Sean Hotchkiss

Sandy was a perfectionist and held us, her family, to the same standards. She placed yellow Post-it to-do lists around the house, sent my new stepbrother and me to etiquette classes (our dog wasnt spared, either), and could cut me to shreds with a single remark and gesture to my father: Hes wearing that?

I understand now that if Sandy was hard on us, she was even harder on herself. But when my mother dropped me off for the weekend, Id hide out in the garage to avoid facing her. At dinner, Id fix my eyes on the floor. I saw my fathers growing affection for my stepbrother and wondered, What the hell is wrong with me?

We all have stories in our histories were holding on totragic plotlines that seem to run through everything we do. Ill never find true love. Ill never be a success. Ill never get past what happened to me. The more we believe them, the more our prophecies seem to self-fulfill.

And lets be clear: My initial childhood trauma wasnt all that tragic. Theres a generic mildness to it that survivors of all kinds of harsher abuse or tragedy might resent. But the story that Sandy had seen some fatal flaw in me ran deep. I believed I was inherently bad and inferior, that nothing about me was okay. Author and self-help guru John Bradshaw calls this condition toxic shame, the feeling that no matter what we do, were wrong. And it doesnt take a five-alarm altercation or hellacious abuse for it to start festering.

<h1> The price of unverified "truths" </h1>

To cover up, I went out into the world trying to be perfect. If I impressed everyone I came into contact with, maybe Id feel okay. The powerful, important, rich, and influential came into my crosshairs. They represented Sandy for me, and winning these types of people over became an obsession. In college, I dated a fabulously wealthy young woman and tried to integrate into her milieu of private jets and lavish vacations. Years later, in New York, I set my sights on the world of high fashion as a magazine writer. I thought rising to the highest ranks would prove to everyonemyself most of allthat I was worthy of being alive.

It didnt work. No matter how many times my face or my byline appeared in print, no matter how beautiful the women I dated or how impressive my Instagram feed, I felt unfulfilled. I even tried spirituality as a remedy for feeling inferior, but theres not enough meditation in the world to fix an old story that says, Im a piece of shit.

Learning the Truth About My Stepmom Changed Me

Meanwhile, the anger and confusion I carried about Sandy came out in strange ways. For instance, any woman in my life who became angry with me or who held a position of authoritygirlfriends, bosses, editorsI took a special interest in torturing. I turned my back on them, burned them, left them hanging. It was like I was getting back at Sandy through them.

Sandy and my father divorced in 2005. He embezzled money from her, and she caught him. Not long after, he committed suicide. In the following years, I shut the door on Sandy. Her e-greeting cards on my birthday most years went unanswered. I tried to forget she existed. But in 2016, while digging through some old files, I uncovered the program from my fathers memorial service. I read the speech Sandy had given that day and felt myself go rigid at the final lines:

But most of all, Sean, he loved you, his son. And that is the message and image I so very much need for you to hear right now.

I felt the pain of loss well up in my chest. I remembered that afternoon at the service, sitting there, still unable to make eye contact with Sandy as tears streamed down my face. I told my therapist, Jacob, about the memory. Maybe you should go see her, he said. The thought of talking to Sandy face-to-face terrified me, but Jacob explained to me that the scariest place I didnt want to go was where the wisdom was. Thats what sets you free. And I wanted to be free.

That spring, I reluctantly began a series of meetings with Sandy in Maine that would span three years. The first, a four-hour lunch at her country club, was simply a reintroduction. Sandy sat across from me tanned and freckled, the deep creases on her face showing her age. She spoke anxiously, smiled often, and even got a little teary when we said goodbye. The meeting seemed to touch her. I asked my mother on the phone later that afternoon: Is it possible that as an adult I actually like Sandy?

During our second meeting, Sandy trusted me with sensitive information about my fathers deceit and their resulting divorce. And at our third, we again spoke for hours, sharing stories. She even apologized, telling me: If I was ever hard on you, I regret it. With each of our meetings, I realized that all the work Id done in therapy and on my recovery was freeing me from the expectations Id had for Sandy that had been clouding my perception. I could see her more clearly now. She wasnt scary. In fact, with each meeting, I saw more of her pain, more of her humanity.

Its been my experience as a life coach that behind whatever kind of childhood trauma weve been throughsexual, physical, or emotional abuse, addiction, divorce, suicide, being cut from a sports teamis a core story we have about ourselves. Common ones include: Ill never be enough. I dont deserve love. Im better off dead. As long as these stories exist, we find ways to perpetuate them.

Theres a funny thing about these stories, though. They tend to crumble under examination. This can be done in many ways, including with a therapist, life coach, support group, or twelve-step sponsor. It can also be done by going back and facing the very thing we fear.

I painted Sandy as the enemy for most of my life, which kept me angrily trying to prove her wrong, and it nearly buried me.

But thanks to my therapists suggestion and my willingness to follow through, the story Id been carrying around all these years was being proven untrue. Sandy clearly didnt hate me. And if that wasnt true, maybe I wasnt terrible. Maybe Id never had anything to prove.

As I stopped feeling like I had to impress everyone, I became less angry. I started treating myself better. The critical voice inside my head that Id always identified

with Sandy began to fade, replaced by a gentler message. Im okay. In fact, I got so okay that I started thinking about how I could help others. So when I went home to Maine last October, I decided that instead of continuing to hold it over Sandys head that shed never cared about me, Id do something revolutionary: Id show up ready to care about her.

My stepbrother was back home with his new fiance, and we all gathered at Sandys house for dinner. We sat at the old dining-room table where wed eaten dinner hundreds of times during my childhood. I could see Sandy was anxious, that she wanted to make me feel welcome, so I tried to set her at ease. Its good to be here, I told her. Later that night, I sent her an email: I was angry with you for many years, it said, but Im not angry with you anymore. Youre the only stepmother Ill ever have, and its important to me to have a relationship with you.

The next morning, walking along the ocean in my hometown, I had a vision of the four of usmy father, Sandy, my stepbrother, and meall in my dads old truck, laughing wildly. It was the first time I could remember having such a happy memory from my childhood, and I knew that it meant I was free. Id finally let go of the old story.

Old stories will always replay until we examine them, but out beyond the stories we tell ourselves is opportunity. When we have the courage to challenge and drop an old narrative, its often rewritten better than we could have imagined.

Letting go of the story that Sandy would never be the stepmother I needed because there was something wrong with me allowed her to become something I actually wanted: someone who can support me on this tougher-than-I-ever-imagined road of being human. And thats all I can ask for.

When I was five, my parents divorced. Shortly after, my father met Sandy, first at a cocktail party and then again at a tennis league for single 30-somethings around Portland, Maine. She was brilliant, anxious, fast-talking, and from old Chicago money. They were engaged within two years.

I Always Thought My Stepmom Hated Me. Then I Learned the Truth.

Men continued to file in. Soon the room was filled: 25, maybe 30 men of all ages. The space boomed with their laughter. There were hairy macho men sitting with thin, tattooed hipsters, and suited business types grabbing coffee and cookies for old men with walkers. There was even a priest who sat in the corner. Everyone called him Father.

I Got Sober and Found a New Kind of Friendship

It took me about five minutes to realize how scared I was of all of them.

Each man in the circle had a few minutes to tell a bit of his story, and my heart thumped as my turn approached. At one point, my vision went blurry. All I wanted was to think of something I could say that would impress these guys. Let them know I was okay, that I was one of them. An epic war story maybe, or a joke.

My turn came. Fifty or so eyes affixed on me.

My throat went dry. Every good line Id come up with disappeared. And I panicked.

WHEN I THINK of being a kid, I think of riding around in the passenger seat of my dads old Toyota 4Runner. My dad lived to drive40,000, 50,000 thousand miles a year. His carbon footprint rivaled those of small airlines. Even a Sunday morning coffee and donut run became an epic adventure of loading up the dog, rolling down the windows, turning up the stereo, and accelerating our way toward glory.

It was during these rides that I received my education on how to be a man. There was classic rock or country music to sing along to, and there was proud proselytizing from my father, who was alone with a captive audience (seven-year-old me) and no one to tell him he was wrong.

One thing I learned in the truck is that I was never right. Maybe I was just seeing things the wrong way. Maybe I could just be a bit more flexible.

Me about my fathers new wife: I dont think Sandra likes me.

Dad: Aw buddy. Of course she does. You just have to do exactly what she says. You know what Papa used to say: You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

Me: Im scared about the science project. Do you really think well be able to build a rocket?

Dad: Scared! Cmon! Youre talking to the 1965 Boy Scout science fair champ right here.

Eventually I stopped speaking at all, because my dada longtime human resources consultantwould deftly swat away my every concern with a very particular brand of PR juju. He had an answer for everything. His manipulation was so subtle, it took me 30 years to realize I didnt actually have any of my own feelings.

Instead, I learned to be a nice guy. To shut my mouth; to mask all that vinegar with honey. And it ended at the bottom of a bottle. Because when you silence your true feelings, you end up overwhelmed. You start living for others and denying yourself. And ultimately you get really, really angry. Some men indulge in their angertheyre the guys you see screaming at fellow commuters, bullying the barista, picking fights on Twitterbut if youre like me, you end up turning that anger on yourself, and it later becomes hopelessness. My dad wasnt spared, either. His own depression culminated in his suicide in 2005. I toasted his death and kept on going.

So I ended up in AA, raw and hurting and surrounded by men who Id already decided had the potential to injure me. I didnt trust them, kind of hated them. I simultaneously wanted to punch them in the face and have them pat me on the head and say, I love you, son. It was all pretty head-spinning. So what ended up coming out of my mouth in that first stag meeting was a cry for help.

HOTCHKISS, 9, and his dad on Fathers Day, 1993.

I just feel like the new kid on the playground, I said, my eyes never leaving the tile floor.

After the group, a guy my age came up and put his arms around me.

Im no good at any of this stuff, either, he said.

His name was Alexander, and he became one of my first sober buddies, which I would learn were very different from the kinds of friends I had before. Recovery bonds you quickly with people. You cut through the garbage and get to the kind of vulnerabilities that social-research professor Bren Brown, Ph.D., L.M.S.W., writes aboutand it transforms you.

Id always had a lot of male friends. We shared common interests, connected over sports, music, or our careers. We got fucked up together after work or did cocaine on the weekends. We stayed up into the early morning believing we were having epic heart-to-hearts that were actually just buzz-to-buzzes. Well, that was pretty wild, wed shrug sheepishly when we saw each other in class or on the subway. But the relationships never went much deeper.

To go deep, I turned to the feminine. When I was a kid, my mom was the one who listened, so I shared my feelings with women. This wreaked havoc on my dating life. My 20s are a graveyard of women who started as friends, became friends with benefits, and then turned to strangers when things got too intimate. Later, I began opening up to gay men I met working in fashion in New York. Beautiful friendships developed, but something was missing.

I had to risk real connections with other straight men.

Shortly after I joined AA, my therapist recommended Robert Blys seminal book Iron John, which shed some more light on my daddy issues. I learned that looking to women for the acceptance Id sought from my dad was futilelike going to the dentist for a triple bypass. I needed to go through the discomfort of making male friends who I felt would try to deny me my feelings, as my father had. I had to raise my hand in those fucking meetings and share my experience, just to see it wouldnt kill me.

I took a hiatus from dating and hung out exclusively with dudes. Initially, I felt all my adolescent pangs of acceptance bristling. Texting Ray for coffee or chatting up Jarrett after a meeting made me feel as vulnerable as any female courting process.

As I went, I realized Id fallen just as hard over the years for guys as I had for women: my college girlfriends cool CEO dad, that rebel senior editor with the corner office. I had wanted their acceptance just as badly as any romantic interests. My new friend Nat put it plainly: Theres so much non-sexual love I want to express to the men in my life. But theres no guidebook for that.

Over the next few months, I went to Kips painting studio to play guitar. I took boxing classes with Ben, hiked with Mark, geeked out on Free Solo with Bruce, and talked dharma over green tea with Danny. Slowly, I began to build intimacy with men. I didnt have to be nice, and no one tried to change me. In fact, these guys seemed to accept me exactly as I was.

Alexander and I put together a group of sober guys who would meet to run trails in the park on Sunday afternoon. The runs were hot, dusty, and gratifying, but the best part was just hanging out in the parking lot afterward, passing water bottles around, dripping hard-earned sweat, and shooting the shit. It reminded me of being a kid again, before booze, before puberty, before all the confusion started.

As the wound around my dad healed and I stayed sober, I started taking more risks. I enrolled in grad school, and early on, I noticed a tall guy with a long face, a beat-up leather jacket, and a blonde ponytail walking around. He looked vaguely familiar. One night I caught a glimpse of his nametag, and called to him.

Hey, you didnt grow up in Maine by chance?

Nate had been one of my best friends 30 years ago. Wed lost touch when my mother moved to an adjacent town, but we quickly bonded all over again. Turns out we had some things in common: addict fathers and the subsequent pain around male relationships.

He was a spiritual guy who lived in an ashram in L.A. I went to visit him one day. We sat in the meditation garden and talked for four hours, covering the entire 30 years wed spent apart, especially those hard, pre-adolescent years.

To talk through my experience with someone else who grew up like me, in a tough section of Maine, was healing on a new level. He didnt even have to say, I get you. I just saw it on his face.

Nate was a talented songwriter, and after some chiding, he agreed to play me something hed been working on. He sang of men growing and evolving togetherof conquering fears and being broken wide open.

On the trip home from the ashram that night, I cried. Like sloppy, clown-faced, Michael Jordan cried. It was the kind of male behavior that never would have flown in my dads truck. But I was driving now.

WHEN I GOT sober in 2017, my new AA sponsor, a tall, goofy painter named Kip, invited me to a mens stag meeting in the basement of a church in downtown Los Angeles. I arrived early, shook some hands, exchanged some nods and sat nervously in the circle of metal folding chairs.

I was looking for a way out of New York, so I made plans to visit my mother and stepfather in Florida for Thanksgiving. Theyre classic new-age baby boomers. They have the crystals, the flowing clothes, the angel artwork. I thought they were crazy for most of my young life.

Yet theyd somehow persuaded me, in my hapless state, to sit for a session with their friend Linda. Old enough to be my grandmother, she did some sort of metaphysical work. She called it life planning. I didnt see how a meeting with her could help me, but I was desperate. Id tried getting clean. Id tried therapy. Id tried the 12 steps. But Id balked at them all. I was afraid of changing, but I knew I couldnt go back, either. I sent along info shed requested and booked a plane ticket.

Open your mind to possible new perspectives.... the informational pamphlet Linda mailed me read. Life planning gifts you with higher levels of knowing, evoking clear insight into your potential, your evolutionary path, your purpose....

At the very least, Id get some sun.

On Black Friday, my mother drove me to Lindas condo.

All of this is you, Linda told me as she sat at her dining-room table. In front of her were three pieces of paper covered in scribbles, numbers, and something that looked like a wheel. When its all united, working in unison, youve got a perfect existence, in terms of the plan.

What Linda revealed to me over the next two hours would slowly begin to transform my life, but on that first afternoon, it sounded totally fucking crazy-like it probably sounds to you right now.

The maps that Linda prepared for me. My souls plan

Lindas message isnt unique. In the past, you had to travel to an ashram in India or a pueblo in Sedona to acquire the wisdom of mystic folks, but its 2019, the Internet is alive and well, and thanks to some very famous advocates, soul therapy has reached the mainstream.

Oprah Winfrey is essentially the godmother of the movement. Her podcast, Oprahs SuperSoul Conversations, features successful people-Bradley Cooper, Alanis Morissette, Sebastian Junger, Eckhart Tolle, Elizabeth Gilbert-talking about how they learned to quiet their egos and get down to the business of listening to their souls. And if youre thinking, Of course Oprah has a woo-woo show about finding your lifes purpose, then turn on any podcast helmed by a semi-woke bro and youll stumble on the likes of Joe Rogan and Russell Brand dissecting myriad ideas that boil down to versions of the same big question: What the hell are we doing here?

This rabid search for meaning in modern life finds us turning to new territory. The unexplainable. The unquantifiable. Its why venture capitalists have pinpointed astrology as the next big investment, with horoscope-driven apps like Co-Star and The Pattern on the road to rivaling titans Spotify and Tinder. Its why yoga studios pop up like Starbucks on corners in Everytown, U.S.A., and why throngs of Americans are dabbling in spirituality in a way we havent seen since the 60s. (Their hero? Democratic Presidential long-shot Marianne Williamson, who is dominating headlinesand, if we're being honest, confusing millions of Americansby bringing soul talk into the political realm.) Its why celebrated food journalist Michael Pollan just wrote a best-selling book about the holistic benefits of psychedelic drugs, and why Rogans trippy podcast is downloaded nearly 20 million times per month.

Were living in a time of shattered illusions and soul-crushing truths. Divided politics reigns. Economic crisis looms. #MeToo landed like a Mayweather uppercut. Because were all fairly sure that the answer to our anxiety does not lie in more money, more sex, or more muscles, were looking somewhere else: within ourselves.

Following our souls plan is the proverbial heros journey, says Onnit CEO, author, and podcast host Aubrey Marcus. Its what Joseph Campbell meant when he wrote, We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the one that is waiting for us.

Marcus, whose health-first approach functions as a kind of Trojan-horse spirituality for biohackers and gym rats-he extols the benefits of ayahuasca, cold exposure, and ecstatic dance, among other modalities--tells me he believes the term soul is too loaded to use responsibly and has too many religious implications. He prefers to refer to our true calling, or our awareness.

We all have a calling from when we were little kids, Marcus says. What we think we want to do with our lives. But after a while, we kind of accept our compromises. We distract ourselves, intoxicate ourselves, placate ourselves. Most of us dont ever take the time to get still and listen to our awareness.

To find that stillness, Marcus suggests trying spiritual practices like yoga and meditation or spending time in nature, but most of all: getting quiet. Put your phone in a drawer for two days and dont talk to anyone, he says. Just be with yourself.

So why arent we all getting quiet and following our souls? It turns out thats a pretty complicated question.

Former NYU professor and playwright Paul Selig, who works with what he calls spirit guides that teach classes and workshops and even channel entire books through him (now six in total, including the popular I Am the Word), has an answer: Realization comes at the cost of the old.

The problem, Selig says, is that people want to be fixed. They want the easy answer-X, Y, and Z. And the reality is that aligning with our souls after a life spent doing everything to avoid ourselves can be agonizing. But, he says, its worth it. For 25 years, he wrestled with the decision to give up his academic life, but in the end, his calling won out. It might have been easier to live the life I was expected to live, because it wouldnt have challenged me beyond my comfort zone. So the risk I took was to say yes.

For most of us, however, finding our true calling isnt as simple as downloading psychic messages or dropping by a Buddhist temple. We toil away at jobs we dont love, and we are frustrated by personal lives that are lacking.

Thats when it pays to call a professional, like Seattle-based psychic Ainslie MacLeod, author of the book The Instruction: Living the Life Your Soul Intended. MacLeod, who is currently making the podcast rounds, is considered the rock-star psychic of the moment.

What unites my clients is a search for meaning, MacLeod tells me. What they thought was working has stopped working. They went through college and got a job, got married, and they thought that was the be-all, end-all. Their soul wants something more.

His method of soul counseling also comes through spirit guides-voices from the other side that provide information like the age and type of a persons soul. But an appointment with MacLeod is more like a conference call than a sance. You dial the call-in number and there he is, with precise knowledge about your life that can help you identify your purpose. When I called, he described my experience exactly.

MacLeod says his work can help empower clients to take a leap of faith by understanding that theyre not victims, that they have the power to go for what is often right in front of them. Who you are is why youre here, he says.

MacLeod is right. As a result of that frantic quest for meaning, astrologers like Susan Miller and Chani Nicholas have catapulted to near-movie-star levels of fame, with fans lustily devouring their forecasts on the first of each month, and Gwyneth Paltrows female-centric wellness brand, Goop-which hawks essentially designer spirituality-is valued at $250 million. As old systems crumble and the world seemingly implodes around us, we desperately want to believe in something. And soul therapy-the idea that a part of us is connected to something larger-provides hope.

Who you are is why youre here. I had to let that digest a little. Linda had explained to me during our session that I needed to experience tragedy at a young age so that I could learn to heal, as healing work was my souls calling.

After two hours of Linda walking me through my souls contract, my Tree of Life (the states of consciousness Id use to access the contract), and my astrological chart (which Id use to work through the contract), I returned home more confused than when Id left.

A few months later, after another riotous bender, I lay awake in bed again, pondering my existence. I wanted to die. Then I thought of Linda. What if I gave her soul plan an honest go? What did I have to lose?

Bolstered by a second listen to our session, which Linda had sent me on two CDs, I got my ass into intensive group therapy, where I launched into the gutting emotional work that Id been avoiding, drinking and snorting away. It was equal parts excruciating and exhilarating to parse my grief. I crashed in the guest room of a college buddy; for eight weeks, I consumed spiritual books and feverishly wrote down every memory, every insight, trying to get to the bottom of myself. The thrill of living my own myth replaced any trepidation about what Id left behind.

Driving on lonely desert back-roads, I found the quiet I was searching for. Beginnings and endings came: I said goodbye to my father on a mountaintop in the Mojave (the main photo accompanying this story was taken at this moment), and to an on-again-off-again ex on the phone from a friends couch in Silver Lake. Finally, in the spring of 2016, I returned to my hometown in Maine for a reunion with my stepmother and other family members whom Id all but ghosted after my dads death. With each restored connection, I felt more whole. I was healing, just as Linda had indicated. I had bought the ticket and I was taking the ride, wherever it was leading.

In the fall of 2017, I moved to California, where the healing plan Linda had given me two years earlier began to really take off. I got and have stayed sober. I have a deeply renewed relationship with my family. And this September, Ill begin a masters program to become a licensed therapist-a professional healer. Was it my souls plan? Ill never truly know. But Lindas plan did seem to save me, if only from myself.

2015 was a banner year for me. It started with a breakup and became masked in a fog of depression that only cleared when I was snorting cocaine. (Things get better, promise.) I was 32 and addicted, driven by a desire to make it. I had everything I was supposed to want: the badass career, the six-figure salary, the weekend home. But I see now that my happiness was conditional-I was always just a setback away from spiraling out. When things ended with the girlfriend I though...

How I Saved Myself By Fixing My Soul

What happened next is hazy. What I can recall is that I became preoccupied with something on or around my genitals-so preoccupied that, without noticing, I backed away from the toilet and out of the stall. I stood by the sink examining my balls.

My shorts were still around my shoes when I heard the metal door slam. Standing in front of me was the toughest eighth-grade boy in school. Brandon [name has been changed] was a football star, handsome, and popular. And now he was incredulous.

Flight kicked in. I gathered up my shorts and ran. Back in Spanish class, I slid down in my seat and closed my eyes. No. I wished the entire experience away.

After that day in the bathroom with Brandon, I disappeared. I stayed away from the lunchroom, cut out as soon as classes finished. My grades dived. I came to know that particular prepubescent agony of wondering where I fit in. I was sure I liked girls, but the homophobia that existed among boys in blue-collar Maine was so vicious that news of my pantlessness would mean danger, and I had convinced myself it was only a matter of time before Brandon told the entire school I was gay.

By age 11, I began wearing T-shirts to the swimming pool, covering my body. For years, I hid my face beneath a low baseball cap. Puberty finally hit, bringing brutal bouts of acne with it. Years later, still struggling with my identity, I escaped into drugs. When I finally got sober in 2017, I was confronted for the first time with the vast, shadowy realm of all the parts of me Id suppressed. Was that sole incident with Brandon to blame for all my years of childhood pain? No. But it was the day I learned that I would have to hide.

I tried every trick that could help me dig through my basement of hidden memories. I had my head shrunk by Freudian psychoanalysts in New York, I had my soul retrieved by a Topanga Canyon shaman, and along the way I learned something transformative: Every time I worked up the courage to reveal a shameful memory, it lost its power-often instantly.

Adults understand that crappy childhood experiences are as common as chicken pox. But kids dont. By uncovering all the parts of ourselves weve hidden, we soothe the awkward sixth-grader in us who was sure his brand of torture was unique.

One afternoon during a breathing exercise with my therapist in Beverly Hills, I remembered Brandon. I couldnt believe how long Id repressed the memory, or how strongly the feelings came back. I felt my whole body go rigid. Hesitantly, I revealed to my doc what had happened that day in the bathroom, and the way the shame had haunted me in the years following.

I went home and Googled Brandons name, and a Facebook page came up. Had to be him. I kept searching and found his email address. I typed an email: I was a classmate of his from middle school. I had a memory I wanted to corroborate with him, and would he be willing to talk?

Two hours later, a text arrived: Its Brandon reaching out to you.

I felt a familiar clenching in my chest.

I pulled off the highway and sucked in deep breaths. I thought I might hyperventilate. In all my fantasies of how this might go down, Id never gotten to the part where I would actually have to speak to him.

I spent two hours crafting the perfect text message. That evening, I finally mustered the courage to hit send. Less than five seconds after the text landed, Brandon called. Startled, I picked up.

It was the same deep voice thatd been replaying in my brain for months.

Whats up? he asked. Cool, aloof. Refresh my memory.

When I finished telling my story, he paused for what felt like an hour.

I came from home economics, he said, in what sounded like disbelief. I came into the bathroom and, yeah, there you were, with your pants down. I was scared. I thought, Jesus, this kid is flashing me! I didnt know what to do!

I told the kid who sat next to me in home ec about it, he said. But I never spoke or thought about it again.

When I explained to him what hed said, his voice dropped. Man, he said. That was wrong.

Then he asked, Why were you in therapy?

I told him about my struggle with addiction.

No kidding, he said. Ive been there too.

With the tension defused, and a bond cemented, we laughed like coconspirators, like brothers. We laughed and laughed.

Look me up next time youre in Maine, he said when we finished. Im so glad you called. I thanked him and hung up the phone, triumphant. It was a feeling better than any buzz, any high.

What happens the day after you face something thats been haunting you for a quarter century? You wake up at 4:00 a.m., electrified. The most shameful moment of my life resolved. The most epic fear reduced to laughter. Had it really happened? In the weeks and months that followed that phone call, my life was transformed. I smiled more. I obsessed less. Hours Id spent scrutinizing my skin and body in the mirror were alchemized into time I spent out in the world, lighter, freer. Relationships with the older men in my life-even the tough, macho types I realized Id always projected Brandon onto-became easier. I experienced the world less as a scared boy and more as an upright man.

In recovery Ive learned the places within ourselves we dread going are the places we must go. And sometimes we find something we could never expect. A story, a narrative Id held on to for years turned out to be just another experience shared by someone who saw it from a different angle. His explanation of that set me free. As Brandon said, I cant believe that day haunted you for all this time, and I never thought about it again.

I was ten years old when I experienced a childhood trauma that would last for years. It was 1993. And Id recently entered middle school in southern Maine. One afternoon I left Spanish class to pee. I entered one of the stalls in the mens bathroom, dropped my shorts to my ankles, and relieved myself.

How I Confronted My Worst Childhood Memory

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Sean Hotchkiss

Articles written by the author

I Always Thought My Stepmom Hated Me. Then I Learned the Truth.

I Got Sober and Found a New Kind of Friendship

How I Saved Myself By Fixing My Soul

How I Confronted My Worst Childhood Memory