I hate bacon and scrambled eggs.

Actually, I despise them. But it hasn't always been that way.

I used to enjoy waking up to the aroma of a bacon-filled breakfast, until December 16th, 2007. That Sunday morning started like so many before. My dad had cooked breakfast -- scrambled eggs and bacon. Over the course of an hour or so, my mom, myself, and my brother, Brendan, had filtered into the kitchen and eaten. I was washing the pans, becoming more and more irritated that the stupid film left behind by the eggs would not come off.

And then the phone rang.

When I answered and it wasn't a collect call, I think I knew. When the officer on the other end asked to speak to one of my parents, I could feel my heart in my mouth. If I didn't give them the phone, does that mean this isn't happening?

I walked into the living room, handed the phone to my dad, and watched our lives change forever. I listened to the questions he asked and thought about the ones he didn't. I saw my mom collapse into a pile on the floor. I ran to the bottom of the stairs and tried to yell for Brendan, but I only got a few letters out.

I did it again once I climbed a few stairs up.

By that time he had opened his door and I was close to passing out. He grabbed me by the shoulders, helped me sit down, and looked at my face.

I couldn't say much.

"Connor died."

I still remember every aspect of that morning as if it were yesterday. Those memories stay with you forever and grief is a beast. The professionals write books and send you to groups, but in the end, everyone grieves differently, in their own way and in their own time. Personally, my brother was one of best friends. He was one of the few people in this world who I trusted to stick with me, no matter what.

I have struggled through graduating high school, graduating college, church confirmation, getting accepted into graduate school and knowing he isn't there. I have even felt ungrateful at times because I have wonderful people who have traveled to cheer me on at these milestones, but I look out into the crowd of faces and the only thing I notice is that one person isn't there.

And then you think ahead....wedding, he won't be there. Children, he will never know them. The tears come back again. Some look at me and feel sorry for me, which I can't stand. Some look at me and say "it's been nine years, you gotta let go," which just shows you can't possibly understand. Either way -- there has to be a healthy middle ground for everyone.

Connor's death impacted me in more ways than one. While yes, it was emotional in the general sense that I lost my "bruber," it also opened my eyes to the very real world of addiction. We were a upper-middle class, suburban family -- nobody suspected the problems that were going on.

When Connor died, my parents were pretty protective about the fact that he had overdosed. When it eventually did come to light, a few of his friends made the point to contact me and tell me that his death inspired their sobriety. At first, that was tough to hear. Why him and not someone else? But two years after Connor's death, our small town lost one of his best friends too. The same friend who had stood up at Connor's funeral and said (in reference to overdose) "Let this one be the last."

It felt like that was my sign to understand that Connor's death had the ability to bring some sort of good into this world. If just one person could learn from Connor's mistake, then maybe they could regain their life and potentially inspire someone else to fight back against addiction. As hard of a pill as that was to swallow, I had to swallow it for my own sanity. And I still honored Connor in my own special ways. For starters, I got a Tupac tattoo - complete with the GPS coordinates for Oakland, California (the place where I think he felt the most at home).

"Long Live the Rose That Grew From Concrete" - Tupac Shakur

(meaning something beautiful can come from the worst conditions)

I also started speaking up and sharing stories about Connor. Until you really see the devastation first hand, addiction can fly under the radar. It's a disease more powerful than many others and I watched it defeat Connor over and over again. At first, I didn't think I could make a difference. I was doing things like asking people to dispose of left over prescription drugs properly (PRO TIP: Contact your local Sheriff's office, they usually do disposal drives!) but I just didn't feel like it made an impact.

Then I started learning about the connections between mental health and addiction. Not only were there links between the two, but because our country's mental health system is inadequate, people who are suffering from addiction are often unable to access the care they need and many times end up in jail. When I heard that, I knew I wanted to help. I found a great organization to support called NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness). They have helped make a lot of progress in the realm of mental health, including helping addicts find services and support.

Last week was tough for me because December 16th rolled around again. I like to call it "Angel Day". But last week was also victorious because President Obama signed the Helping Families in Mental Health Crisis Act, which will help to make sure people who suffer from mental illness and substance use disorders (like Connor) are treated equal by insurance companies. It also extends care for severe mental-health episodes and suicide-prevention programs, in addition to funding programs for law enforcement and first responders that train them to handle mental-health emergencies. It is an amazing step forward.

Connor's death turned my life upside down. Losing a sibling is something that no one can ever prepare you for or help you digest and even now, nine years later, I still find myself shedding a tear over a random memory. But if I can take one thing away from this whole experience, it would be that I would rather celebrate his life than continue to wonder why he had to be the one. If I can honor his legacy by helping someone beat their addiction, I will know in my heart that his death had some sort of purpose.

But I will always hate bacon and scrambled eggs.