The Kid Sister

The 80s weren’t all bad, thanks to the kid sister who came along.

Mood music: “Nobody Told Me” by John Lennon. I used to sing the “Everybody’s smoking, and no one’s getting high” line to my kid sister, much to her dismay.

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

I’ve written about a lot of the darker parts of my childhood and teen years and how they factored into an adulthood of mental illness and addiction. But those years were brightened by a particularly strong ray of sunshine. Here’s the story of my kid sister, Shira.

Shira’s 15 years younger than me and was born nearly two years after my brother’s death. I was sick with the flu the day she was born and was also going through a Crohn’s flare up.

To say she brightened the mood at 22 Lynnway would be an understatement. She was an especially adorable baby and was a welcome distraction from everything that was going on at the time.

She’s grown up now and I don’t see her much these days, but last night we got a chance to catch up at my father’s birthday dinner. She was telling me about her current job teaching English and how she wants to use her teaching skills to work more with the disadvantaged. She recently got back from Mexico, where she lived for several months. Before that she lived in South America for quite awhile, teaching the locals.

She’s quite a kid. If not for the big chip on my shoulder, I might have been more like her in my 20s. I’m happy with how my life turned out and believe I had to go through the dark stuff to get here. But Shira has really been an inspiration to me. She crisscrosses the globe without fear and has an easygoing way about her that’s nearly impossible to crack. I know, because I’ve tried.

I’ve always been the teasing sort of brother. I tell everyone who will listen that I remember when I could fit Shira in a beer mug. I remember once, when she was about 4 or 5, she told me to stop teasing.

“I can’t help it,” I said. “I tease you cause I love you.”

“Then don’t love me,” she shot back.

Naturally, I told everyone about that exchange, and with more than a little glee.

Around the same time, I was having a lot of parties in the basement of the Revere house. The morning after, Shira would often make the rounds, stopping at the various friends who would be passed out asleep on my bed, on the couch or on the floor.

Even back then, no matter how much I drank the night before, I would always wake up early so I could sneak cigarettes without being seen.

I’d always enjoyed watching her make the rounds. My guests didn’t always enjoy it, but that was fine with me.

She brought a lot of joy to a family that was reeling from a string of bad breaks. She brings a lot of joy to the family today.

This post is my little thank you note to her.

Lessons of a Thirty-something

The author is reflecting a lot on things that happened in his 30s.

Mood music: “Lunchbox” by Marylin Manson:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5Fo57AXW3w&hl=en_US&fs=1]

Since my 40th birthday is next month, I’m thinking a lot about the last decade. In many ways, I’m not the same guy I was when I was staring at my 30th birthday. This has been a decade of healing, with a lot of broken scabs along the way.

At the start of my 30s, I started to come undone. The symptoms of what would eventually become an OCD diagnosis suddenly grew in intensity. The binge eating addiction entered a new era of viciousness. Some relationships imploded while others were renewed.

In my early 30s, the OCD manifested itself in some insidious ways. I was obsessed with pleasing people, especially my bosses at The Eagle-Tribune, and my mother. I was also obsessed with keeping my weight down in the face of the binging. So I exercised like a madman. In the process, I was just masking a physical decline.

At 31, I was busy being something I’m not good at — a hard-ass. My bosses demanded it. I would get wound so tight that I became impossible to work with. I was also busy trying to keep my mother and step-father happy, which was almost always impossible, especially when it came to their personalities clashing with that of my wife, who had given birth to Sean a year before.

I celebrated my 31st birthday with my mother, stepfather, in-laws and Erin at the Legal Seafood in the Peabody mall. I didn’t want a cake. My mother went nuts about it, because on someone’s birthday you give them cake. She couldn’t understand why I didn’t want it. She was going to ask the waitress to bring me a cake anyway, but Erin put her foot down, because, as I said, I didn’t want a cake.

The next day, my mother called:

Ma: “I just wanted to apologize for not having a cake for you.”

Me: “But I didn’t want cake.”

Ma: “I tried to get you one, but YOUR WIFE wouldn’t let me.”

It always came back to Erin. She was always the scapegoat for decisions I made that my mother didn’t like. And yet, I pressed on, trying to make everyone happy.

By 2006 I was long gone from The Eagle-Tribune, but was still obsessed with pleasing the masters at TechTarget. And I was still trying to please my mother. It was getting a lot harder to do, since I was two years into therapy, newly diagnosed with OCD and spending a lot of time digging back into an abusive past for clues on how I got the way I did. A lot of it came back to her. And so in the summer of 2006 that relationship broke apart.

Why go on about these things? Because some important lessons emerged from the experiences that were instrumental in my healing.

First, I realized that no matter how hard you try, keeping people pleased is impossible.

Second, I realized that the only way to achieve mental health is to be true to oneself. For me, that meant surrendering to a higher power and dealing head-on with the addictions. It also meant being honest about my limited ability to control OCD without medication.

And while some relationships fell apart, others that were damaged in my 20s started to heal in my 30s, especially in the last year.

To that end, I think of Joy, Sean Marley‘s widow. She’s remarried with kids and has done a remarkable job of pushing on with her life. She dropped out of my world for nearly 14 years — right after Sean’s death — until recently. The contents of our exchange are private, but this much I can tell you: I was wrong all these years when I assumed  she hated my guts and wanted nothing more to do with me.

I have to be careful with this last reconnection. I still have a lot of questions about Sean’s final years and the OCD in me wants to know everything now. If I’m lucky, some answers will come in time. But I’m not going to push. I have no right to.

Besides, simply being reconnected is, as Joe Biden might say, “A big fucking deal.”

I used the Marilyn Manson song above as my mood music today because I think of “Lunchbox” whenever I get angry about my limitations. By the time the song is over, I usually feel a lot better.

But while the kid in the song has his metal lunchbox and is “armed real well,” I got my tools of recovery. So you could say I’m armed much better than that kid.

When Parents Fail

Sometimes, a child’s worst enemy is his/her parents.

Mood music: “Institutionalized” by Suicidal Tendencies (The Pepsi Song):

[spotify:track:1KpRBS8dbDw7LxMhuK7Bso]

If I’ve learned anything on my long journey to recovery, it’s that addicts can almost always trace their behavior back to their parents. That’s certainly the case for me. My mother was always pushing food on me. She did it out of love and meant no harm, but that and the Crohn’s Disease battle certainly tilted my addictive behavior toward the compulsive binge eating.

If a parent drinks or drugs to excess, there’s a better-than-average chance their kids are going to do the same thing in adulthood.

Recovering addicts have noted this thread in their own lives time and again at the 12-Step meetings I go to.

Chris Hoff, a good friend of mine from the Internet security industry and perhaps one of the most prolific presences on Twitter, saw a good example of this brand of parental failure in a coffee shop yesterday morning. I’ll share his tweets on the subject, since his content is all public record at this point:

Noticing a fat guy feeding his obese son three doughnuts and yelling at the poor kid for being too slow, Hoff (Twitter handle is @Beaker) wrote:

Hint: If your 4-foot-something 8-year-old weighs more than me, you’re doing it wrong. Makes me want to cry. F’ing up your life is one thing, but his? 🙁 It’s not that I’m insensitive to his plight; been there. However he’s helping end his kid’s life early by poisoning him with junk and mean words.

He noted, correctly I think, that kids inherently know what’s healthy but they still fall into bad behavior that parents either can’t or won’t stop. Often, they enable it.

I’m no saint when it comes to parenting. I’ve tried to curb my use of profanity but sometimes it just comes out in hearing distance of my kids. And I credit Erin for their healthy diets because she has always been relentless about giving the kids balanced, low-fat meals. They’ve eaten at McDonald’s maybe once or twice. That place was often ground zero for my binges, so I NEVER take them there.

But, like I said, no parent is perfect.

Nevertheless, I still go into a rage when I hear about the kind of situations Hoff was talking about. I don’t know that guy’s story, and maybe I’d be more sympathetic if I did. But letting his kid grow morbidly obese and enabling it by feeding him three doughnuts makes him an asshole in my mind. Maybe that’s hypocritical of me, but there it is.

One of my friends has a cousin who lets her son eat nothing but junk. The kid weights twice as much as both my kids put together. She feeds them the stuff because it’s easier than cooking something better. I think she’s an asshole, too. Sorry, but I do.

When you’re an addict, it’s exceptionally hard not to pass the behavior down to your children. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t keep trying to make them better than we are.

The shit-for-brains dad in the coffee shop either doesn’t understand that or doesn’t care.

The Perils of Service, Part 2

Volunteering can be a bitch, especially when you forget who you’re there to help.

Mood music for this post: “My Way” by Limp Bizkit:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PQ8Qi86i82s&hl=en_US&fs=1]

Once a month, I spend a couple hours on a Saturday volunteering in the food pantry run by our church. It can be a frustrating endeavor.

Part of the frustration is my own fault. I should be there more often, but I’m only there once a month because I’m spread so thin these days between family, work and sponsoring people in my 12-Step program.

A lot of new people are working the pantry these days. They’re not that new, mind you. They just seem new to me because I’m not there enough to be used to them. They’re good folks, but in my head — when the rush of people come in for their food — I pick apart how they do things. I’ll get annoyed if they try to process multiple orders at once because the bags of food get mixed up and chaos ensues. One guy is very serious and doesn’t laugh at my jokes.

The Saturday crew is always bitching about the Tuesday crew leaving a mess. The Tuesday crew is always bitching about the Saturday crew for the same reason.

And there I am, on my own perch, picking apart how everyone does things because I want everyone to do it my way. I am a control freak, after all. Not that I have a right to be.

These people are there every Tuesday and Saturday. I show up once a month.

If anything, they should be annoyed by me, and they probably are.

Clashing egos is pretty common among those who do service. On the recovering addict side, everyone in the room suffers from compulsive behavior. People like us usually have bloated egos. Mine is especially bloated. This makes me an asshole at times.

But I press on and do what I need to do, and things always work out.

The friction that’s always present among the volunteers at the start of a shift always eases off and we’re all getting along midway through. You can pick on how different people do things, but they’re all giving up their time to make something work.

And once I get out of my own way, things start to fall into place.

At some point in the shift, it hits me. The people in line are there because they can’t afford groceries. They’re down on their luck and doing the best they can.

And when you hand them the bags of donated food, they are GRATEFUL.

And they help me as much as I help them. When I see people who need to live on donated food standing tall, helping each other carry bags to their cars, picking up food for someone who may live at the other end of town from where they live, enjoying time with the children they have in tow, they bring me back to Earth and remind me what life’s all about.

The other volunteers — the ones who are there practically every week while I just breeze in once a month — help me too.

When I see how dedicated they are, it makes me work harder at being a better man.

Anatomy of a Binge

If you do these things, you might have a binge eating problem.

Mood Music: 

6 a.m.: Wake up, pour coffee. Resolve to live on nothing but coffee and cigarettes for the day.

8 a.m.: Fuck it. You’re hungry. Eat something healthy for breakfast. A bagel and cream cheese will do. Serving size, one 12-ounce container of cream cheese. Add swiss cheese.

8:15 a.m.: Smoke another cigarette and decide that’s all the food you’re going to eat for the day. Resolve to eat one giant breakfast and nothing else for the day for the next several days.

9 a.m.-10:15: As you work, start having a back-and-forth in your head as to whether you really should be having lunch.

10:45 a.m.: Walk to the vending machine for a healthy snack of animal crackers. Choose the Pop Tarts instead. Continue to ponder lunch.

11 a.m.: Take a break from work and drive around to clear your head. Resolve to have a smoke or two but no lunch.

11:02 a.m.: Proceed to the nearest fast-food drive-through or buffet place.

11:15-noonish: You chose the buffet place. Good. Stay there until you’ve had your fill. This will require going back for seconds, thirds and fourths.

Noonish-3ish: Resume working while pondering why you’re such a shameful idiot.

3ish: Get in the car. Plan to drive straight home.

3:05 p.m.: Stuff yourself with the $25 bag of McDonald’s you don’t quite remember buying a couple minutes ago.

3:30 p.m.: The three cheeseburgers, two large fries and two orders of chicken strips is consumed, and you’re sitting there wondering what you’re doing in the Dunk ‘N Donuts drive-through.

3:32 p.m.: Stare at the empty box of donuts and wonder what’s wrong with you.

3:35-4 p.m.: Keep your eyes on the road as you try to put the shame you’re feeling in the proper perspective.

4 p.m.: Get in the house and try to act like nothing’s wrong. When the kids ask you to play with them, explain that your back hurts and lie on the couch.

5:30 p.m.: Dinner time. Try as hard as you can to eat some of what’s on your plate, even though it looks healthy and your gut is throbbing from what you did earlier.

6:30 p.m.: Get the kids ready for bed.

7:30 p.m.: Fall asleep on the couch and forget the day you’ve just had.

Repeat process the next morning.

That’s how I used to do it, anyway.

Sometimes it would just last a day or two. Usually, it would be weeks and months. In 1997, I probably carried on like this for all but a few weeks of the year.

 

Songs to Knock You Back on Your Feet

When life seems overbearing and unmanageable, the following songs help me regain my footing.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yDRopoYh144&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ErvgV4P6Fzc&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7eRiAnZt24&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AFG820EwvUQ&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVXIK1xCRpY&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rer-B4g6TPc&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ka_sHy9cVH0&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ks8xhbNQw4g&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XByR0wVIYkU&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oIP1okixlfE&hl=en_US&fs=1]

Summers of Love and Hate

One would think Revere Beach was the perfect place to spend summers growing up. The ocean was right across the street from our house, after all. But the truth is that summer has always been a time of dangerously fluctuating moods for me, and a lot of it played out in that setting.

Mood music for this post: Summertime Rolls, by Jane’s Addiction:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hU1fK7uViBg&hl=en_US&fs=1]

Let’s start with the beach itself. Today Revere Beach is a beautiful place. The water is clean and the pavilions are all in one piece. The sidewalks have been redone and expanded. But in the 1970s and 80s, before the Deer Island sewage treatment plant was built (it was the site of a prison back then), the water was always a murky reddish-brown. Some of the pavilions were roofless, thanks to The Blizzard of 1978.

Jellyfish were always washing up on the shoreline, further discouraging the urge to swim. On days when we were really bored, we’d put M-80s in them and blow them up. We’d do the same with the dead horseshoe crabs that washed ashore.

Thirty years ago, in the summer of 1980, my parents finalized very bitter divorce proceedings. My mother, understandably undone by the failure of her marriage, was more abusive than usual. I was sick with Crohn’s Disease a lot, and I had few friends. To keep us away from the rancor of the divorce, our parents sent my sister and I to Camp Menorah. My sister loved it, but I hated the place. I couldn’t get along with the other kids and I felt like my freedom was being taken from me. I felt like beating the crap out of some of the kids who taunted me, but I never did.

I remember getting stuck with a lot of needles at Children’s Hospital and suffering vomit-inducing migraines because of the prednisone I was taking.

As a teenager, I started drinking and smoking pot to escape. The big hang-out spot for all the partying teens was beneath the General Edward’s Bridge connecting Revere to Lynn.

I spent my fair share of time there, but I did my drinking and smoking mostly in private.

Even back then, addictive behavior was something to do alone.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=54sEMKGXq5Q&hl=en_US&fs=1]

Things settled down by the late 80s and my addictions were largely in check, though I was still doing stupid things to offset the binge eating: smoking cigarettes in the concrete storage room at the front end of the basement, collecting beer bottles so I could smash them during my moments of rage, and going on two-day fasts where I’d eat a mug of Raisin Bran in the morning, run laps in the living room area for two hours and crash for the rest of the day.

In the summer of 1991, I decided to live a little. Me and Sean Marley went to California and lived in a rental car for 10 days, driving as far north as Eureka and as far south as L.A. It was the trip of a lifetime, and I wasted a lot of it cowering in fear and anxiety. If I were Sean, I’d have left me in a gas station restroom somewhere in Bakersfield and fled for my life. Fortunately, Sean was better than that.

My unease over the summer months continued into my 30s. I spent a lot of time in work-induced anxiety and had no social life to speak of.

But along the way, something changed.

I think becoming a parent gave me a newfound appreciation for summer. We would always get more quality time together than the rest of the year. That’s still true.

Getting treatment for the OCD and binge eating addiction were huge factors as well. Especially when I realized that the longer periods of daylight are something I need. Now it’s the winter I have to work on, when the longer nights affect my brain chemistry and push me into depressions.

I’m grateful that I can now enjoy a season I used to loathe.

I’m spending a lot of time these days writing from my back deck. The heat doesn’t bother me so much, because it’s better than being cold. The sights and sounds inspire me.

Last night my friend Ann and her family came over for dinner. They are visiting from Virginia, where she’s been living since the mid-1990s. We were first friends in the early 90s when we were both at North Shore Community College. That was a rough time for her because her father was dying, and she doesn’t remember a lot from that period. But I do. We lost touch as soon as we moved on from NSCC, but we reconnected on Facebook a couple years ago.

We had a great night talking on the back deck as their kids and ours ran in and out of the house. It was great to meet her husband, Bob. I wish he were on Facebook so we could talk politics some more.

It’s a gift that I can live in the moment with family and friends without my brain spinning out of control with 14 kinds of worry.

It’s a gift to walk around outside while everyone’s still asleep and take in the scenery. We live in a beautiful part of Haverhill, surrounded by farmland and forest.

Summer used to be something to hate. Now it’s something to love.

That’s the kind of mood swing I can appreciate.

One Happy Head Case

The author on how to be happy despite yourself. Or, at least, how he attempts it.

Mood music for this post: “In My Life” by Ozzy (covering The Beatles):

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ByB7Id67v3c&hl=en_US&fs=1]

When anyone writes about their journey from addiction and mental illness to recovery, it’s easy to focus on the darker things. But the truth is, I’m a pretty happy head case. I may be financially strapped and tired, but my head is in a better place than it was when the situations were reversed.

The big reason is that I have God in my life, and, by extension, wonderful family and friends. And my head is clear enough after all these years to see and appreciate that.

I also have one of the best jobs a journalist could have, and several writing projects in play. Since boredom is an addict’s worst nightmare, I’m grateful for this.

I get to do a lot of service these days, whether it’s through my church or through my 12-Step Program. It can be a bitch and I’m sure I’m making mistakes along the way, but it’s worth it.

I also don’t have to wake up in the middle of the night puking stomach acid or spending my mornings binge sick like I used to.

Today I get to plan out my security conference travel schedule for the fall and see a dear friend and her family this evening.

I’m in my favorite chair by the living room window, watching the sun rise through the fog at 5 a.m. A strong cup of coffee is on the table beside me.

There’s plenty of happiness to be found when you’re a head case. You just have to know where to find it.

Switching subjects, a lot of new readers are asking me about the back story to this blog. I’ve pulled together all the relevant links on who I am, what I was, what made me change and what life is like now in this collection.

Seize the day.

Fear of Fat People

What do you tell someone who says they’re afraid of fat people because they might “catch the disease” if they get too close? Read on and discuss.

Mood music for this post: “Afraid” by Motley Crue:

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

Someone in program told me that she’s afraid of fat people. Being in the same room with obesity fills her with terror. She’s worried that if she shakes a fat person’s hand, she’ll “catch the disease.” I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried. It’s for real.

Naturally, I was taken aback. For one thing, why is she willing to be in a room with me?True, I’m much lighter than I used to be. But the word “slim” doesn’t exactly fit me.

To me, the whole thing is too far off the sanity charts to comprehend. My first instinct was to tell her she’s an idiot.

Then I remembered something important: When you are trapped in the grip of an addiction or mental illness, logic and sane thinking no longer apply.

I should know. I’ve been in the grip of both. I’ve had fears that were just as whacked. I never felt anxiety around people who are heavier than me. But there have been times when I thought of them as a lower form of life than myself. Since I was thinner, I was better than them. I thought this way even when I was 285 pounds and binge eating multiple times a day.

That’s just as bad as fearing an obese person. It’s probably worse.

Long before I found recover and the 12 steps, I used to be set off by the dumbest things. If a very old woman was sitting behind me in church, I’d be afraid to shake her hand during the part of Mass where we offer each other a sign of peace. Old people spread germs, too — right? That’s what I worried about. Forget that I’m a father of two boys below the age of 10 and kids are the biggest germ factories around.

I was afraid of plastic chairs. I was afraid that if I sat in one, the chair would stay stuck to my behind when I stood up. Actually, right before I entered OA, that very thing did happen.

Crowds used to scare the life out of me, so much so that I chose to stay in my room all the time.

So, all things considered, someone’s fear of fat people doesn’t seem as far removed from reality as I first thought.

Still, it’s a bad obsession and I hope she can free herself of it.

Coping With Tired: Tools of a Reformed Addict and OCD Case

Several writings about how the author copes with exhaustion.

Mood music for this post: “I’m So Tired,” from The Beatles White Album:

Someone who saw my “songs to play when tired” post asked what I do about being tied besides music and coffee. People with addictions and mental disorders are often tired — even when in recovery. These writings cover how I keep exhaustion at bay:

Rest Re-defined
The author finds that he gets the most relaxation from the things he once feared the most.
http://www.theocddiaries.com/2010/02/02/ocd-diaries-rest-re-defined/

The Bright Side of Exhaustion
For someone with OCD, a little exhaustion can be just what the doctor ordered.
http://www.theocddiaries.com/2010/03/26/the-bright-side-of-exhaustion/

Somewhat Damaged
Sometimes the author lives in overdrive. The result is pain.
http://www.theocddiaries.com/2010/04/26/somewhat-damaged/

The Rewards and Risk of Service: A Cautionary Tale
Service is a major tool of recovery. But it can also be dangerous.
http://www.theocddiaries.com/2010/04/29/the-rewards-and-risk-of-service-a-cautionary-tale/

This is Your Brain on Restlessness
The author has hit a wall with his recovery. It’s not what you think.
http://www.theocddiaries.com/2010/04/27/this-is-your-brain-on-restlessness/

Writing to Save My Life: The author on why he became a writer and how it shaped his recovery from mental illness and addiction.

http://www.theocddiaries.com/2010/06/02/writing-to-save-my-life-the-ocd-diaries-for-6-2-10/

How I Became the Easy Parent
Here’s a side of my recovery that the kids enjoy: I’m more of a push-over than I used to be.
http://www.theocddiaries.com/2010/06/06/how-i-became-the-easy-parent/