The day I started writing, I was 28 years old. I was living in South Deerfield, Massachusetts with my girlfriend in a beautiful, three-story yellow house her mom deeded her & her sister and brothers, after she passed away. I was working at Friendly’s Ice Cream as a merchandising manager in the marketing department and was being mentored by the Vice President of Marketing, who was a Dartmouth trained ivy-leaguer, who like my energy and positive outlook on life.

I played bass in an original alternative-rock band called Hallucinating Arkansas. And I spent my Christmas holidays in the Swiss Alps. I was living what many would consider a blessed life, especially as an adopted child and first-generation college graduate, who had grown up in the working-class, mill town of Taunton, Massachusetts.

I always cite Friday, November 22, 1996 as the first day I started keeping track of my days.

It was a cloudy, overcast day, in the high 30’s, low 40’s. I was sitting in a room on the first floor that we had converted into an office/study. It was in the front of the house, with a door to my left that led into the living room and a door in the front, that led into a hallway, to a staircase that went upstairs to the right and the front door to the left. If I turned around, I could see Mt. Sugarloaf out of the long window.

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