Brian Cuban

Pets and Grief

Ethan Wilson — Wed, 21 May 2025 18:17:31 +0000

Eighteen years ago, a month into my addiction recovery, I attended a 12-step meeting where someone shared about losing his dog. He cried through his story, and I wept for him. I had a beagle named Peanut, and the thought of losing him was unbearable. I turned to my sponsor and whispered, “If that happens to Peanut, I’m sure I’ll go out. relapse).”

He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I understand the grief and feeling, but when your recovery is solid, that won’t be a thought you’ll have. Part of recovery is about living your grief and moving forward.”

Since then, three of my pets have crossed the rainbow bridge. Peanut the beagle and two cats, Useless(Yes, that was her name), and Mimi, last week. Losing Mimi was more traumatic than losing the first two pets due to old age. She was only eight, and it was unexpected. She and her sister, Butter, were born on an old boat inside a barn. They couldn’t have been more different. Butter is an orange Tabby. A cuddle lap cat, always looking for affection. Mimi, a Maine Coon was more standoffish and nervous. We’d joke about her being in constant need of a kitty Xanax.

Because I work from home, Mimi and Butter were constant companions. The moment I sat in my office chair with a cup of coffee, one of them was at my side.

Last week, Mimi began throwing up. Her sonogram showed a blocked bile duct, and it was recommended that her gallbladder be removed. It is a tricky surgery, but not uncommon for cats. Unfortunately, when they opened her up, there was cancer that prevented the removal. There was nothing they could give her more than a few weeks. The hard decision was made to end her suffering. She was only eight.

I was in shock and denial. I suppose I still am, crying every day. I’ve been through this before, but each time is brutal. I know it gets easier, but in the middle of it, that seems hard to imagine. What I know is that taking a drink won’t bring her back. Grief is one day at a time, like recovery.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Brian Cuban is an attorney, author, and advocate for mental health awareness and recovery. He has spoken at law firms, conferences, non-profit events, colleges, and universities across the United States and Canada. He also writes extensively on these subjects. His books, columns, and quotes have appeared on CNN.com, Foxnews.com, The Huffington Post, The New York Times, and online and print newspapers worldwide.

He is also the author of the best-selling book The Addicted Lawyer, Tales of The Bar, Booze Blow & Redemption. His debut novel, The Ambulance Chaser, was released as the #1-selling debut paperback thriller. His follow-up crime thriller, The Body Brokers is now available wherever books are sold and at www.briancuban.com

I Miss My Dad

Brian Cuban — Tue, 08 Apr 2025 18:48:18 +0000

April 8th has always been a day of mixed emotions.

On one side, it is my 18th sobriety anniversary. It’s also the birthday of my father, Norton, or “Norty,” as his friends called him. He would be ninety-nine today. He was of the greatest generation—a Navy Seabee in a construction battalion deployed to the Battle of Okinawa, then Korea. When he returned from the war, he was a manager at National Record Mart in downtown Pittsburgh.

He loved to tell us how he was so pissed at being recalled to service for Korea that the MPs almost had to drag him down to the induction depot in handcuffs. Beyond that, he never spoke much of his wartime experiences and the horrors he saw on Okinawa during a brutal battle that saw over 240,000 casualties, twelve thousand of them American soldiers. My dad told us that the sheer number of dead led to the Seabees, despite not being combat soldiers, being given rifles.

Norty eventually settled in with his brother, Marty, running a trim shop in the Brookline area of Pittsburgh. They reupholstered car seats, installed convertible tops, and anything else that needed to be done by the local car dealerships on West Liberty Avenue’s’ “auto-row,” as well as a cash business from gang members, drug dealers and the like. Every summer, we would drive to the Catskills, also known as the “Jewish Rivera,” where we would stay in the heart of “Dirty Dancing” territory.

He married and raised his three boys, my older brother Mark, younger Jeff, and me, first in Scott Township, then Mount Lebanon, where he lived until coming to Dallas after my brother Mark bought the Dallas Mavericks. Then he retired and would cruise the world, sometimes with me in tow. A life he deserved after living his own for his three boys.

As it is my sobriety anniversary, one particular moment stands out on that score.

About a week after I hit my rock bottom, I went over to his apartment. He knew nothing about my struggles. I was ashamed and didn’t want him to know. I sat down next to him on his couch and bawled, finally unloading a lifetime of pain I had hidden from him. He cried, hugged me, and said, “Move in with me for as long as you need. We’ll get through this together.”

The last couple years of his life were brutal. Dementia took the essence of the dad that I knew. To show how much he was loved, even the great Dirk Nowitzki was at his funeral. Dirk called him, “Papa Cubes.”

I think about my dad daily and the lessons he taught, such as today will be as young as you will ever be. So live like it. I’m not always successful in living up to his standards, but I try. I hope he knows that. I miss him a lot.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

My Sobriety Is Almost Old Enough to Drink

Brian Cuban — Tue, 01 Apr 2025 22:01:45 +0000

This week, I’ll have eighteen years of continuous abstinence from alcohol and cocaine. No less important is that I have not binged and purged(bulimia) in the same amount of time. Yes, guys do get eating disorders.

At forty-seven, I walked into the rooms of 12-step crying, scared, and ashamed.

I often laugh at the interaction with my therapist that same day when I finally got honest with him about my struggles. Why would I lie to my therapist? Simple. Shame knows no hourly rate.

He asked me if I would consider in-patient treatment. My ego was way too bloated to believe it. I told him I was too busy as a lawyer to consider that option. Who would handle my cases? The reality? What cases? I had no clients left. My practice was dead and buried. He then suggested 12 -step. “There’s a meeting next door. Let’s cut our sessions short. Head on over there now.”

I said, “No can do. I see alcoholics smoking out front every day. I’m a non-smoker. That second-hand smoke will kill you.” Yep, I really said that.

I left and walked over to the meeting, terrified that someone there would recognize me. When I finally pushed through the doors, my fears were confirmed. It seemed like half the people in the room were lawyers I knew. No one laughed or pointed, but there were some nods of recognition. I sat in the corner crying. The chair was hard blue plastic. I fixated my eyes on a floor stain so I didn’t have to look at anyone, wondering how my life had come to that moment. The thoughts were muddled, but one was persistent. If sitting in that room would allow me to wake up one morning, walk to the bathroom in my birthday suit naked, look in the mirror, and love what I saw without the aid of cocaine or booze, I’d sit. In my mid-forties, I had never experienced that type of authentic self-love, only self-loathing. It had begun.

To celebrate eighteen, my wife and I are headed to Vegas to see the Eagles. There was a time when the only thing I’d be doing in Vegas was massive amounts of blow.

Recovery is possible.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Depression, Road Bumps, and Adjustments

Brian Cuban — Wed, 26 Mar 2025 18:12:39 +0000

In consultation with my therapist, I recently upped my Lexapro dosage. There is no trigger I can point to, but the increase in familiar feelings of hopelessness was there. Usually more intense in the morning, then dissipating into the early afternoon. Not immense lows, but unlike depressive bouts of years earlier, I have a better understanding of my body and mindset. I have mental health tools. We made some medication adjustments and figured out that maybe I was focusing too much on my mortality rather than my purpose moving forward in my sixties. It passed, and I’m good, but there are lessons. In dealing with chronic depression, there won’t always be a readily identifiable trigger and billboard signals to the people around us. The lows won’t always be the drastic lows that are easy to spot.

In 2005, it wasn’t good, but easier for family and friends to see what was happening. There was a gun—statements of self-harm and known drug and alcohol problems.

An episode I don’t talk about much, and the last time I had true suicidal ideation was in 2010. I was almost three years sober but still learning to adjust to dealing with intense feelings of worthlessness and insecurity without the aid of cocaine and booze. There were intense feelings of worthlessness and insecurity. Despite that, I discontinued my medication(without telling my doctor), thinking that I would do it on my own.

My depression got progressively more consuming until one evening, I was listening to the radio. MLB Baseball’s Texas Rangers had declared bankruptcy, and my older brother, Mark, was one of the parties bidding to purchase them(He didn’t win). Suddenly, I started bawling and contemplating scenarios to end my life. First-world privilege problems, right? I was sober with a nice roof over my head. There was food in the fridge. Yet somehow, this event that would have no meaningful impact on my life triggered the same feelings of hopelessness that had led to my first trip to a psychiatric facility.

It, of course, wasn’t about the Rangers or Mark. It was my journey to deal with the same feelings that had plagued me since my early teens. The journey to healing a little boy who had been fat-shamed at home and school, physically assaulted over his excess weight, and saw a monster every time he looked in the mirror. There would be those moments, even sober, until I healed that little kid and told him none of it was his fault. Weirdly, decades later, I’m still on that journey.

Triggers often come from where you least expect them. Adjustments are okay.

If you’re a law student or lawyer and struggling with depressions, here are some resources

Lawyers with Depression

Directory of Lawyers Assistance Programs

988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline

Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741

For Non-Lawyers

NAMI and above crisis hotlines.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Social Media and Suicide

Brian Cuban — Wed, 19 Mar 2025 16:40:51 +0000

We hear so much about the downside of social media and suicide. Still, a recent study confirms that lived experience sharing stories of hope and recovery can contribute to suicide prevention.

“Suicide-preventive effect seems to occur particularly when the story is presented in a personal narrative of an individual with lived experience of suicidal ideation.”

I’ve shared my story along these lines, both online and in person.

In the summer of 2005, there were Facebook, Instagram, and TikTok. Myspace was two years old. Social media sharing of our experience, strength, and hope was in its infancy while stigma abounded.

My Myspace account (yeah, I’m that old) presented a fun-loving journey through Dallas Mavericks games, party nights, and the life of a successful lawyer. The reality was anything but. I had a life of privilege, but inside, I was dead. No joy, no smiles, cocaine, drink at night, and Xanax to zombie me through the day.

The pain had to stop. I could only think of one way. It was close. At the urging of a concerned friend, my two brothers showed up at my home. There was a Spanish .45 automatic on my nightstand, along with cocaine and Xanax pills.

They dragged me, kicking and screaming, to a psychiatric facility. I wouldn’t be ready for vulnerability and the release of shame for another year and a half, but by not minding their own business, my life was saved, and here I am.

I share this story often because it offers hope for a new beginning and recovery. I don’t tell anyone what their path into the light should be, but I hope that those who listen find something they can grab onto or that those close to someone struggling to understand that it’s ok to ask someone if they are suicidal without fear of triggering the act. This is especially important in today’s social media world, where people often bear their pain online.

One particular share stands out. I spoke at a conference at Disney World. Afterward, a woman handed me a note, said, “God bless you,” and walked away,

Moral of the story. If you’re ready to share. People will listen and care—your lived experience matters. You matter.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Are Addiction Secrets Holding You Back?

Brian Cuban — Wed, 12 Mar 2025 17:17:00 +0000

We all have secrets. Mine were spread out to multiple cities. In between multiple divorces, drugs were delivered to my hotel room in Vegas. Coke deals transacted with quick hand-to-hand exchanges under cover of darkness just feet from the calming waves of the ocean in South Beach.

I’m often asked, “How did your wives not know you were blowing and going?” That seems like a tough one to hide. The answer is simple. I had a JD in law but a PhD in deceit and deflection. Other times, the circumstances helped.

I met my second wife( at a bar in Dallas(Stan’s Blue Note). She was a nursing student at Texas Tech. I was deep into my cocaine addiction and party lifestyle. She didn’t use it and knew nothing about it. The distance made it easy to hide the behavior.

She ultimately moved to Dallas, where we married. She worked overnight weekend shifts as a newly hired neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) nurse. My wife is working hard, saving the lives of newborn children, and I’m working hard at destroying my life and eventually our life together. The arrangement is great for my dysfunctional thinking: I can party with my friend and be in bed when she gets home.

This particular night at my friend’s house is a rager—two eight-balls of cocaine for three people. Morning comes with the nauseating sounds of birds, letting me know to get my ass home before her shift ends.

I toss my clothes in the washing machine and hop into the shower. I’m an expert at destroying all evidence of my other life, and the hot water washes away some of my guilt.

Suddenly, the shower goes dark. I can’t see! My heart rate triples. It won’t go down. I’m having a reaction to the cocaine. I drop to one knee in the shower. Am I having a heart attack? Sheer panic and fear. Deep breathing. No help. I call my brother Jeff. He tells me to bite the bullet and call 911. If I do that, I’m discovered. My marriage is over. There has to be another way.

I run to the liquor cabinet, chug a leftover bottle of Cristal champagne from our wedding, and pray that the depressing effect calms my heart. No change. My life is over, either by death or divorce.

I pick up the phone to call 911. A feeling of faintness washes over me. It’s the lightheadedness of a sudden change in my heartbeat. It’s back to normal. Falling back on the bed, I start crying. Not tears of guilt or self-awareness—tears of relief that I won’t be caught today. Back in the shower, I toss the champagne bottle. I’ll tell the wife it broke. Throw back some mouthwash and rehearse my story of what I did the night before.

Within a year, we divorced. The marriage couldn’t withstand the secrets. Along with my career, my personal relationships followed the same cycle. Every crisis, whether divorce, loss of my legal career, or some other humiliation, inspired a short period of sobriety only until I felt I had my life back again, or so I thought. Ready for more secrets.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

It’s Day One, and I’m Terrified!

Brian Cuban — Tue, 04 Mar 2025 15:42:50 +0000

‘I’m all alone.”

“My spouse/partner left me.”

“My kids won’t talk to me.”

“I lost my job.”

“I’m about to lose my law license.”

“I’m ashamed.”

“I hate myself.”

“I want to die.”

These may be familiar thoughts and feelings to those who have stopped drinking with a slew of personal and professional wreckage in the rearview mirror. I’m certainly no stranger to some of them.

When I began my recovery journey in 2007, the first days were brutal. My girlfriend moved out. I was too ashamed to reach out to the people who loved me. The mental projection was off the charts. I created an intense but imaginary scenario where my family would tell me that they wanted nothing to do with me. I sat alone in my apartment with my dog and cat.

Of course, I went through all the rituals of getting rid of all my booze and deleting my cocaine dealer’s phone number like I didn’t have it memorized. I went to my first twelve-step meetings, but the process didn’t relieve my anxiety. I listened to stories, wondering if I would ever be able to look in the mirror and love myself without being drunk or high. Would I ever be loved again by anyone? I was too deep in despair to know that the people close to me never stopped.

Finally, about a week into my recovery, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I went to my father’s house across the street(yes, he lived across the street from me) and cried like a baby on his couch, unloading decades of pain and shame he had never heard about. He didn’t judge. He didn’t shame me. He wrapped his arms around me and cried. He said, “Move in with me, and we will get through this together.” I did.

I was lucky. I have a close family. That’s a privilege. My father hadn’t been drawn into my struggle. Hearing it for the first time, he had not been beaten down. I was lucky in that regard. I had a village outside of the rooms.

That early support was the core of my making it through those first tough days without calling my dealer or hitting the liquor store. Don’t sit at home in the dark staring at the walls. Create a list of people who will listen. Who will sit on your couch? Who will grab a late-night cup of coffee. They are probably there. You just stopped calling. I know, I did. u just stopped calling.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Eating Disorders Suck, but Recovery is Possible

Brian Cuban — Mon, 24 Feb 2025 15:55:08 +0000

Would it surprise you to know that males account for over twenty percent of those with eating disorders? For bulimia, it goes up to thirty percent. That is what I dealt with for more than twenty years.

A male lawyer binging and purging? What do you say? Yep. That was me. It started my freshman year in college. I carried it through law school and right into the practice of law, not to mention alcohol and cocaine use disorder. Throw in major depression, and it’s not quite the recipe for a fulfilling legal career. When I first acknowledged the problem. The shame was all-encompassing. I thought I was the only guy in the world who had dealt with an eating disorder. In my mind, It was more acceptable to talk about being an alcoholic or sniffing my legal career away on blow. I also didn’t know that there is a fifty percent co-occurrence between substance use and eating disorders.

Today, I am approaching nineteen years since I last stuck my finger down my throat. It hasn’t always been a smooth journey as I still deal with body image issues. Who doesn’t, right? Normative discontent is fine. Everyone looks in the mirror now and then and says, “That sucks.” What I no longer do is engage in destructive behaviors like bulimia to deal with it. Recovery is possible.

February 24th starts Eating Disorder Awareness Week. There are resources if you are struggling, teen, adult, or LGTBQ; reach out. Shame is normal. Resources are available.

Project Heal

National Eating Disorder Association(NEDA)

Eating Disorder Hope

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The Body Brokers

Brian Cuban — Tue, 28 Jan 2025 23:35:44 +0000

My love-hate Relationship w/New Years Resolutions

Brian Cuban — Tue, 31 Dec 2024 15:58:29 +0000

I used to love New Year’s resolutions. They brought the hope and the fantasy of a whole new Brian without any concept of what that meant or how to do it beyond reflexive responses to pain, regret, and shame.

I remember making resolutions dating back to college and law school. Study harder. Be more outgoing. Make some friends. Drink less. Get drunk less. Stop binging and purging (I was bulimic). Study harder. Lose lots of weight (even though I was of normal weight). Each resolution lasted few a few days, maybe a week. Then came the drinking binge. The food binge with the resulting purge. The inevitable “what’s the point.” Anger. Shame. Defeat. Depression.

As the years passed, and I sunk further and further into untreated clinical depression, addiction, and problem drinking, my resolutions still came but only adjusted to fit the problems of the day. Snorting less cocaine. Possibly changing drug dealers (yes, that was an actual resolution) or switching to Jack Daniels and Diet Coke from rum and Diet Coke to find the right balance of intoxication that would allow me to feel confident, outgoing, while also self-medicating the pain of depression and childhood trauma. Taking cabs instead of driving so I could inhale more cocaine and drink and lessen the risk of arrest and killing anyone but myself (that did not last long either).

January 2006 was my first resolution that I would stop drinking so much and stop using cocaine completely. What was the change? I had met a woman I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Her love would be the difference. You might imagine how that worked out. Addiction is a disease. It takes more than love to deal with it. By June 2006, we were dating and I was trading Dallas Mavericks championship tickets for cocaine. In April 2007, I took my second trip to a psychiatric facility. Once again, pain, shame, defeat. Cycles repeating.

When I began my long-term recovery from drugs, alcohol, and my eating disorder in April 2007, I decided that it was time to do something different. Yearly resolutions clearly were not my path to sobriety and self-love. I began taking my life one day at a time and concentrating on the day I was in rather than projecting far into the future and setting myself up for failure and another cycle of pain and shame, and of course, addiction relapse.

My resolutions transitioned more to daily goals. One day sober. One day without sticking my finger down my throat. One meeting in 12-step. One session with my therapist. One Lexapro to even out my clinical depression. One day of allowing myself to be vulnerable. Dismantling the brick wall I had built around my feelings decades ago, one brick at a time. One day at a time.

As the years passed, my goals built on that base. Doing what I love most which is writing. Blogs, books articles. Sharing my recovery in as many forums as I could. Hopefully hitting the pillow each night having opened up the possibility of recovery to at least one person regardless of what path they ultimately chose.

Today, I also have daily affirmations. To do the next right thing, and learn from it if it was the wrong thing. To exercise mindfulness in my decisions, either in preparation or reflection. That is often done in a hot shower rather than a traditional meditation session. To do at least one thing to take care of myself mentally and physically. Finally, each day, to love myself and allow myself to be loved. Each day, I tell myself, I am enough.

As we begin 2025, whatever your resolutions, goals, or affirmations, be sure to love yourself and take care of you every day. Build on that. Take it from me. Playing catch-up sucks.