Mental Health: 31 Birthdays

I’ve had 31 birthdays and have talked to my brother every single one, most notably those that have passed while he lived on the streets, except for my 31st.

It’s interesting, the memories we hold onto after things irrevocably change. My 21st birthday started out wonderfully and ended in a disaster, but at least it was a family affair. Everyone was there, and no one felt angry or excluded. I suppose alcohol consumption is an equal opportunity, something anyone can do.

“No fighting tonight,” my dad commanded my brothers as they stalked out of our parents’ house on the way out. “I mean it. It’s Bailey’s day,” he finished.

“Yeah, yeah,” Alex brushed him off, Duncan traipsing behind him out the door. They both chuckled at the thought, fighting nowhere on their radar while celebrating their little sister’s birthday. So far, the entire day had been tiaras, pink cupcakes, and laughs, but our dad had reason to worry.

His whole life, Alex has been notorious for snapping without consideration to his surroundings, the end-game of his actions, or even the reason for his actions to begin with. Just six months prior to my 21st the three of us had been in a similar situation at Duncan’s birthday outing. At 26 years-old, Duncan’s body was practically geriatric in terms of a fist fight, something that used to be a regular occurrence. His birthday cake that year featured a funny picture of him with a black eye. It was a graduation, of sorts, until it wasn’t.

“Dallas bros” have garnered the moniker “$30K millionaires,” a stereotype signaling unfounded snobbery and living above one’s means. The bar was packed with these types on Duncan’s birthday, and Alex’s antennae began to twitch as soon as he walked in. The Dallas bros looked like frat-daddy clones, while Alex was dressed like Bam Margera. There was instant discord. When a bro five feet away from Alex glanced over and his eyes trailed down to the bottom of Alex’s jeans to his leg, Alex responded by throwing a heavy low-ball glass at his head.

Here we go again.

The high-top table Alex had been sitting at toppled over as he dove toward his innocuous observer and took him down with him. Being discharged from the Army didn’t eradicate Alex’s knowledge of how to seriously maim, or even kill, a person with his hands, and he was looking for a fight. Maybe he fought because he needed to prove to himself, and any onlookers, that he still could without one of his legs.

Six months later, my friends, brothers and I were ending a successfully peaceful night out on my 21st at an oontz oontz club called Vice, a name that should have been our first signpost things would go awry. The entire place was a dark den of slick-haired smooth-talkers, a haven of instigators with no follow through, and the entire scene acted like a match igniting Alex’s insecurity. Duncan and I turned away from the bar to see, between seizure-inducing light strobes, Alex hit the floor in a tangle with a someone.

Damn. We almost made it.

Duncan handed me the five beers he’d just purchased for me and my friends before disappearing into the dark of Alex’s fray. When Duncan’s friend smashed a bottle over someone’s head, the club descended into chaos like an ant hill that’d just been kicked. The fight was like a stop-action film, a second of dark uncertainty followed by a shocking illumination, like a visual metronome. My patent pump had slipped off my foot when I got shoved aside by someone en route to the fight, now especially perilous with glass scattering the floor. When the lights fully came up, the man Duncan had just choked out fell to the sticky, booze-soaked and trash-strewn floor. Bouncers began corralling all of the newly exposed club goers, the magic of body-con dresses and sexy strangers now illuminated in unflattering fluorescence. I found my shoe between the bar and some slack-jawed, drunk onlookers and gingerly retrieved it, careful to let the least amount of my bare foot touch the floor. As I wriggled my toes back into the shoe, I watched the room empty as if there were a fire. The entire club, now as well-lit as an OR table, was evacuating and pouring out the hot cement streets of the Texas September night.

I wonder if Alex felt powerful, shaping the nights of so many strangers, including what was meant to be “my” night. By the time I got to the sidewalk, my loosened birthday tiara was dangling off my head and black mascara tears streamed down my face. It was all very “raining on prom night” and, like most unfortunate things in my life, has become humorous with time.

Now that everyone was out of the club and onto the streets and nothing was a mystery, I spotted Alex’s initial target and recognized him. I knew him. Troy* had become an MMA fighter and was now a swollen, cauliflower-eared version of a boy I’d grown up with. As my recognition solidified I heard him shout to Alex, “You’re only half a man with that fake ass leg, bitch,” referring, of course, to my brother’s prosthetic.

With his mouthed still fixed in the “ch” sound at the end of his sentence, I was already airborne. Duncan thought faster, though, and caught me around the waist mid-air. I heard Alex shouting back, but his words disappeared into the white noise of the night. All four of my limbs flailed toward Troy. My leap toward him was carnal and unconsidered, like much of Alex’s life.

“Yeah, you better keep that bitch in check,” Troy taunted, appraising the situation in front of him as if he were now safe behind a one-sided mirror. Shouting obscenities, Alex walked backwards like one might away from royalty, or a holy shrine. He finally bumped against the cab his girlfriend had desperately been trying to coax him into.

In the postmortem of these two senseless fights, after the tears had dried and apologies had been exchanged, Duncan decided that Alex took fights to the floor because that was where he knew he could maintain the upper hand. I suppose that, because the feeling is so rare, Alex has taken every opportunity to maintain an upper hand, even if at the unreasonable expense of another.

On September 5th, 2019, ten years after my 21st, I waited all day to hear from Alex. I clenched my teeth and chastised myself for falling asleep mid-afternoon in case I missed his call, but when I woke up I was both disappointed and relieved to see my missed calls were from my parents, grandparents, and Bank of America. No sign of Alex, no unknown numbers in my call log. At 4:13pm I pushed myself up into a sitting position on the bed, my body weight shifting and sinking into a new place on the mattress. My shoulders slumped as I looked down at my phone. Time was running out. He still had eight hours, nine hours Texas time, but it wasn’t usual for him to call late on my birthday. No matter how unconventional our relationship, I know my brother, and I knew then he wasn’t going to call. I was right.

Typically, he’d ask the Taco Bell manager or a stranger to use their phone in the late morning or early afternoon, no later than 3, and leave me a voicemail or text message wishing me happy birthday and telling me that, as always, I can’t call or text him back because he was on a borrowed phone. Then, he’d hand the phone back to its owner and hobble back out into the streets, his home.

One time I disobeyed his instructions and texted the number he called me from, not to Alex, but purposefully to the owner of the phone.

Hi, this is the sister of the guy you loaned your phone to today. Thank you for your kindness. Hearing from him means to the world to me.

I didn’t expect to get anything back, and I didn’t.

*Name changed to protect the guilty

Related on Bummed Out Baker:
Mental Health: Mourning the Living
Mental Health: A Birthday Wish
Mental Health: Saying No in the Spirit of Self-Care

To subscribe to Bummed Out Baker and get my mental health musings and recipes emailed to you directly, scroll all the way down to the bottom of the website – Follow on Instagram for behind-the-scenes panic attacks and my begrudging, meat-eating husband captured in the wild – Follow on Facebook for mental health articles and discussion – Follow on Twitter for sassy tweets and a sprinkle of nonsense.

If you or someone you know needs help right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.


Mental Health: A Birthday Wish

Last night I went to my first Nar-Anon meeting in hopes of finding a community and healing among other people who have loved ones suffering from addiction. It was not fun. It was not peaceful. But, I acknowledge that in the long run it may be helpful. Just walking through the door for the first time was a huge step for me. There were a lot of heartbroken parents, spouses, siblings, and adult children in that room. Like mental illness, knowing someone else suffers is the worst, but it also helps bolster a feeling of normalcy.

It’s been a blue day, a blue month, a blue season. But, my birthday’s tomorrow, so I’ve forced myself to the keyboard.

Meet Achilles.

I’ve been open about having mental illness, and I cannot begin to explain the significance of having the comfort and joy of our family’s golden retrievers to get through hard times. We have two, and one of them, Achilles, is a precious senior at 14 years old. He is at once gentle, ornery, funny, and whip-smart. Most of all, though, he’s provided critical companionship to both me and Rick (and every other Aldrich) during hard times in our lives.

my and Rick’s wedding party + Achilles because, of course

Golden retrievers live to love, and not all seniors are doted upon, snuggled, and cherished like our sweet boy Achilles. Often times senior goldens are dumped because their care has become too much time-wise or financially or, worst of all, because they’re no longer a “cute puppy / young golden” anymore. When I think about the state of our world and the great comfort our goldens have brought me in the throes of it all, I’m crushed to think of senior goldens not receiving the amount of TLC they so selflessly give during their younger years. They care for us and, when they’re no longer able to, we should care for them.

So, for my birthday this year, I’m asking for donations to Golden Retriever Senior Rescue Sanctuary and Educational Center and I hope you’ll consider contributing as a way to celebrate with me. $1, $2, any amount helps these precious seniors who have spent their lives loving. All donations are tax-deductible.

I love the description on their site:

All GRSRS&EC Sponsored Senior Goldens receive life-long housing and care at the Sanctuaries we support nationwide. We all know how expensive geriatric care can be, especially when multiple life-enhancing therapies are provided on an on-going basis. So, you can understand why we need and deeply appreciate your financial support. Together, we can provide nation-wide life-long, caring support for senior rescued Goldens in their most vulnerable time of life.


Christmas ‘Chilles

On the support page you can choose from a few options, including donating specifically to the food supply or the safe transport of the goldens as needed. They also have an annual silent auction to support “sugar-face senior goldens” (I’m not crying you’re crying).


big, big wags

Of course I spent an inordinate amount of time looking at photos of Achilles because of this post, but it made me feel better. Happy birthday to me!

one more for the road

Related on Bummed Out Baker:
Mental Health: Guilt and Golden Retrievers and Headaches

To subscribe to Bummed Out Baker and get my mental health musings and recipes emailed to you directly, scroll all the way down to the bottom of the website – Follow on Instagram for behind-the-scenes panic attacks and my begrudging, meat-eating husband captured in the wild – Follow on Facebook for mental health articles and discussion – Follow on Twitter for sassy tweets and a sprinkle of nonsense.

If you or someone you know needs help right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.