Home Sweet Home

The author on returning home.

Mood music for this post: “Home Sweet Home” by the Motley Crue:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BrYmsU0ZknA&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

There have been a lot of times in my life where I looked forward to coming home only to be sorry I was back minutes after getting there.

When I used to spend six-week stints in Children’s Hospital for the Crohn’s Disease, I would always think about home. I would think of the day I’d be released with great anticipation. It kept me going.

Then I’d come home and quickly be reminded that my parents’ marriage was burning at both ends and destined to fail. I’d be back to all the yelling, and I’d be back at school wondering how I would ever catch up to all the things I’d missed.

Before getting treated for OCD, I used to dream of home when I was on the road for business trips. Then I’d return and get overwhelmed with all the normal things that come with having a busy family.

Since I’d freak out over the trips themselves, I’d come home exhausted and the pressures of home would finish me off.

Today it’s much better.

I don’t freak out over the travel. When it’s time to do it, I just go, get the job done, enjoy the whole process and I come home. Once there, I’m tired but grateful to see Erin and the kids.

It’s no longer something I have to over-think. It’s nice to be able to enjoy the precious present.

Last night I got home from New York City and got the following greeting from Duncan:

“I missed you, Dad. But I didn’t miss you making my lunches for school!”

I love that kid.

Duncan and Sean gave me a good snuggle before bed, and when Erin came home we got to catch up before I passed out.

Since this was the second bit of travel in as many weeks (last week the whole family did the drive to DC and back) I expect to be fried for the weekend. And that’s OK. I’m grateful for the journeys I get to take for my job, and the return home is always worth it.

Don’t expect me to pass the time on the couch, though.

That’s not how I recover anymore. [More on that in Rest Re-defined]

Seize the day (even when exhausted)!

My Personal Ground Zero

A walk past Ground Zero takes the author from the darkness to the light.

Mood music for this post: “The Engine Driver” by The Decemberists:

If ever there was a day when I could relapse my way into McDonald’s to down $40 bags of junk and wash it down with four glasses of wine, this was it.

My mood took a deep dive this afternoon. And the source was the last thing I would have expected.

In New York City to give a security presentation, I walked past the World Trade Center site on my way to the my destination nearby. Gone are the rows of lit candles and personal notes that used to line the sidewalks around this place. To the naked eye it’s just another construction site people pass by in a hurry on their way to wherever.

I was pissed off at first. It wasn’t the thought of what happened here. My emotion there is one of sadness.

No, this was anger. I was pissed that people seemed to be walking by without any thought of all the people who met their death here at the hands of terrorists on Sept. 11, 2001. It was almost as if the pictures of twisted metal, smoke and crushed bodies never existed.

I wasn’t here on that day. I was in the newsroom at The Eagle-Tribune and remember being scared to death. Not so much at the scene unfolding on the newsroom TV, but at the scene in the newsroom itself. Chaos was not unusual at The Eagle-Tribune, but this was a whole new level of madness. I can’t remember if my fear was that terrorists might fly a plane into the building we were in as their next act or if it was a fear of not being able to function amidst the chaos. It was probably some of each.

This was a huge story everywhere, but The Eagle-Tribune had a bigger stake in the coverage than most local dailies around the country because many of the victims on the planes that hit the towers were from the Merrimack Valley. There was someone from Methuen, Plaistow, N.H., Haverhill, Amesbury, Andover — all over our coverage area.

When the first World Trade Center tower collapsed on the TV screen mounted above Editor Steve Lambert’s office, he came out, stood on a desk and told everyone to collect themselves a minute, because this would be the most important story we ever covered.

Up to that point, it was. But I was so full of fear and anxiety that my ability to function was gone. I spent most of the next few days in the newsroom, but did nothing of importance. I was a shell. I stayed that way until I  left the paper in early 2004. In fact, I stayed that way for some time after that. I should note that the rest of the newsroom staff at the time did a hell of a job under very tough pressure that day. My friend Gretchen Putnam was still editor of features back then, but she and her staff helped gather the news with the same grit she would display later as metro editor.

The bigger point though is that I was in that newsroom, not in lower Manhattan. Many of the people walking by today were, and their scars are deeper.

As I started to process that fact, my mood shifted again.

I realized these people were doing something special. No matter where they were going or what they were thinking, they were moving — living — horrific memories be damned.

They were doing what we all should be doing, living each day to the full instead of cowering in fear in the corner.

Doing so honors the dead and says F-U to those who destroyed those towers and wish we would stay scared.

It reminded me of who I am and what I’ve been through. I didn’t run from the falling towers or get shot at in the mountains of Afghanistan or the streets of Baghdad. But the struggles with OCD and addiction burned scars into my insides all the same.

I was terrified when I was living my lowest lows. But somewhere along the way, I got better, healed and walked away. I exchanged my self hatred and fear for love of life I never thought possible.

It’s similar to what the survivors of Sept. 11 have gone through.

They reminded me of something important today, and while some sadness lingers, I am grateful.

Trapped in a Tin Can

The author faces another lack-of-control moment. Will he survive?

Mood music for this post: “By the Sword” from Slash’s new and excellent solo album:

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

After only two days home from Washington DC, I’m on the road again.

This time I’m headed to New York to give a talk on DDoS attacks at a security event. I’m glad to do it because after spending the first part of my life in sheer terror of public speaking, it’s a gift that I can do it now and feel totally at ease. I speak at some security events and often at OA meetings, while I also Lector at church.

There’s nothing quite like facing down and killing your fears. That’s one of the many blessings of my recovery from mental illness and addiction.

But my current predicament reminds me that the OCD is never far from the surface.

I’m on the LimoLiner bus, known for it’s plush leather seats, satellite TV and Internet access. I usually have good luck with the Internet access, but this morning it’s touch and go. I can’t get the VPN working, so I can’t update headlines on CSOonline.com or post an article I’m planning to write during the trip.

In other words, I have no control of the situation. OCD cases like me crave control like a junkie craves the needle. To lose control is physically painful for people like me. It typically feels like a Zippo lighter is torching the core of my brain and the head and back go numb and then ache. Fortunately, I’m not feeling the physical pain this time.

I’m falling back on my tools of recovery, letting go and letting God.

I have limited Internet access, so I’ll just make the best of it. I also have my iTunes library and am enjoying the hell out of Slash’s new solo album. The coffee isn’t bad, either.

In the big picture, this beats the hell out of the rages I’d go through when things took a turn beyond my control. Traffic. Flight delays. Being late for a movie. All these things used to result in rage. Not the kind where I would hurt anyone, but the kind where every vicious thought on Earth would flash through my mind and wipe me out.

I still have my mood swings. I always will. But it’s nice to be rid of the rage.

I’ll write more later. Meantime, seize the day.

The Mental Illness Stigma That Won’t Die

The author came clean about his own battles with mental illness and addiction exactly because of stupidity like this…

Mood music for this post: “Push Comes to Shove” by Van Halen, from the “Fair Warning” album:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g3aW7oofNgs&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Kay Lazar from The Boston Globe wrote a story this week that sent my blood boiling. My problem wasn’t with the reporting or writing. She does a fine job. It’s the topic that burns.

The story, available here, is about firms putting limits on coverage for mental health care. It’s the same sorry song that ratchets up the fear level for those suffering from depression, OCD, bipolar disorder and the like.

It proves to the sufferer that mental illness is still viewed as a less-than-legitimate illness, something that’s more a figment of the sufferer’s imagination.

In the eyes of many health insurers, it appears this sort of thing doesn’t justify the same kind of coverage it offers for those with heart problems or asthma.

The industry can be just as daft when it comes to fair coverage of those things, too, but I look at mental health issues differently than most, given my own experiences. [Summed up in OCD Christmas, The Bad Pill Kept Me From The Good Pill and The Most Uncool Addiction]

Here’s the intro to Kay’s report:

Spiraling medical costs have driven many employers to place new limits on coverage for mental health care, raising concerns that the rules may violate federal regulations intended to make it as easy for patients to see therapists as other doctors.

At issue is the growing practice of requiring therapists to undergo lengthy and repeated phone interviews about their patients’ progress before the insurance company will approve further treatment. According to patients and therapists interviewed by the Globe, the reviews have established tougher criteria for additional visits and have been burdensome and intimidating. That has sometimes led to curtailed treatment and protracted appeals.

Among those feeling the squeeze are state and municipal employees who get their insurance through the Group Insurance Commission, a quasi-state agency that provides mental health coverage for more than 100,000 workers and their families.

The commission, facing double-digit increases in its mental health insurance costs, changed its rules last year and now requires therapists who are not in the commission’s roster of approved specialists to justify, usually through lengthy telephone reviews, a patient’s need for continued treatment after every 10 sessions. Previously, the commission simply required the therapists to regularly fax the insurer a progress report.

I would be simple to point the finger at one party and say they’re evil. Truth is, this is a mess that’s splattered all over the place. I think most employers want to do the right thing and offer the best coverage possible, but when costs spiral out of control they sometimes make decisions that prevent the mentally ill from getting the right treatment.

It’s especially easy to say the health insurance industry is the devil in this tale. After all, it’s the one making this outrageous demand for lengthy phone interviews before approving further treatment.

But I’m biased. My view of the health insurance industry is that decisions are based exclusively on the bottom line than on what’s right. I see it all the time. I also take the simple and probably naive view that if a sizable chunk of one’s salary is being used to pay for healthcare and all the extra expenses that come with medication, the insurer has no business putting the squeeze on patients.

I’m not an expert. I can only base my opinion on personal experience. But I’ve heard enough horror stories from other people to know this crap is for real.

That’s exactly why I started this blog.

I chose to out myself and share my experiences so other sufferers might realize they are not freaks and that they have a legitimate, very easily explained medical problem that’s very treatable. It takes that kind of understanding for someone to get up and get help.

I try not to engage in political debate because this is such a personal issue, though sometimes I have to make a point on current events like I did when Health care Reform passed in March.

I do know this, though: Many good people have died because of mental illness. They were ashamed and afraid to get help because of the stupid notion that they are somehow crazy and either need their ass kicked or be institutionalized. So they try to go it alone and either end up committing suicide because their brains are knocked so far off their axis or they die from other diseases that develop when the depression forces the sufferer into excessive eating, drinking, starvation, drug taking or a combination of these things.

There’s also the ridiculous idea that a person’s workmanship becomes valueless when they’re in a depression. If someone misses work because they have cancer, they are off fighting a brave battle. They are fighting a brave battle, of course. No doubt about it.

But depression? That person is slacking off and no longer performing.

I’ve been able to debunk that idea in my own work circle. It helps that I’ve been blessed to work with exceptional, amazing and enlightened people.

Luckily for me, I got rid of my fear and anxiety long ago, so I’m going to keep sharing my experiences. It probably won’t force change  or tear down the stigma single-handedly.

But if a few more people get just a little more fight in them after reading these diaries, it will have been well worth the risks.

The Brenners Invade The White House

The author on returning from a journey that would have been impossible a few years ago.

It’s 5:30 a.m. and I’m running on less than four hours of sleep, so excuse any typos that follow…

I’m back in my “sunrise chair” the morning after returning from one hell of a road trip that included a private tour of the White House West Wing, a stay at buddy Alex Howard’s place and a stay with our wonderful Maryland relatives, Charron, Steve, Stevie and Maggie.

There’s a lot about the trip I’m still stunned about. I’m still in awe of the fact that I got to poke my head in the Oval Office and Cabinet Room and that I got a quick peek inside the Situation Room when a staffer was leaving the main room (the Situation Room is actually made up of several rooms).

I’m very thankful for Howard Schmidt for giving us the tour and for Alex for letting the whole family stay in his cramped but very cool townhouse on Capitol Hill.

I’m also thankful for the level of recovery I’ve achieved, because without it I never could have done the trip, especially with the whole family on an 8-hour drive down and a longer, 12-hour drive home Sunday (lots of traffic).
I’ll be honest and tell you I wasn’t perfect this trip. Friday morning we got a late start to the day and I found myself in an OCD-enhanced mood dive. It was a classic control freak out: I wanted to show Erin and the boys EVERYTHING. But with two small kids with shorter legs than their Dad, you can’t do that. And for a few hours Friday afternoon, as we walked from the Lincoln monument to the Museum of Natural History, I was in that brain-clouding mood I used to live with 24 hours a day.
But it was still a good day, and an even better night. Being in the West Wing of The White House, where every president of the last century has toiled away (some for the good, others for the not-so-good), was just magical for a history nerd like me. And I’m grateful my wife and children got to see it all.
It was a joy the next day to spend time with our Corthell cousins on the Maryland coast: Charron, Maggie, Steve and Stevie. Such a wonderful family. Charron took us to a maritime habitat that included time out on the water and inside a really cool lighthouse.
I especially enjoyed watching Maggie and Duncan bond during the boat ride.
So why wouldn’t this trip have been possible a few years ago? For starters, driving ANYWHERE outside the comfortable confines of the north-of-Boston area used to send me into panic. My fear and anxiety extended to a terror over getting lost. Even getting lost in Boston was cause for fear.
This trip, I did the whole drive down and back with none of that. I even enjoyed the journey.
I also wouldn’t have had the guts a few years ago to inquire about a White House tour. Too much work and I’d have to actually talk to someone with a big title. That would have been too intimidating.
I also would have been afraid to take the time off from work, since being a people pleaser was more important than living back then.
My 12-Step recovery program helped a lot. It kept me from wasting time and energy on binge eating and so I got to experience more from the journey. My Faith also helped, because I know now that the key to everything is to Let Go and Let God. I worked my tools, and everything was fine.
Not perfect. I feel like an idiot for taking that mood swing Friday afternoon. I also realize now more than ever that I’m addicted to computer screens. Erin decreed that we leave the laptops behind and I’m glad we did. But man was it hard to not run to a computer and upload those White House pics right after taking them. That’s something I still have to work on.
But then I knew I was still a work in progress. I always will be.
But I’m a grateful, lucky work in progress.

How a Binge Eater in Recovery Packs for a Trip

The author’s program of recovery from addiction makes travel more interesting. Here’s how.

Mood music for this post: “White Trash Circus” by Motley Crue:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1w5eegIa97s&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Traveling was easier when I had my face in the junk food. I would just buy whatever poison I wanted to binge on and that was that. Of course, in doing so I had practically no drive to get out there and live.

A couple years into my 12-Step Recovery program, there’s a lot more preparation to be done on the food front. Breakfast and lunch for each day of the trip gets packed in advance. I’ll do the restaurant thing at dinnertime each evening, but my choices will be limited to my plan.

Otherwise, my meals look like this:

BREAKFAST FOR EACH DAY OF TRAVEL:

8 ounces of Greek yogurt

2 Ounces of granola

1 bannana

LUNCH FOR EACH DAY OF TRAVEL:

–10 ounces of vegetable (6 ounces cooked, 4 ounces raw)

–2 ounces of potato

–4 ounces of protein (meat)

Clean livin’ aint easy, my friends. But it beats the hell out of the alternative.

Road Kill (a Family Adventure)

The author on why he’s taking the family on a 10-hour car ride.

Mood music for this post: “Heading Out to the Highway” by Judas Priest:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MoDbAd4fYBA&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

A few years ago, this would have been impossible.

I never would have put the whole family in the car and driven 10 hours south to Washington D.C. Too scary. Too much planning. Someone might break into the house while we’re gone.

Well, the house part is a valid concern. So before anyone gets any bright ideas, I should note that I have someone staying here to look over the place while we’re gone. My neighbors are keeping an eye on things as well, and you don’t want to piss them off. Trust me. I write about security for a living, so I always plan these things out.

So we’re going to the nation’s capital because a friend works in the White House and we’re getting the tour. It’s also high time we took the kids to the Smithsonian museums. Meanwhile, Duncan thinks the Lincoln Monument is part of the White House and doesn’t believe me when I tell him that’s not the case. So I have to show him the evidence.

Living on a tight budget, we’re driving down and staying at a friend’s house and then a cousin’s house. We’re packing lunches to take along instead of buying restaurant food.

I’m grateful to the folks who are making this trip possible, because this will be something that the kids remember forever. Pictures will follow.

I should also point out that I won’t be posting anything new here until after the trip. My laptop is staying behind.

So here’s another reason this trip will be so special:

Back when I was tight in the grip of fear, anxiety and depression, the mere thought of embarking on something like this would have been too frightening. The work involved. The planning. Leaving the house. All notions that were too terrible to contemplate.

Now I realize how Blessed I am that I can do something like this for my family.

And I’m looking forward to the ride down almost as much as being at our destination. I used to hate long drives. Today I love a good road trip. The planning is a lot of work, but it doesn’t take the wind out of my sails like it used to.

I’ve done this run a couple times now on the RV to the ShmooCon security conference, though I wasn’t driving.

This is what you can do in Recovery.

Seize it.

The Fear of Current Events

Digging through storage boxes the other day, I found old, 20-plus-year-old copies of Time Magazine, Newsweek, Mother Jones and a host of others. There had to be four years of them, well over 200 volumes.

And so I was reminded — again — of all the fear I used to carry around.

As I’ve written before, fear and anxiety were byproducts of my particular brand of OCD, just like my addictions were a byproduct.

The fear meant a lot of things. Working myself into a stupor over the safety of my wife and children. An obsession with cleanliness, which was interesting since depression always meant my personal hygiene took a dive.

It also meant a fear of world events. When that Nostradamus movie “The Man Who Saw Tomorrow” came out on HBO in the early 1980s, I was terrified by the “future” scenes, especially the one where New York and Paris are destroyed in nuclear attacks.

Later, when Iraq invaded Kuwait, I thought the scene from above was playing out and it left me in a huge depression, one where I stayed in my basement with the lights off.

Similar emotions took hold on Sept. 11, 2001. Of course, those emotions took hold on everyone that day.

Most recently, in 2005, I had a long panic streak over the bird flu in Asia, which was predicted to be the next great pandemic, as deadly as the one in 1918-19.

I would read every magazine and every website tracking all these world events as if my personal safety depended on it. If a hurricane was spinning in the Atlantic, I would watch with deepening worry as it edged closer to the U.S.

When did all this stop? It’s hard to pin an exact date or year on it.

I only know it stopped.

One day the anxiety attacks stopped. Then I started to crave all the experiences I once feared. Not the terror attacks, plane crashes and pandemics, mind you, but the traveling, the public speaking and more intensified writing. One day I started craving those things with the same vigor with which I craved all the junk I polluted myself with.

Therapy — years of it — and Prozac definitely played a role. So did my deepening Faith.

Whatever it was, I’m glad it happened.

Just Like a Car Crash

The author is in a pretty good mood for a guy who cracked up his car last night.

Mood music for this post: “Stigmata” by Ministry:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rbMbTx6HyvE&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Last night, on the way home from an OA meeting, I cracked up the car. Badly.

The good news is that nobody was hurt, though my car is another story. The front end is smashed in. Oddly enough, the headlights, while popped out of place, are intact and working. Even the front bumper looks unscathed. The grill and hood are a mess, on the other hand.

The other person involved in the accident was very nice, as was the cop who pulled up, surveyed the scene and took the report.

Now I’m sitting here remembering 1997, the year my 1996 Ford Escort was smashed no less than three times.

Now I have to work from home, call the insurance folks and file the accident report with the Haverhill Police, Registry of Motor Vehicles and my insurance agency. This, on top of an already jam-packed day where I’m trying to get a lot of work done ahead of the trip to Washington later this week.

But strangely enough, I’m not depressed. Much. I don’t even think it would be accurate to say I’m stressed. Much. I’m certainly annoyed. A lot. But I’m not undone. Not one bit.

I’m not binge eating or drinking.

I’m not melting down from an onrush of fear and anxiety.

I’m just intent on doing what needs to be done today, and I feel calm.

Compared to how I reacted after those 1997 accidents, that’s some heavy-duty progress.