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Happy and Productive in the Debris Field

The author used to come unglued around chaos. Now it floats past him.

Mood music for this post: “Sons and Daughters” by The Decemberists:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E5H8DwJI0uA&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Looking at the week ahead, it’s amazing I’m not hiding in a foxhole right now.

I’m working from home the first part of the week while the kids are on vacation. Call it half a vacation, though I’m tackling a full plate of work each day.

Sean’s birthday is this week, so the house needs a scrubbing before party guests arrive Thursday.

I have a conference in Boston to cover the latter half of the week into the weekend.

And oh yeah — with two vacationing kids comes a lot of clutter.

I’ve always hated clutter. It’s one of the biggest OCD triggers I have. And you can’t have kids around without accepting a certain degree of clutter. There’s no eating without dumping stuff on the floor. There’s no Lego activities without getting Legos everywhere.

But something strange has happened in more recent years. I’ve found that these things don’t rattle me the way they used to.

I chalk it up to all the progress I’ve made managing my OCD and putting down the worst of my addictions.

Now I can peacefully co-exist among the chaos and clutter. If I have work, I can do it  and do it well sitting among the debris, like I did yesterday when Duncan decided to make a blanket/pillow fort right where I was writing a couple CSO articles:

Hell, I even helped him build the thing.

Then I sat in my half-covered chair and got working. And guess what? I got plenty done.

I feel better about zigzagging from the conference to Haverhill for birthday activities because I’ve already written and posted four stories and two podcasts about things that will be going on at the event.

It’s all good.

One more thing about the clutter, though: If you know someone with OCD that’s not under control, keep them as far away from chaos as possible.

For the chaotic mind, clutter is the worst.

It amplifies the crazy in your head.

That I can now exist in the clutter is pretty wild when I stop to think about it.

Oddly enough, I’ve probably swung a bit too far to the other side of the spectrum.

My wife pointed out to be recently that I’m more of a slob since cleaning up my act.

Sounds weird, doesn’t it?


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We’re All Broken

The author finds that sometimes his church family is too judgmental.

Mood music:

[spotify:track:3p7XSsT6AFs9lCkv6FtLbj]

Father Mike went on another tirade against politicians in his Homily yesterday. He always makes a lot of points I agree with when it comes to politics and corruption, but this time I walked away feeling that he was judging people in a way we’re not supposed to do.

His main gripe was against the idea that there are people who will vote for pro-choice politicians even though they are pro-life. He called it “Political Schizophrenia.” [For more context, here is where I stand politically]

He then went on to say that politicians are all about keeping their own power, and how the removal of God from public life has gone too far.

I agree with him on some of that, particularly when it comes to schools not putting up Christmas decorations in December because it might offend someone. Separation of Church and State is often interpreted as the removal of God from government affairs. What it’s really about is government not forcing a particular religion on citizens and giving us the freedom to worship or not worship as we see fit. Schools should be teaching kids about all religions and how they reflect various aspects of global culture.

But I’m getting off track here. What really irked me yesterday is that Father Mike was painting all politicians with one brush. But reading between the lines, he was painting all DEMOCRATS with one brush. He noted that politicians are trying to remove the people from government and simply enact laws telling us all how we should live.

But the Church is made up of people who do the same thing.

Are there a lot of dirt bags out there who are Democrats? Absolutely. But there are a lot of dirt-bag Republicans in the world, too.

Just like there have been pedophile priests and priests who fought hard to expose the former.

My point is that we ALL struggle. We’re all broken in some way. It can be an addiction or an illness. It can be the way you conduct your business. Father Nason, our pastor, did a brave thing years ago and went public about his battle against alcoholism. As a recovering addict, I love him for that.

To lump one group into the “no hope” corner is wrong.

We are all people, and people screw up every day. God knows I do.

I’m reminded of the story where the people wanted to stone a woman to death for cheating on her husband. Jesus’ response was that “He who is without sin should cast the first stone.”

We’re all sinners. We could all do better. And yet we judge others anyway.

I do it, too.

I guess when we judge someone else, it makes us feel better about ourselves and makes us forget about the ghosts in our own souls.

But it’s a hollow, unsatisfying thing.

Judging others and thinking of oneself as better or above someone else is a disease that runs deep in the Catholic community. I’m sure it exists in the Baptist community, Jewish community and so on. But I’m part of the Catholic community, so I’ll stick with what I know.

I’ve seen educators in my parish put down other people behind their backs because they made a mistake or wasn’t skilled enough at a sport. I’ve seen fellow parishioners lump whole groups of people in the trash can of society because those people are not as pious as they are.

It’s human nature. We ALL do these things. Including me.

But it is wrong, and we could all do better.

Judging others despite one’s own flaws is also a disease that must be identified, managed and driven into remission.

Some of you are probably asking why I stick with a Faith that can be so flawed. My answer is simple: Every church, no matter the denomination, is made up of people who are broken, just like the government is.

But I show up because I believe Jesus died for my sins and is the only one who can save me from myself. What He did for everyone is what matters.

The misguided people who attach themselves to the church, the politics and the judgmental nature of faith communities is beside the point. These things are distractions.

To put it another way, my faith is all about my personal relationship with God.

Everything else is crap.

Some people might think less of me for being a devout Catholic. Some in the Catholic community might read this post and be angry with me.

Either way, so be it.

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Windmill Hands

Ever wondered what that weird thing is the author does with his hands? Wonder no more.

Those who know me well have seen it at one time or another, usually when I’m sitting at a desk engaged in a project. My face gets slightly contorted and I start shaking my hands around like they’re on fire.

I call it my Windmill Hand Syndrome.

When I’m doing it, I don’t realize it, though I just noticed myself doing it just now.

It tends to happen when I’m sketching or writing. Sometimes it happens when I’m editing.

Is it a byproduct of OCD? Don’t know.

I’ve been doing it for most of my life, though, so probably not.

It’s a mystery. But no one ever gets hurt, so I’m not fretting over it.

Sure I look like a jack-ass when I do it. But it can’t be any worse than what I already looked like. Hehheh.

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Clean Living Things You Can Do: Part 1

Former Guns ‘N Roses guitarist Slash spent much of his early career drunk and stoned. He has since cleaned up, and his stunning new album is proof.

This post is for those who want to hear the new Slash album. If you’re not interested, come back later.

Slash just put out a most brilliant album with such guest vocalists as Ian Astbury, Chris Cornell, Kid Rock, Lemmy from Motorhead and even Fergie.

It’s the most cohesive, focused, soul-shaking album he’s done in years, and I think it reflects what he — what anyone — can do in recovery. Have a listen…

Ghost, with Ian Astbury on vocals

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ylaroxf_sRU&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Crucify the Dead, with Ozzy

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ps0bQONjys&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

I Hold On, with Kid Rock:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7_n3662vgJw&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Beautiful Dangerous with Fergie

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iWQQYgacS98&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Promise, with Chris Cornell

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZyM0ojzUMH4&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Dr. Alibi, with Lemmy

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RFsOwnZkIm8&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Watch This with Dave Grohl and Duff McKagan

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LlutFN7AyIQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

By the Sword, with Andrew Stockdale from Wolfmother

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yajU0oeMJo4&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

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Skeptic Slang and Charles Manson: Six Degrees of Separation

Skeptic Slang and a glimpse at mental illness in the making.

Mood music for this post: “My Monkey” by Marylin Manson:

A note about the music: Marilyn Manson put this on his “Portrait of an American Family” album, which was recorded in the Sharon Tate murder house. The title and chorus were taken from a Charles Manson song called “Mechanical Man.” Bits of Manson interviews are sprinkled throughout.

It just seemed appropriate for some reason…

Today was a good day with some strange memories thrown into the mix. Call it Skeptic Slang day.

I put the kids in the car (Erin was at a writing and editing conference) and drove to the Salem, Mass. home of my former Skeptic Slang guitarist, Chris Casey, his wife Nancy and their two sweet kids, Melissa and Mark.

I was there for a few reasons: to help Nancy set up a blog for her own writings, which I suggest you follow, and to look at photos she had of our old band. Most of all, I just wanted to see a couple old friends. I’ve known Nancy for 20 years and their marriage is a point of pride for me because I introduced them way back in the day.

So I looked at the Skeptic Slang pictures and noticed something I initially found funny. But later, back in the car, it occurred to me that the images were a bit jarring. They reminded me of something I had forgotten about myself back then.

I’m wearing a Charles Manson shirt. And with the long hair and beard, I sort of resemble the creep:

But looking back, it was an awful shirt to be wearing.
The other thing I noticed in the pictures was that I had angry eyes.
In another picture I have my hand over my face. I remember now that I was agitated as hell during that photo shoot because it was taking a long time and the thought of me being photographed made me sick.
Indeed, that was a very angry time for me. A family member was suffering from severe depression and suicidal thoughts. I was in full rage against my mother and step-mother. More than one Skeptic Slang song was about wishing my mother dead. In fact, one song was called “You’re Dead,” as in dead in my mind.
I was still pissed as all hell about my brother’s death eight years before.
The mess in my skull that would ultimately blossom into full-blown mental disorder was starting to swirl. The bitter roots had taken hold.
Fortunately, the band itself was an excellent release valve at the time. I couldn’t really sing, but it didn’t matter. We played aggressively, and that allowed the rage in me to pour out like sweat that I could then wash off.
God has always had a funny way of giving me the things I needed to lurch forward.
And while the band is long gone, I got some lifelong friends out of it.
The fact that we can now hang out and watch our kids hang out with each other is just freakin’ awesome.
http://youtu.be/pA2ktUcWX7Q
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Random Madness

It’s Saturday morning, and me and the kids are engaging in our weekly ritual.

In a few hours, we go to Salem, Mass., home of former Skeptic Slang guitarist Chris Casey, his wife, Nancy and their kids, Mark and Melissa. I’m going to help them get some old photos online and start a blog for Nancy’s writing.

I’m going to look his kids in the eye and tell them that I’m a little bit responsible for their existence. I did introduce their parents to each other, after all. 😉

I’ll make them listen to the new Slash album, which is quickly becoming my favorite album of the year so far.

Then I’ll put the boys in the car and we’ll head to Saugus so we can make their grandpa buy some school raffles.

All in all, a good day in the making.

The only bummer is that Erin has a work conference to go to. Saturday morning business events. Ah, the life of a freelancer.

Nancy has a stack of old Skeptic Slang photos, which should be hilarious. Expect to see those images in this space soon.

Have a great day.

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Why the Cigars Must Go (and Why it Pisses Me Off)

The author needs many coaches to keep clean and sane. Sometimes it sucks.

Mood music for this post: “Sludge Factory” by Alice in Chains:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ej39l_aqkLc&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Like anyone in recovery, I rely on several coaches to keep me from falling back into the sludge pit.

The OA sponsor keeps me on the path of abstinence (OA-speak for not eating compulsively; like an AA sponsor who helps you stay sober). I have to call her every morning at 6:15 a.m. and tell her exactly what I plan to eat that day. Deviating from the food plan I give her is considered breaking abstinence.

The OA meetings are like AA meetings. You discuss the 12 Steps and how they apply to you. You share your story, and so on. These groups stick together. We keep each other on the sane path.

Then there’s the OCD coach: my therapist. At my craziest I had to see him each week. Then I got better and it was every other week. Now it’s once a month.

In one way or another, they are all interventionists. They see me about to slip and they step in and get in my face.

I often want to punch them in the face. Addicts absolutely hate having the truth forced on them. It’s very inconvenient.

I got a taste of that today in the therapist’s office.

One of the first things we do is go through a checklist of my addictive behaviors and how I’m doing at each one.

Abstinent from binge eating. Check.

Sober from alcohol. Check.

OCD under control. Check.

Then I do something I didn’t plan on doing. It just slipped out. I told him that I’ve only recently come to see what a game of whack-a-mole addictive behavior is, how you put one thing down and find yourself turning to something else.

“And what would those other things be,” he asks with that smart-ass twinkle in his eye.

“Caffeine and cigars,” I say, figuring it’s no big deal. My coffee dependency is well known by all at this point, and there are no health or mental reasons to stop. Hell, I even felt comfortable walking into his office with a Red Bull in my hand.

But screw the caffeine. He heard the word cigar and exploded.

“How often do you smoke?” he bellowed the question.

“How many?”

“Does your family know?”

“How much do cigars cost?”

Then he threw the biggest reason for his disdain in my face: His father got cancer and died from that very habit.

I shrugged it off. After all, addicts know that the thing they are doing could eventually kill them. That’s part of the attraction, even, given the depressive streak we tend to have.

But he persisted.

“There are healthy addictions and unhealthy addictions,” he said. Coffee and exercise can be healthy addictions, he noted. Cigars are not healthy.

I tell him that coffee and exercise absolutely will kill you if done to the extreme long enough.

And back and forth we went.

Here’s the thing, though. I know the cigars are bad. I let it slip out because I’m having that mental war in my head over what to do about it.

See, I know I have to put ’em down.

There.

I said it.

I don’t know when I’m putting them down, but I’m going to, because I know cigars could soon become as much of an obsession as the food and wine was.

The coffee I can live with.

But with the cigars, I’m playing chicken with God. And God never loses at that game.

So now that I’ve come out with it, I invite you all to be interventionists and get in my face if you see me with a cigar — lit or unlit.

I only ask that you give me a one-week grace period.

Expecting me to go cold turkey right now is a bit much to ask.

Ha! The words of an addict in denial come out again.

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Cancer and The Mouth

The author has some words for a kid fighting cancer.

Mood music for this post: “Heart-shaped Box” by Nirvana:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6P0SitRwy8&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Expect a couple shorter posts today. I have a few things on my mind and don’t need many words to get out what I’m feeling.

Here’s the first thing on my mind:

During my teenage years, my step-sister hung out with a kid I nicknamed mouth because she had a really loud voice. As annoyed as I would get with her, I couldn’t help but like her spunk.

She didn’t mind that I called her Mouth. In fact, I think she reveled in it.

For the sake of her privacy, I’ll keep her name out of this post. I’ll just stick with the nickname, which only a few people will get.

Yesterday, my step-sister told me that Mouth has breast cancer.

She’s way too young to have breast cancer.

The good news is that they think they caught it early. The bad news is that it may well mean the breast has to be removed.

Mouth probably doesn’t read this blog, but in case she ever stumbles upon it, I just want to say this:

You may be scared as hell right now, and who could blame you? The C-word is one of the most feared words there is. You’ll no doubt go through a lot of difficult days fighting this one.

But you’ve always been a tough kid, so I know you will fight well.

That you’re going to beat this is a foregone conclusion in my mind. And while you can’t imagine anyone saying this, you’ll probably fight the battle cheerfully.

And after you beat this, you’re going to be better than ever before. Much better. You’ll find an inner strength you never knew you had. And you’ll use that strength to help others. Because that’s who you are.

You’ll also have a new appetite for life.

How do I know these things? Well, I’ve never had cancer, though I know I’m a very good candidate for colon cancer at some point because of the damage Crohn’s Disease inflicted on me as a kid.

But I did survive a nasty childhood with that disease, and I’ve survived a lot worse at the hands of mental illness and addiction in more recent years.

Only after making it through the worst did I realize how precious life is. I found a sense of joy I had never experienced before.

It’s impossible to see that from where you’re standing now.

But someday you’ll understand.

Now go out there and kick some ass.

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Bad Behavior, Easily Defined

The author turns to his musical hero for some easy-to-remember descriptions of depression and addictive behavior.

Mood music for this post: “Pray for me” by Sixx A.M.:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CFjz6O7ewwg&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Many times by now, I’ve mentioned that one of my inspirations for this blog is Nikki Sixx, bassist and lyricist for Motley Crue. That’s because he gave the world a naked view of his madness at the hands of addiction in his book, “The Heroin Diaries.”

I’m itching to share the first couple pages of the book, where he presents his definitions of depression and addictive behavior. In turn, I’ll offer my own version.

Note: Since Sixx’s addictions were different from mine, I’m going to add in some of my own terms to fit the binge eating.

In we go:

 

ADDICTION

Sixx: When you can give up something anytime, as long as it’s next Tuesday.

Me: When you devour $35 worth of drive-thru junk between the office and the house, walk through the door feeling complete exhaustion, shame and self-loathing, and promise God you’ll never do it again. Then you do it all over again the next day, starting with the drive into work, even though you know it’ll kill you someday.

 

ALCOHOLISM

Sixx: A habit that helps you to see the iguanas in your eyeballs.

Me: Not exactly about downing a bottle of alcohol each day. More about REALLY, REALLY needing a couple (or a few) glasses of wine at the end of the day so I DON’T turn to the food.

 

COCAINE

Sixx: Peruvian Marching Powder–a stimulant that has the extraordinary effect that the more you do, the more you laugh out of context.

Me: I never did coke, but mixing the food with alcohol had the same effect.

 

DEPRESSION

Sixx: When everything you laugh at is miserable and you can’t seem to stop.

Me: What he said, with the added symptom where you lock yourself away and sleep for days, verbally assassinate anyone in your path and binge eat until fatty sweat oozes from your pores.

 

HEROIN

Sixx: A drug that helps you to escape reality, while making it much harder to cope when you are recaptured.

Me: Food had the same effect on me, specifically massive quantities of items with flour and sugar in them. Mix together a large enough dose of flour and sugar and the impact is the same as any drug you use to escape.

 

PSYCHOSIS

Sixx: When everybody turns into tiny dolls and they have needles in their mouths and they hate you and you don’t care because you have THE KNIFE! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Me: When the flour and sugar mix with a dose of OCD hyperactivity, leaving you with the feeling that you or someone close to you will die at any moment, be it from an accident or affliction. Then trying to mask those emotions by losing yourself in work, which you don’t do very well because you’re just too fucked up.

I’ll end by telling you a major truth I’ve only recently come to realize:

Without the above in my life, I’m a better husband and dad, which is more important to me than anything else. I’m also much more creative, which turns work from a stress into a joy.

I’ll tell you something else: The day I slip and fall back into my chief addiction is the day all those things fall apart.

Just thinking about what I could lose after gaining so much is enough to keep me from doing that.

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Meet My Demon

Why the author treats his demon like an imaginary friend, and how it helps.

It won’t give up

It wants me dead

God damn that noise inside my head

From today’s mood music, “The Becoming,” by Trent Reznor, Nine Inch Nails:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cDfyR22u_gI&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

At last night’s OA meeting, I saw quite a few people with heavy weights pressing on their minds. I won’t share details, because these meetings are all about anonymity. But it got me thinking…

You see, for all our awful behavior, there’s one thing we addicts do exceptionally well: self-criticize. If you want to meet people who are good at focusing on their own vulnerabilities and venting shame, we are the best there is.

It doesn’t really help us, mind you. It just makes us feel worse and, in response, lose ourselves in our chosen addiction. In OA, the addiction is compulsive overeating. But it’s the same with booze and narcotics.

We often describe it as our inner demon. The demon comes to you when you are feeling low and taps on your shoulder. Then he suggests you sooth your anxieties with a pile of junk.

Many of those who suffer from mental illnesses — mine is OCD, which fuels my addictive behavior — tend to give their demon a persona.

Winston Churchill called it his Black Dog.

I call my demon The Asshole. That’s what he is, after all. He’s my dysfunctional imaginary friend.

I got the idea of making my demon an imaginary friend from my kids, both of whom have imaginary friends. I believe Sean used to call his “Rexally.” Rexally was a sperm whale, by the way.

So let me tell you about The Asshole.

He’s like one of those overbearing relatives who will constantly push food on you when you drop by for dinner.

The Asshole: “Try that slice of pizza. It’s wonderful.”

Me: “No thanks. I’m full.”

The Asshole: “Come on, try it. It’s really good.”

If I’m not in recovery, I shove the slice of pizza down my throat, followed by another 10 slices. When it comes to binge eating, I can’t have just five of something, whether it’s pizza or potato chips. I have to have them all, and when they’re gone I’ll keep pushing other things in my mouth, no matter how vile and shameful I feel two hours later.

When I am in recovery, which, thank God, I am now, I tell The Asshole: “Piss off. I’m full and got things to do.”

Facing The Asshole used to fill me with fear and anxiety. I was the weakest person in the room when he was around.

But in the years since I entered therapy for the OCD, found my Faith and started taking medication, the relationship has changed.

Now The Asshole is more like an annoying cousin; someone I keep at arm’s length. I don’t shut him out of my life completely — I can’t, really — but one day I stopped fearing him, and that made a world of difference.

He still taps my shoulder just about every day. But with the fear gone, I’m able to go about my business.

Another thing that’s changed: What he has to offer just can’t compare with the other parts of my life: My wife and kids. My writing. A good book.

But I’m not stupid. I know he’s never going to go away. He’ll always be there, lying in wait. He’s like a terrorist, that old Asshole. He may lose most days, but he keeps trying, knowing that one of these days he might just pull off the attack.

And, truth be told, I’m never more than a few minutes away from the relapse. It’s that way with anyone in recovery.

And so I must be careful.