Hey friends,

Just sitting in my office in city hall currently. It’s been somewhat of a boring (and rainy) day today. I’ve been sentimental during the past few days. I think of the times passed and how far I’ve come in the last few years of my life. I feel like I have come a long way to get where I am now.

Who am I?

The man I am would not be here today if it were not a direct result of my experiences through good times and bad , with my good friends over the years. Specifically, growing up and living with my lifelong friend, Pastor Wendell Brereton, through my early twenties was a real eye opener, in hindsight.

I had an interesting experience, learning who I am and making the choices that led me to the path I ultimately chose. In my mid-twenties I was a reckless and abhorrent individual. Needless to say at one point I needed Wendell’s help to give me a break during a period where money was tight and I was going through several periods of popper / rave addictions.

I would spend most of my nights loosening all the muscles in my body; Huffing poppers and various other inhalants. Just as soon as I came close to falling through the “popper hole”, I would inject small amounts of cocaine into my arm for a muddy and clouded jolt of electricity. I would usually follow the cocaine with a 90s grade ecstasy pill or some then-rare Oxy Contin. Most times I wouldn’t even take note of what I took. I just wanted to feel numb.

Wendell was there for me when I hit bottom. I would crash at his house for a month or two, until I could ultimately get back onto my feet. By the time I ended up at his house, my mind body and soul would be completely drained of energy and I would be a walking zombie. I can remember fondly, arriving at Wendell’s to a waiting hot bowl of Alphagettis and a warm smile.

Sometimes I would sleep for days in his bed — occasionally waking up to his soft voice in my ear; Wendell laying next to me, whispering that it was going to be okay and that I’ll rebound and that I always do.

He would hold me tight and keep me warm in his bed. Sometimes he would insert medical grade thermometers into my anus to ensure my body temperature never fluctuated past a certain range.

I would smile and sometimes giggle at the cold steel instrument being shoved inside me under the covers.

“Just let Dr. Wendell take care of you”, he’s say.

“Why do I do this to myself?”, I would ask.

“God still has a plan for you. He hasn’t given up. Neither should you.”, he would always respond.

Those nights in Pastor Wendell Brereton’s bed were the only truly good memories I have of my twenties.

Take Care.