ABOUT LONG WINTER, LATE SPRING

Relapse, an inevitable state in the cycle of addiction, is akin to a Wisconsin winter. Before it arrives, we sense its looming. When it arrives, we survive its weight. As it lingers, we fight through it. We wait for spring. We wait and wait. The winters are long, and somehow in spring, we forget how hard the winter really was. What we fought through. But, still, we celebrate spring. Because we have to. This hope we find at winter’s end gives us the fight we need to survive what will be next winter. The hope of spring carries us through. So, too, does the continued hope for sobriety as relapse bears its weight. The winter may be long, the spring may be late, but we have enough fight to get through it.

This project is for my family, my brother, AJ, addicts surviving winter’s weight, and those who love an addict.

You’re not alone.

WHY THIS PROJECT MATTERS:

Our childhood home was an 1880’s farmhouse with a leaky foundation a stones-throw away from protected wetlands. It was where my brother, William, and I dug deep for dinosaur bones, and nailed boards to a boxelder. We called it our treehouse. With no neighborhood kids for miles, we ruled and reigned the lands together. Home was a feeling then.

William and I were close for years, until we weren’t. That’s how it goes, I guess. Our paths diverged when addiction entered his life at age 12. I was 13 and never knew how bad it was. His addiction progressed to heroin, as it does… or can. Later in life, as heroin maintained her stronghold on my brother, he neither ruled nor reigned his reality. Losing that piece of him changed what home meant. Home became a place—an obligation, really—only memories enlivened that childhood feeling. Ignorance was easy, distance was easiest, and neither were bliss. Winters were hardest. Sobriety. Relapse. Overdose. Repeat. I would tell myself, “This is my last winter here. Spring will come. Then it’s time to go.” This cyclical narrative carried me through many winters.

In 2014, William was incarcerated for a year. He assaulted my mother as she drove him to the police station because he was out of his mind. While in jail, during our timed phone calls and supervised visits, I met my sober, adult brother— a person I had never known. This project documents the time following his release to include our celebration of his sobriety, his relapses, recoveries, and overdose. William has overdosed twice, most recently June 4, 2016. He has held sobriety since. I'm really fucking proud of him.

We began this project together. He knew and still knows how important it is we share our story — a story that is no different from so many. It’s important to him that addicts know recovery is possible, and often isn’t pretty. It’s important to me that family members of addicts know the difference support can make. I know our story isn’t different or special. That’s why it’s important. People need to know they’re not alone.

The project itself includes hundreds of photographs, 30+ hours of audio recordings (interviews, phone calls, the night he overdosed and the family fell apart), and a journal I kept in this time. This project kept me present. This project keeps me grateful.

Because of this project, I was selected to participate in Alec Soth’s workshop: How to Make a Photobook that Matters, in the summer of 2019. I am currently working on a book that matters. The book will combine my journal entries and photographs from December 2015–January 2017. In 2019, I enjoyed my last Wisconsin winter.

William is still sober.

Even a late spring is pretty fucking great.