Turn of the century, I was 24, I had a real job, a boyfriend, an apartment downtown and most importantly my freedom.

Entry into Y2K, was at the Black Dog Freehouse, it was our go to bar. There was the Woof-Top patio, the UnderDog in the basement and the main floor knick-named the “Black Lung” since it was disgustingly smoky, always. I was working for an software company that monitored machines used in power plants and whatnot.   So on New Year’s I was on call with a beeper until 11 pm, when I finally got the call from my boss saying, “Australia didn’t blow up so get drunk!”.  I was never a good drinker, so I dropped ‘X’ instead; it hit just before midnight so I could properly flop my body to “Disco 2000” by PULP.  That was a good night.

I mentioned my freedom as a cherished part of my life that year.  No, I didn’t break out of a lockup. Though there were moments growing up that I thought a life in jail would be safer than a life at home. The freedom I cherished was from living independently from my family.

Neither my father nor I were residing under the same roof as my brother and mother. That house was like a prison with my brother as the warden. I got out as soon as I could.

Things had been way wrong with my brother since he hit puberty; social workers chalked it up to being teenage rebellion. Sure, he was a skater, visually matching to an asian triad member, but the behavior was not something “Tough Love” could fix. It was the only life I knew, but I knew it was way beyond the worse in Degrassi or 90210.

1999 was the year my brother received a genetically confirmed diagnosis on what had been plaguing him. He had Wilson’s disease, along with a liver with cirrhosis of a 60 year old alcoholic. The disease was extremely rare with very little data, his doctors requested the whole family undergo genetic testing. We were estranged. I was too busy partying because it was 1999. I never got tested.