POST THREE: His Addictions Did NOT Define Him

***Dear Reader: inserting many photos in this post really messed up the formatting... sorry about that***
I'm going to take a break from writing about Steven dying in the hospital. I feel it's necessary to write that his addiction certainly did not define who he was. You see, Steven struggled with addiction almost his entire life. Drinking booze and taking a myriad of psychedelics on the regular starting at the age of 13, to eventually using heroin and anything else put in his path by his early 20's. Over the years he'd clean up for six months to a few years, then I would notice the tell-tale signs that he was using again: he would come around

less, he would start borrowing money again,
his appearance would change from genuine
smiles and full cheeks, to sallow skin, thin stature
and simply stated: he'd lose his spark.

The cycle was mentally and emotionally exhausting; not just for Steven, but for me as well (I will not speak on behalf of other family members). And the cycle I experienced went a little something like this: I'd start to notice signs, I'd want to believe I was being paranoid, I would begin to insert myself into his life in an effort to prove to myself he was/wasn't using, I'd know for sure he was using but wouldn't say anything because I did not want him to feel any more shame than he likely already did, I'd feel sad/frustrated/disappointed/worried, I'd get a
phone call that something terrible had happened to him, opioid-use 100% confirmed, I'd break down, he would get clean, life was wonderful again, reset to the beginning. This cycle lasted for 36 years. While opiates were the drugs that sent him into a downward spiral, he was able to maintain what many would consider to be a productive life while sporadically using drugs that weren't opiates: coke, ecstasy, alcohol, etc. He liked to party.

It must have been an exhausting burden for 
him to try and maintain the appearance of

"being clean". This makes me sad for him.
But there was WAY more to Steven 
than his addiction.

He was an excellent and loving Son to our Mum, he was a fun-loving Uncle to my three Sons and
our Cousins Sons (Everyone started calling him "Uncle Big" 23 years ago when my first son Steven was born), he was adored by our Cousins, he was a doting Dad, and was a cherished Nephew.

At one time, he was a husband, a business owner and a home owner.  He was super talented as a photographer, drummer, artist, and writer. He enjoyed cooking, hiking, boating and he was an avid traveller: Italy, Costa Rica, Hawaii, Amsterdam, Germany, Thailand, all over Canada and the US and wherever else his sense of wanderlust took him. He was also a story teller. He could make you laugh until you nearly peed yourself.


He was quirky, handsome and he liked nice cars and bikes. Sometimes he was a pain in my ass, as I was in his.
He ate cheesecake and sipped a single malt scotch on his birthday. He liked to nap. He had an eclectic taste for music and loved to share new music he had discovered. He liked to read Hunter S. Thompson, Bukowski, and a plethora of other off-beat, dark authors. He teased me relentlessly. We fought and didn't speak for three years once: what a damn shame. He drove fast. He was SO, SO LOVED.
He was a Libra.
He suffered immensely from extreme depression
He was MyBruv.
He called me Sis.
He called me Krispy.
I was 44 when my Brother died.
I miss him so much its exhausting.
He was 49 when he died on June 5, 2018