Growing up I was very close to my uncle Andy. I never was all that interested in football but he loved it, so I would cheer on his team and draw pictures of them for him. He would tell me stories about being a medic in the army and when my mom had surgery, he took me out to get my mind off of it. We went fishing and walked all around Frederick visiting the best places to eat and he would tell me about the history. He used grow beautiful tomatoes and he was a great cook. I didn't take notice of the darker aspects of his life. I remember catching a sunfish and throwing it back with him. I remember him wrapping s'more's in foil by the camp fire until it got all deliciously gooey. I remember playing guitar hero and snuggling with his dogs. My relationship to him was precious because he knew my dad, and I had never known my dad because herione took him away. So, he was as close as I got to a father or knowing who my father was as a person. My uncle Andy spent most of his time in the basement or in the shed. I didn't think anything of it when every hour he asked me to bring him a beer. I guess it wasn't so unusual, everyone drank and smoked. I did wonder why he and my aunt were so distant from each other, but I was used to seeing complicated relationships too. Then, I wasn't allowed in the basement anymore. I didn't know why, but my mom and aunt said he needed his space. When I was old enough, they told me he was very depressed. He would sit outside in the freezing shed for hours. He would drink endlessly. He destroyed the basement. The doctor told him he would die if he didn't stop drinking. His legs would swell with fluids and he was diagnosed with diabetes. However, he couldn't stop drinking. He and my aunt separated and he got his own place. I didn't see him for years. Sometimes, we would communicate about his dog Sammy or his cat Rico. I would see pictures of tomato plants or him at a bar with some friends. But, I couldn't really know what he was going through. I was just a teenager. One day, my mom and I got a call that he was found dead. We went to help look for his cat who was missing. I remember the smell of that house. There were remnants of who he was; his poetry book that he published, his map of the world with tacks, his football collectors items and his music recording instruments. But we couldn't find Rico. What we did find was a house in shambles. The place was rancid. The toilets were filled with waste. His belongings were strewn about. Vomit and other bodily fluids were all around. We asked what happened to him, but there really wasn't an answer. One of his friends said he had cancer but refused treatment. There were many cans of empty beer and liquor bottles. I wish I hadn't been so young sometimes. Maybe I could have convinced him he had something to live for. I could have held his hand and told him he could get better, that I cared if he got better. I was in Highschool. I was too young to intervene. In the mess, I found his poetry book and when I read what he wrote I felt such a deep connection and understanding. It's all I have left of him. Here's a quote from my uncle Andy Tacman's book "Pop Top Mirrors and Plastic Stars," "Has your heart ever hurt so bad, You really just want to die, I mean ever been so sad, You don't even want to cry?" In my grief I understood that I couldn't go back and change what happened to him. I got through it by reading his poetry and silently promising that I would break this cycle of addiction and unmanaged depression. I would get help and encourage others to get help. I would use my knowledge of our experiences to help people overcome these struggles. I laughed and cried and felt inspired by his writing and his life. I sometimes go back and read his words after a hard day or year and it's like I can talk to him, and he'll tell he felt what I'm feeling. Despite what happened to him he left me with this, "Just try, Just cry, Just hold on, you'll find the right song." I will keep trying to find the right song uncle Andy, for you.