?” I’d say out loud when no one was around. The thoughts went like this, “If I hadn’t taken him snorkeling, he’d still be alive. I had caused his demise and was the source of my pain. Stupid!” But those thoughts were often counteracted with the following: “He chose to go snorkeling. It was the activity he wanted. He loved it, all his adult life. He was never one for sitting around or avoiding things because they were dangerous. I’m the same way. I’m going to drive fast and climb huge mountains right up to my end. It’s not my fault. And he wouldn’t want me to beat myself up over it. He died before his mind began to deteriorate. He died before his body failed him and robbed him of his oh so vital independence. He died in a beautiful setting doing something he loved and I was with him.” Those later thoughts won out, early and now. But, about once a month or so, I catch myself thinking about the snorkeling and curse myself and then have to walk myself out of it again. This is part of the grief process.

My grandmother died when I was 19. I spent the next six months getting drunk and high. I didn’t work much. I went to college in the fall but didn’t go to class. I didn’t exercise. In short, I didn’t do much of anything, other then get fucked up. I thought about how I wasn’t there at her end and how I was a screw up. Those constant thoughts and the ever stream of substances made the pain worse; crystallized it in amber. I got sober that winter and spent the next several years trying to process my grief. My regrets. The single best thing that came out of my grandmother’s death is that I vowed to a) not be a fuck up and b) make sure that I spent time with people that I loved and supported them in every way I could. In 2002, my friend Frazer overdosed. I was six and half years sober. I had spent the first few years of my recovery trying to get him clean. Every time he relapsed, I thought, “How could he do this to me?” and “Why can’t he just get this? He has so much going for him.” After a lot of sharing in AA meetings and therapy, I accepted that it wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t control Frazer’s addiction or manage his recovery. A little while later, I realized I was angry at him for dying. That sucked, being angry at my dead friend. Eventually, I got past that too. I decided to become a drug and alcohol counselor. To help people like Frazer. And to try to prevent their loved ones from suffering the pain that I had experienced.

My counseling career started in 2004. So many of my early clients had unresolved grief. Dead parents, dead friends, dead lovers, dead children. They had never talked about it with anyone. They lived with guilt and regret and anger and a powerful sadness. I listened to them. I got them to write about their loved one. I had them do things to honor the dead. At one point, I realized that while I had a lot of memories of Gram and Frazer, I didn’t have nearly as many as I thought I should. Immediately after their deaths, my mind was flooded with memories. Long forgotten ones. It was the emotions stirring up long dormant memories. I wish I had written them down. I told my clients to write about their loved ones for 30 days. “That shit is going to fuck me up Frank,” they usually said. “Good. It is supposed to. But let me be clear, you are going to be fucked up anyway. This gets it out. And then you can write about happy memories that make you laugh. That make you proud. We are going to work through all this guilt and regret.” And we did.

My friend Eric suddenly died in March of 2018. I was in a daze the first two weeks after he died. I could not believe it. I had a hard time sleeping. I was sad and angry and guilty and confused. A terrible place to be. I wrote about him every night at 1130 pm. For 35 days. Sometimes I wrote for 30 minutes, other times for two hours. It helped. At one point, I wrote a story that caused me to sob. Guttural cries of anguish with thick drool falling from my lips. Most stories made me laugh. I shared them on Facebook. And I emailed them to people without a Facebook account. The responses were amazing. Comforting. Reassuring. People told me that my writing helped them. And inspired some of them to write. I took the best of their stories and the best of mine and my Dad edited them and published “The Book of Eric” that fall.

So I wrote about my Dad. For somewhere between 50 and 60 days. The stories centered around my childhood and his exacting standards, my later teenage years and substance misuse and his struggles with my problem, early recovery and young adulthood and the change in our relationship, and the last fifteen years which were filled with love and laughter and adventures and fantastic advice and support. Hundreds of people read every post. People who knew him well read them. People who didn’t know him at all did too. The feedback was wonderful. Helpful. We collectively grieved, which is infinitely better than grieving in isolation.

All the previous major deaths in my life had prepared me for this one. Because of my grandmother, I spent so much time with my father over the last 25 years. Nothing was unsaid. He saw me in my full glory. Frazer’s death taught me to lean on friends and keep moving forward in life. Eric’s death proved to me the fantastical significance and power of writing.

My father’s apartment in Phillipsburg loomed large. It was crammed full of photographs and books and jam packed filing cabinets and 25 years worth of “New Yorkers.” Sorting through his stuff would be a Herculean task. I had the energy to write about my Dad and continue to work and engage in my life. I didn’t have the energy to sort through his stuff. Too time consuming, too brutal. My mom stepped up. They had been divorced 27 years at the time of his death, but they had remained friends and, sometime in the last ten years, actually became good friends. She sorted through all his things. Figured out what should be kept and what should be donated and what should be thrown out. I went by a few times with a bunch of friends to haul stuff away to be thrown out or donated. My Mom probably put in 200 hours. It is one of the very great acts of service anyone has ever done for me. I will be forever grateful to her for it.

In late January, I ran a four part grief group over eight weeks via Zoom. It was for people that I knew from childhood or Rutgers or AA or the Army or Prevention Links or some other aspect of my life. I did it as a way of honoring my Dad. An act of service. Each group lasted 90 minutes to two hours. People had to do writing for each group. We read and laughed and cried and supported each other.

In late February, I returned to Belize to collect my father’s ashes. There are only three doctors in the entire country that can perform an autopsy – it took three weeks before his was completed. I couldn’t wait in Belize that long, so I returned to NJ. The US Embassy helped me locate a funeral home and I had his body cremated. Both the funeral home and the Embassy offered to ship the ashes to NJ via Fed Ex, but I said to hell with that (one of my Dad’s lines). I would not risk his ashes getting lost. Getting to Belize was quite the journey. My plane sat on the tarmac for three hours. The custom line was two hours long. I called the car rental company and begged them to stay open and then I called the funeral home to see if they would allow me to come by late at night to collect my father. It all worked out. While in Belize, I rewatched “Lonesome Dove,” a Western that my father introduced me to. It is the story of two old Texas Rangers and their last adventures. Gus dies in Montana and asks his friend, Call, to take his body back to Texas. “Texas? We just got here. Now you want me to bring you back to Texas.” Gus replied, “Yes, Texas!” My father had laughed at that scene every time we watched it together. I felt like Call hauling my Dad’s ashes back to NJ. While I was in Belize, I ended up taking a yoga class for five mornings in a row. It was something I had done a bit several years earlier and had meant to continue, but my crazy work schedule and then deployment and then Covid had prevented me from doing so. The result of taking yoga in Belize is now it is back in my life. Sometimes two days a week, sometimes four. I feel great. Another gift from my father.

In March, we held a memorial service at Rutgers. Dad was an atheist. I could not hold a service for him at a church. I did not want to hold one at a funeral home. It was too cold to hold one outside, and I did not want to wait for spring. Dad was a professor at Minnesota and Colorado. He was a lifelong learner and teacher. Rutgers published his first book. Rutgers is my true home. Dean Lea Stewart secured the space for the service at the Art History building. Perfect. It was a four hour ceremony. There were daffodils. About a dozen people spoke. I read a few different stories between each speaker. I cried. I laughed. I exuded pride and gratitude. My Mom gave a performance for the ages, telling the story of his childhood and work life and how he was more loving to his girlfriends than he was to her, but it was ok, as she was happy he continued to evolve.

Throughout the spring and summer and fall, I thought about my father the most while biking. We took a lot of rides together on the D&R canal; sometimes in Phillipsburg, but usually outside of New Brunswick. Dad biked a lot, especially after his diagnosis. The one constant thought that comes to me while biking is this: “my father loved how I lived my life.” That’s incredibly comforting.

I also think about him when I am driving at night. I drive a lot. At least once a month to Albany for work, and more often for some long ass hike in the Catskills or Adirondacks or White Mountains. I used to call my Dad when I was driving late at night. Catch up on his activities, my work, the Vikings, and the latest American political shit show. He gave calming advice. I miss those late night talks the most, I think.

In the late summer, I had his tombstone made. I put a lot of thought into it. I wanted to capture his various roles and activities. And I wanted strangers to wander past it in the distant future and both wonder and laugh. To borrow from George W. Bush, Mission Accomplished, but for real.

In early November, Andrew Tortora, my college roommate of seven years, came by my house to “cut my father’s ashes like a brick of cocaine.” Andrew is not a drug dealer, but rather a gourmet chef and scientist. He makes OCD right corners and had the neatest notes in college I have ever seen. He brought a little scale and weighed out my father’s ashes. We put exactly half in a box that will go in a grave in Oldwick, NJ. The rest we divided up into several bags that I plan on scattering in places of vital importance. I said it then and I’ll say it again here, get yourself a friend that will cut up your father’s ashes without question or pause.

I’ve spent the last week in Arizona. On Veterans Day weekend, I hiked the Grand Canyon rim to rim to rim with some boon companions. I spread my father’s ashes in three different places: Coconino Overlook, just below the North Rim, on the banks of the Colorado River in the moonlight, and at Plateau Point at sunrise. I like the spots so much that I want some of my own ashes scattered there some day. Scattering his ashes was not a sad affair; it was imbued with love and respect and honor and devotion.

So here I am, here we are, one year later. For sure, I miss my Dad. But I never fell apart. Because I did the work. I wrote about him, talked about him, listened to stories about him, kept working, spent time with family and friends, exercised, and kept doing things I like doing (I hiked and biked and took yoga classes more than any other year and attended a ton of plays and ate a lot of steak and smoked a bunch of cigars). There was always something I had to look forward to doing to honor my Dad. Purposeful grieving. Actions with meaning. This is how I got through it. And why I am thriving today. Thanks for reading. And I hope that this helps some of you with your own grief journeys some day. Peace and love and remembrance. Ever Forward!