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The New York Times "Tiny Modern Love Stories"
My joyful, bright, freckle-faced younger brother was voted “Joe High School” in his yearbook. Less affable, more opinionated, I was voted “Most Likely to be Heard.” But decades later, no noise could stop the addiction Matt developed to prescription OxyContin. I pushed him to rehab; he said he hated me. After his fatal overdose in May 2020, I begged him for a sign that he didn’t hate me. On his birthday, I found the message he’d written in his yearbook: “Jen … thank you for believing in me … I love you.” When I cried out for my brother, I know he heard me.
The Rumpus “Voices on Addiction: Primary Source”
Anything we write now is a primary source. At the beginning of our COVID-19 isolation, my four teenagers had a dinner discussion about keeping journals. Their teachers were imploring them to keep records since we were, we are, characters in an unfolding drama, a historic event. I felt the same pull to write down, to track what was happening in my life. I made a vow to the kids: Let’s do it. Let’s document that we were here in this time. But before COVID-19, my family was embroiled in another drama, one I did not want to record: the opioid epidemic, which had stolen nearly half a million lives in two decades, and hit close to home.
The New York Times “Defying the Family Cycle of Addiction”
I am the mother of four, but addiction is my ever-present extra child. My grandparents died of alcoholism. My father-in-law did, too. My 43-year-old brother died of a heroin overdose in May. He became addicted after taking prescribed OxyContin following an appendectomy.
Over the past decade I have been a quiet observer of opiate-related data. I skimmed opiate-related headlines with one eye open, holding my breath, searching for information on fentanyl outbreaks or promising new treatments. The news was a matter of life and death: My brother was addicted to heroin.
Brevity Blog “Trusted Friend: Relying on the Promise of Writer’s Block”
I assigned a persona to my writer’s block. He keeps guard over my laptop like a reliable, funny friend. My stuckness is mop-headed Muppet Mr. Don Music: the one who groans “I’ll never finish this song!” when he can’t get past the first stanza of Mary Had a Little Lamb. He bangs his fuzzy rectangle head against the keys in agony. He wails and whines and rubs his gigantic eyebrow with the back of a tethered arm.
Brevity Blog "One Writer's March Madness"
People ask if I am the mother of basketball players. My four children tower above me, the son and the daughters, scraping the door jambs at six-four, six-one…the high, high fives. They rest their chins on top of my head, and say how cutewhen I ask, “can one of you reach me the sugar off the top of that shelf?” They fold around and over me in embrace. But they do not play basketball. None of us do.
I cannot reach the sugar, and I cannot write, even though I want to.
Literary Mama: “Mothering After Addiction: A Conversation with Cindy House”
Literary Mama: "Processing Life on the Page: A Conversation with Erin Khar"
Porcupine Literary: “The Spanking House” (Best American Essays Nominee)
I arrived in South Texas as a newlywed and a military bride. My new school, a middle school, was a concrete big box on a vast expanse of dry dust and tumbleweed. My previous jobs were in high schools, but 6th grade was the only gig going in this small Texas town. I knew very little about 11 and 12-year olds. I knew even less about small children – I couldn’t imagine having my own one day.
Motherwell Magazine “Our Family Took a Stand on our School’s Dress Code”
Last month in Louisville, girls were denied entry to their school dance for wearing dresses that fell inches above the knee. The week before, in Alaska, a referee disqualified an elite high school swimmer over an interpretation of her team swimsuit. Recently my eleven-year-old daughter experienced a similar disqualification: from a “class bonding” hiking trip.
The Independent “The first Christmas without him: Finding joy in 2020 after the loss of my brother”
I ask my family if we can put white lights on the tree this year. I will call it my Peace Tree. Something different.
“We always have colored lights!” the teens protest. “Please don’t do it, Mom! We like it tacky!” My husband is against the idea too. Without an ally, I decide I’ll simply add more lights to the tree, in an attempt to brighten my outlook. Besides the pandemic, besides the election, my brother died this year, of an accidental drug overdose. He was 43 years old.