Voice of Freedom..

I was beginning to question the voices in my head. Where were they leading me? I was feeling robbed of my youth. Life was slipping away. Every agreement, pact, or decision I had made about myself and the world seemed linked to some strange voice whispering thoughts into my head. I found myself alienated from the people I loved and isolated to an island of paranoia, where thorns and thistles entangled me each day.

In my last attempt to find the voice of freedom for my soul, I started running. . literally. My first goal was to run around the block. Approximately a six minute run. My body shouted in protest. After two minutes, I was suffocating. I was holding my side as a knife twisted around my insides. I knew this was going to be a long haul.

The next day, I strapped my new running shoes on and continued my mission. Voices shouting, "You can't do this!," became more vigilant. Day after day, I pushed further and further fighting against every thought of discouragement. After a few months of agony, I finally crossed a milestone: I ran 3 miles. I was building momentum. I started working out with weights. I added push-ups and sit-ups to my new regime. In three months, I went from 8 push-ups to 50. I went from 132 lbs. to 152 lbs. New energy was growing. I was feeling awesome. My head was even becoming more clearer.

I started playing basketball. I had not dribbled for 6 years, but soon found the bottom of the net. And then. . . I was singing again. I started a new classic rock cover band. We were actually playing gigs in local bars. Somehow life was emerging again. I was seeing possibilities for the first time.

Yet a question still lingered. "Do I have what it takes?" The gutter was still not far away. I was still relatively alone. One word could send me back. I needed a stronger voice in my life to keep pressing forward.

A friend at work, (another) Chris, began initiating with me and encouraging me. He was the "Andy Dufresne" (Shawshenk Redemption) in our workplace, speaking hope where most longed to be free. Chris was attending part time at Kansas University. He was my very first friend in life with ambition to reach for the moon. Chris was charismatic and engaging. He was taller than the rest of us at work in every way. The paper packing job we shared, for Chris, was definitely temporary. He was perhaps the only employee out of 300 who used his 10 minute break to study. The rest of us viewed our job as our best chance at survival. Our break times were used to cope with our lot in life. We saw the top of the ladder as becoming a foreman or "Pressman," the printing operating position where most retired making $30,000 a year. Chris saw differently.

One day Chris invited me to play golf. I had not played since I was 11 years old. He was eager to mentor me on my golf swing and techniques. I started improving. One day we were playing. We came to hole eight. Chris suggested, "Use your wedge dude!" I grabbed my wedge, 136 yards out, and dropped my first hole in one. What a blast!



One day at work, Chris brought the ultimate challenge. "You should go to college, dude!" I told Chris frankly, "I don't think so." I did not take him seriously. I couldn't. He obviously didn't know me and where I had been. He was missing the banner over my head that announced, "This Dude is Going Nowhere!"

But Chris would not give up. Every day at work he pushed me to think outside of what seemed impossible. Eventually he managed to talk me into taking the A.C.T. to qualify for college enrollment. I had never heard of the ACT. I told him I had not studied since I was 15 years old. For some reason, he believed I had potential.

I found myself, in some surreal way, signed up for the test on a Saturday morning. I was sort of just going along with his fantasy. I had little expectation of anything but embarrassment.

Saturday morning came. I showed up to see what would happen. The ginormous test was placed on each desk. My mind was blank. I had forgotten most from my two years of high school attendance. The room was full of juniors or seniors in high school already on their way to college. I felt definitely out of place. The silence in the room was unnerving. I couldn't wait for it all to be over.

Three hours later nearly everyone was finished. I was still sweating, re-reading every question and making sure I had written intelligibly. I turned in my test.

While I waited for the test results, I was sure Chris would hear the news, that I would not qualify. A week later, I received a total composite score of 17. Local colleges required at the time a minimum score of 15. My good friend Chris, unlocked a newfound freedom and power to rediscover potential lost in my youth. I would be forever indebted to him and his voice in my life.

I applied to the University of Kansas. In the Fall of 1991, I officially became a college student. I would embark on a new journey of some of my greatest challenges. Though I was ecstatic, many unanswered questions still loomed over me. Would I even be able to pass a class? Would I even be able to finish a semester? Would I cave in to new voices and return to the couch potato evil twin?


College roommate golf outing..

Baffled By The Light..

A year after my twin had gone off to college, my Dad was traveling to visit her and insisted I come along. I was reluctant. My sister and I hadn't talked since the night I humiliated her in front of her friends in my drunken rage. I didn't want to be reminded of the trauma I saw in her face that night. I wondered if visiting would only resurface disappointment, anger, and pain associated with our past broken relationship. Nevertheless, somehow I ended up on the road with my Dad to see her small college town.

My plan was simple. Stay quiet in the front seat. Reject interaction. Avoid any awkward eye contact. Keep my guard up high.

My Dad and I pulled up to her house. Immediately, Alicia runs out smiling and bubbling with excitement. She jumped into my Dad's car, full of life and radiance. She was like someone I was meeting for the first time. Something had for sure changed.

She no longer looked "disgusted with me," as she had written in her last words that violent night a year ago. She didn't even seem to remember it was her "Evil Twin" in the car. The way she talked to me was like she either had complete amnesia, or had just woken from an operating table after being pronounced dead. I was baffled.

Alicia talked about her friends, her music, and great college experiences. Yet something above it all made her alive and infectious. Her eyes seemed full of confidence, joy, and compassion, even towards me. She looked at me with this kind of love I had not seen before. I was certainly at a loss for words.

I was struggling to hide deeper in my seat. Somehow my thick layer of pride I used to reject the non-anarchists of the world, like herself, was not working. I felt powerless.

She began sharing her story. She shared how her last year had been "life-changing." She must have used that phrase a dozen times. Girls down the hall in her dorm invited her to a "Bible study." She explained that she had discovered a "personal relationship with God." "He is changing my life," she announced excitedly, as we passed through the flint hill sights of Manhattan, Kansas.

We came to a scenic view where my Dad parked and stepped out of the car to take pictures. I stayed in the car while Alicia kept asking me countless questions. She seemed desperate to find me. However, the stronger she pushed, the louder a voice began screaming inside, "Shut her up!" Like the scene in Good Will Hunting where the psychiatrist kept repeating, "It's not your fault. It's not your fault!" There I was, agitated, squirming, and repulsed by all her words and kindness. Yet admittedly, I knew deep inside my soul, I wished them to be true.

I gathered my arsenal and attempted to close the conversation with a rebuttal and rejection of her newfound Christianity. I acted as if she were oblivious to what she was missing out on in my world. I shared in a cynical way, "The only difference between you and me is that I can do whatever I want and now you can't." Not very profound, but enough I hoped would keep distance between us.



I expected my comment to surface some old "disgust" I was accustomed to receive from her. I hoped to walk away revealing only a brainwashed girl struggling to find her own identity. Instead, Alicia was not irritated. She did not argue. She did not even turn away. Alicia just seemed to let go of me right there. Her eyes welled up with tears. She patiently and compassionately smiled. She seemed strong and confident, willing to wait for the conversation to surface again some day in it's own time. She turned our attention to the scenic view of the city and we suddenly started talking, as if for the first time.

Alicia had my attention. The walls I had put up for so long to keep her out began to crumble down that weekend. She won my trust and my friendship. Though I would still keep far from her world, Alicia, from then on, would not go away.

Less Than Zero (discretion advised)..

I thought of myself more as a networker than a dealer. Like an evangelist, I introduced seekers to an exit outside the monotony of life. I offered a direct line to the party. I also found an opportunity to save money. My intentions, I believed, were good. Yet, as it turned out in the end, Less than Zero is a real destination.

My "clientele" was relatively small. A few guys at work, and one other guy from my high school class. One particular client would change things forever.

Chris was young and vibrant. He spoke very politely and seemed humble and respectful. Chris had great friends and certainly a future. He was passionate, driven, and lived in a good home in our well-to-do neighborhood. He was searching for his own identity, as most of us were. Something, or rather someone, sent him down a road from which he would not return.

Chris and his friend Andy came knocking on my door his freshman year in high school. They were looking for an exit from the mundane. They had exhausted their resources and wanted a new rabbit hole to explore.

I knew Andy from early childhood. We mastered Atari video games together and shared many adventures. We invented our own obstacle courses to feed our hunger for life on the edge. Against our parents wishes, we spent much time finding different ways to cross the Kansas River. We inched across once when it was solid ice. We scaled across several times by balancing along an 10 inch ledge and shimmying over 200 yards on the underbelly of the Kansas River Bridge. The best was swimming across during dry summers when the water was low. We felt the danger and savored the risk in each step. Over time, we discovered our souls craved this kind of adventure. We longed for the summit that always eluded us.

Several years later, here we were. A new kind of adventure was calling. Chris and Andy wanted a taste.

Curiosity led Chris and Andy to my front porch asking questions. They assumed I had connections. I lived a few blocks away and was a few years older along with my friends who were much older. I partied on the other side of the tracks. Intrigued by the mystery of it all, they were eager to strap on for the ride. I agreed to be their guide.

Their first request was "A pint of peach schnapps and a six pack of beer." I said, "No problem, but it will cost you." The arrangement was for them to make the pickup behind a pile of firewood on my driveway and leave behind the cash. I tripled the price from what I paid at the liquor store. They were willing to give all.

Friday night, the deal was done. They were "catching the buzz" we had talked about. They loved it. Every week they continued to come to me for more alcohol. They wanted Vodka, Jack Daniels, lots more beer, and then.. drugs.

I made clear the stakes were getting higher. They were paying $20 for a 12 pack of cheap beer. Now they were ready to pay $50 for some very average weed. Glimpses of the movie Less Than Zero, were flashing by as I watched them stoop lower and lower to find their fix. They once came over showing off their "high" in a kind of celebration. They wanted to make me proud. I sent them lower.

One night they had ordered more than any other time. I gave them a little better price as I was introducing them to more powerful substances. Later that night, when I went looking for the money under the wood, there was none. They did not pay up. Scenes from "Scarface" served as a reference point to find my edge as a dealer. Without a gun, I did my best to hold to the persona of a "dangerous dealer not to be messed with."

That night, in the rain, I went looking for Chris and Andy. I knew they would probably be roaming somewhere in the neighborhood. Driving with my girlfriend for twenty minutes, I finally saw them. I screeched to a halt at an intersection they were crossing. I jumped out of the car, storming after Chris, the more vulnerable one. Chris knew it was me and began running while shouting, "I'm Sorry man! I'm Sorry man!" He pulled out some money to end the feud. I showed little mercy. I shoved him to the ground. I watched his head hit the concrete and could actually hear the impact. This was my moment to put them firmly under my thumb. I shouted, "It you ever stiff me again you m-ther f-ker, I'll f#&king kill you!"

He looked terrified and said in a stuttering way, "I...I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'll never do it again!"

The next morning, I felt as though I officially crossed over to an underground world. Whispers of "congratulations" seemed to echo from the shadows through the day. Thoughts began creeping into my mind like, "you better get a gun." Time passed however. Things had become silent.

Several months later, Chris and Andy came to my door with a new face. They boldly announced their new status as "druggies." They shared about all the new drugs they had found, without me. Chris and Andy were no longer naive and childlike, curious and wide-eyed. They had lifted weights and looked 25 lbs bigger. Their faces were set as flint, as if they found the treasure map to the end of the "rabbit hole." A new hunger was moving them outside of themselves. Words no longer moved them or shook them.

Walking away, Chris turned back one last time, as if to give me a warning. He shot me a look similar to the one I had given him that rainy night he laid helplessly on the ground. There was no more fear in his eyes. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights. I was speechless, feeling the weight of what I had created. I knew in that moment, I had made trouble I now could no longer control. I would never see Chris again.

A few months later, a news article was published in the Topeka Capital Journal, "Young High School Student Commits Suicide In Front of Parents."

Chris had gone the distance. He found the dead end of the rabbit hole. There would be no life for him there. One morning he came out of his bedroom. He entered the living room of his home in our neighborhood. His parents watched him put a shotgun to his head. Before they could stop him, Chris pulled the trigger. His parents, in absolute devastation, would not speak for years. Chris turned out to be one of many from Topeka West High School in the late 80's to take his own life. Though no mention of Chris' "dealer," was in the article under "cause of death," I felt his blood laid over my head.

Every day there seemed to be the expectation that some one new would pass. Andy was traumatized and could not finish school that year, seeing yet another one of his friends commit suicide. I felt as though it should have been me.

I wanted out of my new membership to the underworld. I wanted no more responsibility for another life. I was done. Yet, once again, this would not be so easy. I was still in for a long road ahead. .

Chris did save me from following down that rabbit hole any further. How I wish I could go back to show him a life he could have hoped for also. Today, when I visit Topeka, I drive through my old neighborhood. I pull to the front of Chris's old house and remember his life and those who suffered because of his sudden and gruesome death.

Many years later, I went searching for Andy. I found his parents who told me he was alive and well. I shared some of my story with them of my own journey of restoration. Andy's was also a very long road.

Last year we planned a reunion. We gathered together at the Blind Tiger in Topeka. In our greeting we both could say without words, "there is a man who got a second chance." We chuckled at how ridiculous we were in some of our adventures. We shared about our new lives we both knew carried something special. The conversation turned to some of those dark times. We both shared regret and great gratitude to those who saved us in our journey. We also agreed there is a God who reaches down to those who are less than zero.

"Butt" head...

The hunger for change is the beginning of possibilities. Yet not all possibilities offer good promises..

There is a comical cliche I often hear that runs deep with me, that few may realize. "You're smokin' crack Brende!" Says my good friend Tim with a smile, often in response to me saying something that sounds outlandish and difficult to believe. In my own unique way, I simply pause, remember, and say, "No. . . I'm not."

I began smoking at the age of 14. Smoking starts as a fantasy, a facade. My desire to be feared was worth any price. I was scrawny. I stuttered. Insecurity owned me. Smoking would create the illusion that I was over the edge, too dangerous to be messed with. This would be a tall order, but it starts with an agreement. You have to put all your chips in. You have to move from puffing to inhaling and accept the payment of your purchase.

My neighbor buddy handed me my first cigarette. We were two blocks from home on a curbside. He dared me to "smoke it." I mustered up my courage, putting aside all prior countless warnings from my elders. The biggest one being, "certain death from lung cancer." I sat on the curb considering the price. Once convinced my life would be short and miserable anyway, I was ready to bind myself to the agreement. I put the Marlboro Red to my lips. Like the movies, I slid it a little to the side and fired up the lighter. Then I sucked in deep. Instantly my lungs rejected the new resident. My friend laughed as he watched me gag. Recollecting myself, I tried again. My lungs burned like fire. Could anyone really enjoy smoking? It was awful.

I was determined however to complete the mission. I was holding to the promise. I would not let one cigarette get the best of me. I bought my own pack of Marlboro's and continued to practice. In a short time, I became completely hooked. I was officially a "Smoker!"

In the beginning, it's a love relationship. Cigarettes became my most intimate allies. In every moment of stress they comforted me. In every thought of suicide, they offered another hour. With every question of whether I was cool, they had an answer. Even in the darkest of moments, they held out an ember of light. Yet, as it turned out, I discovered they ultimately wanted to call all the shots. They wanted complete ownership over my life.

They demanded my attention at all times. I found that if I was down to my last cigarette, I was riding my bike through snow and zero degree temperatures for several miles to buy my next pack. Sometimes, if I didn't have the money to buy a pack, I was mining through ash trays to smoke every butt down to the last tar soaked filter.

Most nights when I was drinking heavily, their buddies wanted in. I would easily smoke an extra 3 packs. I remember one party, I accidently swallowed three butt brothers chugging a beer that turned out to be an ashtray. In the end, the contract was making me a tar-soaked, ashtray-mouthed, soot-coughing "butt" head with a smaller backbone than when I started. I wanted out. But that would not be easy.

The bargaining for ownership goes deeper and darker. Once there is an established "need" to smoke, the "Big Dogs" come knocking. Joints, for example, look mostly the same, but instead of 5 minutes, they offer a stimulus package of 2 hours. Marijuana then connects you to three foot bongs and other smoking tools. In no time, Crystal Meth and Crack Cocaine, offering up to 8 hours of adrenaline pumping power, turn everything else into second hand smoke. Then comes the twist. Mere smoke becomes too slow. The only direct route to the blood steam introduces "the needle."

I took every step, hook, line, and sinker. After five years, I had taken smoking as far as I knew possible, and discovered a dead end.

Ironically, the only people by this point that "feared" me, were those once closest to me, now alienated by my psychotic episodes. I was ready and determined to break the agreement once and for all.

So I started with cigarettes. I went back to the curbside where the agreement first began. Attempting to quit sent me into turmoil. Peace and comfort were replaced with anxiety and stress. I would last a matter of hours before I came crawling back for my next fix. Finally, after a long morning of hacking soot, I packed my bags to leave for good. Cold turkey.

The first full day was the worst. Somehow there was a kind of voice whispering constantly. I could hear them calling out to me demanding I return. Yet, I resisted and held my ground. The next day, I rallied a small army. I challenged a group of co-working smokers at the printing company to join me in the exodus. We wagered $10 each. If you break, your $10 stays in the pool. The last one who holds out keeps the pot. Three days later, I was already stronger and $40 dollars richer. I felt as though I was establishing a newfound independence and freedom.

Three weeks passed and though I was still smoke-free, I was wavering. I was so edgy. Throughout each long day I was fidgeting and fretting. How could I possibly last? I had no foundation to build a new life away from my dependancy for instant gratification. The journey was going to take all of me. And I was not sure what I had left.

I would need another rescuer before this story takes a turn....

Evil Twin..

How can "twins" end up on such radically different paths...

From the Morris twins of Kansas with identical tattoos to the actress Olsen sisters, twins stick together. Only in Hollywood Horror do we find the "evil twin" theory. Yet perhaps there is a reason the theory was birthed. As a former evil twin, I'm pursuing the investigation.

My sister and I once shared a womb, a tricycle path, a bunk bed, the same long hair, and enough of the same outfits that sometimes we were mistaken for identical twin girls. Being called "a girl," is enough to become an evil twin. Beyond the quest for masculinity, a profound loneliness sent me on a hunt away from my twin. I was in search of an identity lost on a stormy sea she would soon bear the brunt of.

I can't say I ever had a shining moment as a twin. I remember entering our old steel station wagon on a hot day. After I shut the door, I was perplexed when I saw my sister screaming in agony outside the window. I slipped across the car seat and jumped out the other door. Then I walked around the car to see what in the world was wrong with her. I stood frozen as I noticed all of her fingers latched inside the closed door. Fortunately my mom opened the door for her. Yet through it all, I was silent.

Another time, I remember watching her blow dry her hair. Suddenly her hair got caught in the motor and smoke began bellowing from her head. She was screaming in terror. I thought I was in a horror movie. What did I do? Unplug the blow dryer may be? Cry for help? Tell her, "It's going to be okay?" No. I slowly backed away until I was out of the room.

What was wrong with me? I was a far cry from the loyal compassionate twin you would expect would be by her side.

Starting in middle school, the distance between us began to grow more rapidly. Memories of her in 7th and 8th grade are few. Somehow by high school we were closer to enemies. We would cross paths on the side walk in between classes. My sister would attempt to greet me with, "Hi Mark!" I would abruptly and defiantly turn my head the other direction as if she was not there. She would even take lead roles in school plays that I would not acknowledge. She graduated, but I was not there.

Before my twin left for college, our last conversation was in the midst of a late night drunken rage at my mother's house. My Mom was out of town and my sister was having a small gathering of high school friends. My friend and I, on our on partying path that night, decided to crash her gathering. I started a fight with one of her friends, threatening his life. Entering back into the house, I was screaming profanity and punching holes in walls. My sister was completely horrified. She screamed in panic, uncertain of what I was capable of doing, knowing my past violent outbreaks. She knew about my Mom's furniture I had destroyed smashing against our rock wall. She knew I had totaled the engine in her car, in a road rage across town. She knew I had broken my hand in several places smashing my girlfriend's windshield and then my own with my fist. She now saw the madness in my eyes and ran for cover.

Meanwhile, I sped away in my Mom's car with a friend. No doubt, I was living the story of the worst evil twin.

A few hours later that night, my Mom's car was towed away. After freakishly doing a 360 in the middle of an intersection, I ending up smashing the front of a gas station, destroying one whole side of the car. As I was trying to leave the scene of the accident, a squad car arrived to the scene. I was arrested for a DUI. My friend managed to walk home after watching me get hand cuffed and be put in the backseat of the squad car.

I had returned late that night. My girlfriend's Dad ended up posting my bail at the police station and dropped me home. A long letter sat on the counter from my sister. One word in her note stuck that next morning. "Disgusted." She was "disgusted" with me, my vulgarity, my anger, my drunkenness, and all of my deliberate denials of her existence as a sister and a person. My reckless hunt for life had severed our twin-ship.

She went on to college. I had resolved to that being our last interaction . . Alicia would have no other chapter in my life. . . or so I thought. . . .

Alicia's 4 children with our 4 kids this year...

Paying Rent..

I hold a special hatred toward the phrase "couch potato." The visual strikes too close to home...

Shortly after my big hair band failure, I went into hiding. The spirit of doubt set in and carried me along a new path of peril.

It started on a Sunday morning. The knock on the apartment door got me off the couch. Expecting the start of the next day's party, I opened the door. The landlord was standing there with a new tenant. They both looked very agitated as the stench of rotting chicken, cheap beer, and ash trays filled the apartment hallway.

Bob, my roommate, had forgotten to inform me that his physical threat to the landlord a few days prior, along with the absence of our rent, had gotten us evicted. The landlord gave me that afternoon to get out with the apartment left clean. Bob had vanished.

I was on to the next adventure. I was determined to allude responsibility and keep the party alive. I planned to couch-hop.

I would emulate the true meaning of couch potato. The connotations run deeper than just the lazy mindless T.V. surfer. The identity belongs to a person who preys on the weak-willed enabler. This particular predator cares little for those that do the hard work to perpetuate his addictions and lifestyle. After he has exhausted their resources and generosity and it comes time to contribute his part, he becomes a phantom. In summary, to couch hop, is to party at another's expense.

I moved from one couch to another. Mayhem often followed my path. Other's would clean up the mess. I would party until I woke the next morning on the couch I partied on. Usually the sound of another life taking responsibility for their day would alert me to the fact that it was time to hit the road.

I woke up on many different couches. Some couches alone. Some not. Some were in completely foreign places. Some came with surprises.

One morning I awoke around 8 a.m. on a couch with my head pounding significantly. I opened one eye, still feeling the remnants of alcohol and half my face throbbing. When I sat up, I noticed my pillow was a blood-saturated towel. I knew something went terribly wrong the night before. I hobbled to the bathroom to find a stranger in the mirror. Looking back at me was a mangled face. One eye was black and blue and swelled shut, and half of my face was a ripe red from forehead to chin. I could not tell if I was beat up, dragged across the concrete, or mauled by an endangered animal. I had no memory.

Behind me, in the mirror, suddenly appeared Mike, my good friend at the time. Woken by my gasp, it was as if he was expecting to see my ghost. He looked relieved and somewhat surprised to see me conscious.

He walked me through the story of the night before. My insistence to take his BMX bike off a large ramp at 2 a.m. would leave me in a pool of blood. I had convinced him that I was a professional biker. He somehow believed I would make the landing even though I was likely 3 or 4 times the legal limit. I landed with only half the bike under me and half my face embedded in the concrete. They carried me into the house unconscious while his girlfriend held a towel to my head for some time to help stop the bleeding. The group that had gathered for the party that night were not sure whether to call an ambulance. They felt somewhat responsible for my condition having chanted, "Go Mark!"

Somehow their compassion enabled me to see yet another day. I was on to the next couch. Yet, in this case, one more stop would be my last.

The next night I set up camp on a new couch of a good friend's, Kaela. Night after night I piled empty beer cans in her living room with friends I invited over. Each night carried with it increasing havoc from drug trafficking to occasional violence. She would remind me each morning that her day care center was about to open, and that I needed to hide out. I fled the scene. Then unsuspecting parents dropped off their 3 and 4 year olds. It was daycare by day and party mansion by night.

A breaking point came. She started whispering into my ear at day break very softly.. "time to start paying rent..."
Somehow her soft whisper was easy to brush away in the abrupt start of a new day to survive. I continued to snake my way in and out for several months with my charm and phantom scheme. Then one morning she decided the party was over.

She came down the stairs. She pulled the blanket off my head. An authoritative voice hurled out, "Start paying rent now, or get out!"

Like a kid in the cookie jar, I was caught as the snake that I was.
After all of the mustard sandwiches, near death moments, and humiliating scenes, those words..., "Pay rent!"..."Get out!" found me. She didn't just say "get out." She went to the jugular. The words I heard translated, "Walk like a man and not like the dog you are." She demanded a new man to rise that morning. I didn't know where he would come from, but I became wiling to find him.

Mike and Kaela would be there when I most needed them. One couch to save me from the storm. One couch to hurl me into the sea where I would have to learn to swim.

I left that morning determined to never be caught couching again. A new will was birthed in my soul. Whatever the cost, I would find a new man. I would rise above.... I, would pay my rent.

Dying to Sing..

Waking up to a second chance in life means conquering fears of failure and daring to do what you always dreamed. Yet some dreams don't come without a long hard road of humiliation...

When I was eight years old, my brother asked me the classic childhood dream question on a trek down the railroad tracks behind our house. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"A song writer," I said with surety.

I really can't remember a day in my life when I did not sing. Of course only rearview mirrors and shower doors were witnesses back in the day. I often shut my bedroom door, and lip synched stretched out in front of a 5 ft. mirror for hours. I convinced myself I was subbing for Brian Johnson of AC/DC, Steven Tyler of Aerosmith, or even Axle Rose of Guns and Roses. Girls were screaming and I was simply dangerous. But then the stereo fan kicked on and reality set in, I was just a dreamer. I needed confirmation from someone other than the mirror guy.

My amazing twin sister, Alicia, was given the luxury of being begged to sing by my parents growing up. They even resorted to bribery to get her on stage, giving her no possible room to doubt her pure talent. I remember my Mom offering her a pecan pie to sing "Over the Rainbow" for my relatives at a family reunion. She stole the show.

Sure enough Alicia shined all the way from Glee club in high school to K-State singers and paid gigs inspired by audiences watching her performance at Worlds of Fun. Today she is still outstanding and sings for audiences of over 5,000. My parents knew her worth and shouted it from the roof tops. Somehow, I just got lost in her shadow growing up and could only see "The Twin," written across my forehead. I longed for more.

Yet, my confidence was crippled and the ability to sing before others would only come through the aide of alcohol. One night after plenty to drink I would find my first confirmation from an unexpected source. Cruising down the back roads of Topeka to the next keg party, Tom Petty's latest release was screaming on the radio. I screamed along with him out the window at my highest decibels for the car pool and neighborhood to hear.
"Well I'm freeeeee...Free fallin'.........Now I'm freeeeeee...Free fallin'...."

David, my 6' 5", 240 lb great friend and driver that night, looked over to me, grabbed my leg, squeezed it, and shouted over the blaring stereo, "YOU SOUND LIKE A ROCK STAR!"

I remembered those words the next morning and for days after. But somehow it turned into a question, "I sound like a rock star?" Being sober and hung over, doubt settled in. I knew I needed a more professional opinion. I started calling vocal teachers in the yellow pages. I found a former broadway performer, Clark, an excellent fellow and teacher, who actually lived with James Dean in New York once. He was Legit. He could definitely give me some confirmation whether or not I was just a dreamer. I set up my appointment, brought in the piano music for "Sweet Child of Mine," and asked, "Can we do this one?" He looked puzzled of course but was willing. The piano intro began, and I shouted in my best nasal grit,

"She's got a smile that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
Where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky..."

Really there could not have been a worse sound than attempting Axle Rose over a choppy, happy piano accompaniment. It was like a spoof movie scene, made to send the audience hurling in disgust. I just wanted it to be over it was so painful to hear.

Carl however, stops playing after the second chorus, turns from his piano bench and says, "Mark, you have a wonderful voice!"

I thought, "You can't be serious! That was awful! And, I don't know if I want 'A wonderful voice.' "

I continued coming for weeks after moving from rock and metal songs to broadway. He even convinced me to audition for a musical at The Civic Theater. I sang two songs petrified before an audience looking for talent they would pay for. I went a little more tame with Elton John. They told me, "Great job!" Yet, still I doubted, did not see myself in the broadway world, and left confused and lost.

I found a store in town called "Sing Aloud!" A tiny shop stacked with tapes of karaoke songs and a studio to record in. Wow!!. I started spending all my money recording every song I thought I could sing. Poison. The Stones. Guns and Roses. Elton John. U2. The Beatles. Styx. The Doors... I created my own pile of tapes that would serve as my audition selection for any opportunity that might come my way.

One night at a keg party, I noticed two really big hair band looking guys, Kenny and Eric. With enough alcohol, I wandered their way. I found out sure enough they were musicians in a band and vitally connected to the world I was looking for. I asked, "So who's your singer?" They said, "we are still looking."
This was it for sure. The moment of truth! I had three audition tapes with me ready for exposure to the two most powerful opinions that would settle it once and for all.

I said, "Guys, I think I may have your singer. Follow me." They followed me out to my car. I played "Come Sail Away," karaoke version with Mark Brende the lead vocal.......We listened in silence. I held my breath and braced myself for the truth. Then suddenly at the climax of the song, they laughed out loud, chuckling, "Awesome!"

They gave me their address, phone #, and the song I would need to learn to audition for real. Sober. I had to sing, "Where the Down Boys Go," by Warrant. I was ecstatic, giddy, and alcohol was beginning to take over. Looking me over one last time at the party, some question was in their eyes, as I began to create a drunken scene before a large crowd of their friends before I drove home again intoxicated.
Daylight came however. I was scared to death. I wasn't sure what really happened for sure. Whether I really could stand before them sober was still to be told.

Yet, I bought the tape. I practiced over and over. The time had come. I arrived to their house in the daylight, no alcohol, still a stranger. We journeyed to the basement where guitar amps, a drum kit, and microphone stands littered the room.

The drums kicked in. I grabbed the mic. One audience member, a drummer named Steve, who would later become my life long friend, was all it would take to make the final call. He leaned in, listened, and at the end shouted, "Kick Ass!"

Officially, I was in a rock band. My first rock band at age 19.

However, our first gig would be my doom. I was so locked up, I ended up secretly drinking well beyond the limit to find the nerve to sing. My speech became slurred. I was hobbling as I approached the stage. Before the audience of 20, mostly musicians, that had the power to butcher me, I attempted to sing. Sure enough, I flopped. I was ridiculous. I forgot the words. I was off key. I had to ask the band to start the song over to find my place. We couldn't even finish two songs. The band was humiliated and wanted no more of drunk Brende. I was out.

My short-lived dream left me stripped, searching, and struggling in a pit of unanswered questions. It would be back to the drawing board to find my rite of passage. Little did I know, David, Clark, Steve, Kenny, and Eric all had a role in saving me that year. But the journey would still be far from over.

Hit and Runs.....

I started drunk driving at age 14. I remember most weekends sneaking out my bedroom window after my Mom had fallen asleep and the night would begin. I put her Toyota Cressida in neutral, rolled it out of sight, and was off to the races. In the early days it was all about joy riding. Once we found the liquor for the night, we would test the car's ability to do donuts in parking lots, go air born off ramps, or see if the speedometer really went to 120 mph. We actually went the distance to make sure our tracks were clear by detaching the odometer, refueling to the exact place the gage was when we left, and cleaning up all vomit, alcohol, mud, clothes, or other aftermath. In one case where I had sideswiped another vehicle I thought for sure I would be busted except for the fact that the next morning my Mom didn't notice and even for several weeks, until she assumed it was a parking lot accident where someone left the scene.

Though I was fortunate to miss many close calls, and today I am grateful that no one was in the way of my reckless rampage, I would end up paying a price.

I would end up totaling or losing to the impound 4 vehicles before my rampage was over. That was not to mention a total of 6 hit and run accidents. I escaped a few other mishaps like flying off the road into a pile of mud, ripping off my drivers side door accidentally, and I assume a number of things that only God knows being that I often woke up at the steering wheel at 8 a.m. unaware of how I got there.

One night I was leaving a party around 1 a.m. I certainly had drunk beyond the limit and had several other substances in my system. I stopped to pick up some nachos at the gas station before I headed home. Little did I know I would be sobered before the night was over.

I was driving along 9th street, no seat belt, in my steal green 1969 AMC Rambler at about 40 mph eating my nachos. Then the lights went out. The next thing I know I am on the floor of the car and the car is stopped. It was as if I woke from a sleep to a very bad dream. I could not feel my head and had no idea where I was or what happened. When I crawled back up to the drivers seat I saw smoke and steam bellowing from the hood of the car. I could smell anti-freeze and could taste blood. I was afraid to look in the mirror not knowing if I would recognize who I saw. I just reached up to touch my face and blood covered my hand.

I heard commotion from a gas station across the street and suddenly realized I could be in serious trouble. Did I hit another person? Car? House? I did not want to know and did not want this night to end in jail as I had just been there a few months earlier. I tried the ignition and the car started. I sped out of there in a worse state than I was in before I left the party. It was like an out-of-body experience. The car was leading and my spirit was just there to see where I was going. I just drove and drove and drove crying out into the now dark country road sky. I had not prayed for a long time. That night I cried hard that if "God" was listening He would save me. I can't remember ever crying harder thinking that my time was over and that my life amounted to nothing.

I pleaded for one more chance and by that point my car had finally sputtered to a stop. The radiator fluid had completely emptied and smoke was spiraling into the full moonlight. I walked to a light where a gas station was and used the pay phone to call the only girl whose compassion would bring her out of bed to pick me up. Angie and I had dated for 5 years through all of this rugged journey and had never once criticized me though I deserved some hard words. I heard her sob, as if for my soul, as she held my bloody face in her towel until I eventually passed out.



I woke up the next morning with a gaping wound on my chin and a second chance in life... again. Angie was still there by my side in the most unbelievable way. Like Shane, Dan, my Dad, Bob, and soon others, she would save me in a time I was indeed nothing.

We drove down 9th street that morning and saw the parked car I had crushed. The rear bumper was smashed into the back seat and the car was sent air born 50 ft into a yard, according to the police report.

This would not be the last second chance as it was that "God" had heard my cry, and certainly not the last time I would make a girl cry.

The Drug Test...

The voyage out of the pit may begin with a good shower, but to change the trajectory of my life, much testing would be required....

I managed to find another "temp" job at a printing company that paid $3.50 an hour. I was committed to do whatever it would take to make ends meet. I was done with mustard sandwiches, dirty clothes, and deteriorating conditions. My DUI had put me on probation again and cost me my license and every penny I would make for the next several months. I needed progress.

The work environment was silent rows of production lines, mindlessly packing boxes of paper under the watchful eyes of floor managers seeking to meet quota. Occasionally someone would not show up and the word would be literally, "suicide." The only communication I heard was the latest gossip going around and the venting of overworked, hungry and disgruntled souls. This place would be my home for the next 4 and a half years.

After temping six months, managing to get a GED and having no record of rebellion, tardiness, or days of absence, I was approached by the chief floor manager, Russell. Old timers at work referred to him as, "Russell, the one-eyed muscle." He had never spoken a word to me. I thought for sure I was being dismissed. He hands me an employment folder and says to me, "Be sure you fill out all the paper work and bring it in after your drug test on Wednesday." I was stunned. Like the last scene in "the Pursuit of Happiness," when Chris Gardner got the job at Dean Witter, a tear wanted to make it's way out at the celebration of crossing a mile stone.

Yet, I took a step back when I recalled the word "Wednesday." That was in less than two days. I ran over to a veteran old timer and asked, "how long does it take for drugs to be out of your system?" He said, "Dunno... maybe a week?"

I was toast. I had counted at least three different drugs in my system from the last couples days. I did not have the time. Would I have to start all over? I had been making progress.

I ran home to my new, somewhat clean apartment and asked my roommate Bob for the answer. Bob was like the Godfather of the "cool" party world and would have the answer to every question. It didn't matter that he didn't have a college education and used brain tissue mostly carrying multi-layers of bong resin. Bob was feared by all, all-knowing, and was my best friend at the time.

"How do I beat this test?," I asked. Bob, in his epic cool voice and cigarette in hand said, "Simple... Just start drinking water now and don't stop til' you get into the office. By that time, all you have to pee is water. You will pass!" So I followed the wisdom of my chief advisor and started drinking water by the heap fulls. The morning of my test had arrived. I had already peed twice and felt pretty comfortable bouncing over in my Chevy Chevette, though I had no legal tags, registration, insurance, or license. I was going to pass this test. In the waiting room I continued to stand by the drinking fountain loading up. I had to go again, but thought, "I better save this one for test time."

Sure enough, they called my name. I headed into the small room, was handed a nighty and told to change into it and wait for the nurse. I changed and waited. The urge to go had mounted astronomically. Beads of sweat began to dampen my face. I was still waiting and no one was coming! I entered into a small panic as I started to pace the floor back and forth like a catatonic Schizophrenic. I was even dancing in the hope to turn back the tide. It wasn't working. "Should I just pee in the sink next to me?," I wondered. "No. This was the pee that would save me. I must hold on!" And that is literally what I did. I looked like my 6 year old son, Ben, with both hands latched on for dear life.

At that moment, two female nurses walked in holding a pee cup, ready to lead me through the process. They looked startled as they saw my desperate, helpless, beat red face dripping with perspiration. "Can I just take it now!," I humbly demanded. "Umm..okay, sure, that would be okay," the head nurse said next to the trainee obviously caught in a first time senerio. She held out the cup, which would mean one thing...I would have to let go.

I don't know why I thought it would work. Did I think the two gallons of pee pressing at full force would just cooperate and go back to the blatter until I made it to the restroom? Not a chance. I let go to grab the cup and instantaneously in super sonic force, like one of those giant super soaker squirt guns, a line of pee shot through the nighty like it wasn't even there. The two nurses acted quickly both dodging the bullet by flying in different directions as it hit the wall between them. I ran down the hallway to the restroom leaving a trail behind. From the distance I heard the shout, "On the left." Then another crackling voice trying to contain the laughter saying, "I have never seen that before."



Somehow I made it out of there without officially dying of humiliation. I managed to have a few drops of pee left for the cup that custodian workers would not have to clean up. Sure enough, like Bob said, I passed. But the road for progress would still demand more tests before my soul would know joy.

From The Pit...

The Party Shack....

In January of 1989, when the rest of my graduating class already made their decision as to which university they would continue their education, I no longer showed up for school. My twin sister would be approaching graduation with honors, and excellence in vocal performance and drama, while I vanished in the shadows.

Though "the Party Shack" I lived in provided a refuge for a time from the pain I carried along, many darker shadows began to take hold of my life. My father had come on a surprise visit from Georgia. He found out where I was living and knocked on the door one late morning. When I opened the door, a very puzzled and somewhat troubled look was on his face. He noticed I looked a little different since the last time he had seen me. Perhaps he remembered a shy kid still playing a little basketball, interested in music, who stuttered and struggled a little in life, but had "Brende" potential. Perhaps he had hoped to see a small resemblance to his own highly esteemed resume of accomplishments in medicine, writing, music, and psychiatry. Or perhaps at least some small glimmer of my older brother who had graduated summa cum lade at Yale and himself was an accomplished concert pianist and former chess champion of Kansas.

He was at a loss for words that morning. Though he did not know I was not only using marijuana and alcohol but now harder, more addictive and dominating substances, I felt like my eyes were confessing the story. Perhaps he was bothered by the coffee table covered with beer bottles and an empty 5th of Jack. Certainly there was the stench coming from the ash trays and garbage piled high for over 4 weeks, literally drawing hundreds of flies. It was an art form to open the garage door from the kitchen to throw out an empty beer can without letting in more than a dozen flies swarming over the "landfill" that never made it to the curb. There was the fact that I myself was dirty and carrying a kind of homeless smell in my clothes I no longer changed very often. For some reason we also had a dog and cat, but no litter box. This "pit" is where I would make a greatest descent.

When my father looked in my eyes that day, he knew death had taken hold somehow. He knew I was gone. I didn't have to tell him that I was beginning to use LSD that was causing me to forget vocabulary words and talk with a kind of slur. I didn't have to explain that I had been introduced to cocaine and crystal meth that I preferred to administer through a needle in my arm. He couldn't see the STD I was carrying. I'm not sure if he even knew that I had been arrested a few weeks prior for a DUI. Yet, there I was before him in some surreal way, alive, but dead.

I remember we left from the "Shack" and went to a bowling alley where he was attempting to find me. I can't remember making any coherent responses to his stumbling questions. I only remember feeling sure that my life was over, or soon would be. I had no questions for him and no thoughts to share. I only hoped the time would be short so I would not have to feel so awkward, squinting into the light of reality. He was gracious to me that day and I remembered hoping that he could see me again some day, some how, in true "Brende" form.

Not much later I was evicted, but not before I was required to clean the pit. I spent one whole weekend filling over 40 large hefty bags with goopy, smelly trash and fly larva after four successful bug bombs had cleared the way. This motley memory I believe was the foreshadowing of the spiritual work required to bring back my heart and soul from the dead.