The OCD Diaries

March 22, 2012

Romney’s Lesson: When You Try To Be Someone Else, People Notice

This post is about what happens to politicians when they try too hard to be someone else. Mitt Romney is in the thick of it. John McCain was four years ago, as was Al Gore eight years before that.

Mood music:

It’s not just a problem with politicians. Musicians have fallen in the trap. So have writers. I’ve been there myself.

In the desperate search for success and fame — and getting elected — it’s easy to try to be someone you’re not. The problem is that you inevitably get caught.

The Romney of today is not the Romney that was elected governor in liberal Massachusetts. His brand of conservatism was far more moderate a decade ago. When he decided he wanted to be president, he immediately shifted right. People see right through him, which is why he’s having so much trouble sewing up the Republican nomination.

It’s the same mistake McCain made in 2008, when he was trying so hard to please the right instead of being the straight-talking “maverick” that gave George W. Bush hell in the 2000 Republican primaries. Meanwhile, Al Gore was trying so hard to distance himself from Bill Clinton that he completely denied his role in shaping the policies of the Clinton Administration.

Voters could smell the rat every time.

It’s really no different from what you see elsewhere in life. When we’re not acting like our natural selves, the people who know us best take notice.

I speak from the experience of trying to replace my brother after he died, of trying to be Jim Morrison in college and of trying to be a hard-nosed newspaper editor in the late 1990s and early 2000s. I also speak as someone with an addictive personality who has often lived in denial and lied to bury pain and shame.

The more I talk to fellow recovering addicts and emotional defects, the more I realize we have one big thing in common: We want to please everyone and be loved for it.

I wrote about my own experience with this in a post called “Why Being a People Pleaser Is Dumb.”

I wanted desperately to make every boss happy, and I did succeed for awhile. But in doing so I damaged myself to the core and came within inches of an emotional breakdown. It caused me to work 80 hours a week, waking up each morning scared to death that I would fall short or fail altogether. I wanted to make every family member happy. It didn’t work, because you can never keep everyone happy when strong personalities clash.

In the face of constant let-downs, I binged on everything I could get my hands on and spent most waking moments resenting the fuck out of people who didn’t embrace me for who I am.

I won’t lie. I still struggle with that. It’s possible I always will. But I’m not running for office, so it’ll never be quite so glaring.

But no matter how small your world is, someone will always see through your phony exterior.

The problem for Romney is that his true colors are bleeding through on the big stage.

March 21, 2012

Rock School Would Have Helped Me

Watching my kids in the Scouts makes me wonder what I’d be like today had I not been so against trying everything my parents suggested.

Mood music:

My parents were always trying to get me to join different organizations: The Jewish Community Center off of Shirley Ave. in Revere, Camp Menorah, etc. I rebelled against all of it.

My parents were right to push these things on me. I was in the fourth grade and they had just gotten divorced. It was a bitter, hate-filled, fight-infested divorce. They just wanted there to be someplace we could go to take our minds off the pain and focus on something positive.

The counselors at these places tried their best to make it happen. But I was a punk and treated them all with contempt. I especially hated Camp Menorah (my much younger sister, Shira, loved it there and was a counselor when she got older.). I didn’t get along with anyone and I felt they were robbing me of the freedom to roam the streets of the Point of Pines. The home neighborhood was safe enough and was surrounded by the ocean. I just wanted to hide in the tall grass behind Gibson Park.

Looking back, I feel bad for being such a rotten kid to these people.

Fast forward 32 years.Sean and Duncan are heavily involved in all the typical scouting activities: pinewood derbies, Blue and Gold banquets, frequent camping trips. I’ve been on three camp-outs with Sean, who just crossed over into Boy Scouts.

The dynamic is much different. We’re not trying to keep them from home to shield them from pain. We just see it as a great character-building opportunity. Besides, a lot of their friends are Scouts.

I would have made a terrible scout because my mind was in the gutter much of the time. I probably would have been kicked out.

The only thing I really took passion in besides my Star Wars toy collection was music. I watched MTV religiously. I collected every scrap of heavy metal I could get my hands on. Van Halen. Motley Crue. Alice Cooper. Kiss. Metallica. Anthrax.

It would have been immensely useful to me if there had been an activity where I could channel that stuff.

Nothing makes me think of this more than the music school my friends started down the street from where we live.

We first met Nancy Burger and her son Wolfgang around 2005 when we hired Nancy to babysit Sean and Duncan. Wolfgang was always with her, and my kids took a shine to him. Eventually we started taking turns watching each others’ kids.

Nancy and her husband, Mike DeAngelis, shared my taste for the same heavy rock music.

Eventually, Nancy and Mike — a longtime music teacher — pooled their talents and started a music school — DeAngelis Studio of Music & Arts — in an old building in Lafayette Square. They added an element that a lot of music schools don’t have — a rock school where students form bands and learn to perform live. Wolfgang, then 6 or 7, started playing bass and became part of a band the school put together with other kids his age called the Black Diamonds. We’v e seen them perform several times, and they’ve gotten quite good.

The kids have gone to concerts together. They got backstage and met the Scorpions. A couple weeks ago they saw Van Halen, which made me jealous as all hell.

In a way, their operation is a lot like Boy Scouts. They teach the kids the values of workmanship, teamwork and discipline. But there are no uniforms.

As a kid, I would have eaten it up. Who knows where that would have led me.

I don’t look back on what could have been with sadness.

I couldn’t be happier with how my life turned out. I wouldn’t trade my wife and kids for the world. I love my work.

I get to be creative through my writing.

I’m just grateful there’s a rock school for today’s youth.

I hope they keep at it for a long time to come.

March 20, 2012

What Else Is There?

When I’m wallowing in self-pity, I like to ask that question. It always goes back to those moments when I’m not particularly enjoying the clean and sober life.

Mood music:

For the most part, it’s gotten easier. When you don’t spend all your time thinking about how to pull off a binge, you get to experience a much fuller life. You enjoy the company of people more. You pack a lot more living into your travels. Best of all, you don’t go through the day under a foggy shroud that follows a drinking, eating or drugging binge.

But I won’t lie. Sometimes, when everyone around me is enjoying a glass of wine, a few beers, some cake and a smoke, I feel like the spoiled child who sits with his arms folded, pouting, because he lost dessert for leaving vegetables on the plate.

Saturday night kind of left me feeling that way. Erin and I had a fabulous evening at an auction to benefit our kids’ school and afterwards we went to the home of friends. The kitchen was packed with people whose company we’ve come to treasure. We didn’t go home until around 2 a.m., which for us is almost unheard of.

It was St. Patrick’s Day. Part of me would have loved indulging in the whiskey and wine on the table, and I would have enjoyed a cigar even more. But I can’t do that stuff anymore. Luckily, our hosts had Red Bull on hand. That’s my go-to beverage when the temptation for alcohol becomes too much.

I’m starting to realize something about these “what else is there” moments. It’s the dark side of my soul trying to trap me in old behavior. The devil whispers something in my ear about how I should be able to enjoy some of the finer things in life; that I shouldn’t be living the clean life if it’s going to make me a miserable bastard.

And yet I still weigh out every meal I eat. I avoid flour and sugar as if it were lethal poison. And whenever I have the opportunity to drink alcohol or smoke — particularly during travel — I don’t follow through.

I suppose I have a strong enough memory of all the pain that followed indulgence and I remember how hard I’ve worked to clean myself up. I guess the thought of falling backwards pisses me off and sparks worry more than the self-pity I feel when I can’t party.

Strangely enough — particularly where the smoking is concerned — I think the Wellbutrin I take along with Prozac to keep depression at bay has eased the craving for smoke. I’d heard about Wellbutrin having this effect on people, but I quit smoking several months before taking it and I didn’t really connect the dots.

What I’ve discovered, I told Erin Saturday night, is that I stopped being pissed about the no smoking when the Wellbutrin took hold. Until then, though I had quit, I was pissed about it. I wanted to smoke and only stopped because I got caught.

The clean and sober life is a lot more complicated than I thought it would be.

But when I look at the things I’ve gained in life, I know it’s worth every deprived minute.

March 19, 2012

Can You Justify Dropping The N-Bomb In Anger?

The question in today’s headline should sound absurd to you because it is. There’s never an acceptable reason to use a word that’s so hurtful and hateful. And yet people justify it all the time.

Mood music:

Last week I pointed out an example: an anti-Obama bumper sticker that said “Don’t Re-nig.” I lamented that racism was alive and well, and the response was interesting.

One friend was (and probably still is) angry with me. He said my word choice suggested that anyone who dislikes Obama is a racist and that it hurt. At best, he said, I had an example of one racist idiot or a hoax.

I did research the matter before opining. The stickers were sold on a site called Stumpy Stickers — an operation that sold a variety of racist stickers. Fortunately, the furor on Facebook over a picture of the “Don’t Re-nig” sticker led to that site shutting down. The fact that there would be enough hatred out there for a company to profit from the rage told me that there’s still an undercurrent of racism out there, so I said something.

Have we come a long way since the days of Jim Crow? Absolutely. And, I honestly know of nobody in my circle of friends and family who would qualify as a racist. But it’s still out there.

It’s not just about blacks. There’s still a lot of Jew bashing out there, for example.

I also don’t see this as being about whether you like or dislike the policies of President Obama. Personally, I find a lot of fault in how Obama has done things. I prefer centrist governing and he’s too far left for my tastes, just as I felt George W. Bush was too far in the other direction. Bill Clinton was more my speed. But that’s just my view.

Most of the time, people have good, honest disagreements about politics but still manage to be good to each other and not take it personally.

When someone puts something like a “Don’t Re-nig” sticker on their vehicle, they’ve crossed the line. It’s entirely possible — maybe even probable — that people who bought these stickers are not racist. Chances are they’re just angry as hell that their views and needs aren’t being represented. Another friend suggested just that, writing on my Facebook page:

As I don’t know the people with the car, I can’t make a real judgment – this person may indeed be a racist -but are you sure the sticker was chosen because the owner is racist or because the owner is angry and expressing his anger with mean words? Because people often use harsh, angry, hurtful language when they’re mad to express their feelings and to try to hurt the “other” person – because they feel hurt themselves. That isn’t necessarily an indication the person is racist (or a man/woman hater, or – it just indicates they are angry and hurt. Kids who yell “I hate you” at their parents don’t, but they do feel injured and are lashing out. Same thing happens to adults – it just manifests differently.

One bumper sticker, one name called in anger, one vulgarity does not offer any particular insight into the views of another human being -particularly when such words are yelled in anger.

My response was this:

I don’t disagree about that, but when someone puts a sticker on their vehicle with something that’s going to hurt a lot of people, even if only out of anger and not out of raw bigotry, it says something about the person. I see this stuff on the left and right. I thought some of the Bush-bashing bumper stickers were out of control too. But in this case the N-word has been tossed out there, which takes the discussion to a whole new level. How we express our anger is important.

After Hurricane Katrina in 2005, when some of my more liberal friends suggested the horrendous federal response was because Bush didn’t like blacks and other minorities, I was furious. Anyone who had taken the time to study his background should have known better than to suggest that. Hell, both of his secretaries of state were African Americans. The tragically poor response to Katrina was about many things. Racism was not one of them.

I point this stuff out because I see stupidity on the left and right these days, and I’m tired of people suggesting my own positions are born from a particular political ideology.

In the final analysis, I think there’s too much hair-trigger anger in the world today. Blame politics. Blame the economy. Blame religious tensions. I think we should always be thinking about how we talk to each other. In that regard, I can’t ever think of a good reason to use the N-word or any other word that denigrates someone’s culture, faith, skin color or language.

I say this as someone who is not squeaky clean. When I was younger and dumber, I used the N-word. A lot.

I have never been a bigot. All I ever judged someone by was how they treated me and others.

But I’ve always been a button pusher. When I was a teen and early 20-something, I thought it was perfectly fine to use hurtful words to get a reaction. I worked in my father’s warehouse with Spanish-speaking guys from all over South America. They would call me names and I’d respond with something inflammatory against Latinos.

At the time I was also in a band and listening to a lot of metal-infused Hip-Hop. The main example was Ice-T’s band Body Count. These rappers dropped N-bombs like it was nothing. If blacks were doing that, I reasoned, it must be perfectly OK. I lived by that stupid belief with relish.

I eventually grew up. Looking back, using those words is one of the things I regret the most. And I have plenty of regrets.

So when I see it today — whether it’s used out of political anger or humor — I’m going to say something about it.

Get over it.

March 18, 2012

About Father Canole And Keeping The Faith

Life as a Catholic in the city of Haverhill, Massachusetts can be a bitch, sometimes. Here we are waking up to news that another priest, Rev. Robert Canole, has resigned from his pastoral duties in disgrace.

We look up to our priests and count on them for inspiration. We go in a confessional with them and spill our deepest, darkest faults. Then some of those priests let us down hard.

http://youtu.be/IaymN2mkaC0

According to my local paper, The Eagle-Tribune, Conole won’t be coming back to Sacred Hearts Church. My old friend Paul Tennant wrote:

Conole’s resignation has been accepted by Cardinal Sean O’Malley, archbishop of Boston. He was investigated by the Archdiocese of Boston for “serious adult-related misconduct,” according to a statement read by the Very Rev. Arthur Coyle, episcopal vicar for the Merrimack Valley Region, during weekend Masses at Sacred Hearts.

He left in May under a shroud of mystery. Rumor had it he was dealing with anger management issues. At the time, I wrote a post encouraging people to send him cards and letters of support like they did when my former pastor, the late Dennis Nason of All Saints, took a leave of absence to confront his alcoholism.

I also wrote something when Father Keith LeBlanc, a former priest at my parish and most recently pastor of St. John’s across town, left in a hurry after it came to light that he was being investigated for mishandling church dollars. It turns out he spent $83,000 of church money on porno movies and got three years of probation after pleading guilty to larceny. That one really hurt because LeBlanc led my RCIA group the year I converted.

But I still believe in what I wrote at the time, which is that everyone fails and has a shot at redemption.

Sometimes I wonder how I can stick up for these priests. After all, how much can a Catholic take? These are the same priests who tell us how we should live, how we should vote and how we should treat others. Theoretically, I should be mad as hell.

And yet I’m not angry. Sad, yes. But not angry.

I still believe what I said before, that as human beings, we all fail frequently and have a chance to set things right.

I’ve written about my own failures a million times in this blog. I’d be a hypocrite if I ripped into these priests. I’d probably feel differently if I was the victim of a pedophile priest. But I’m not.

In the 11 years I’ve lived in Haverhill, Mass., I’ve seen the best and worst sides of the Catholic Church.

On the ugly side, there were priests who played a part in the sex abuse that ultimately blew up in Cardinal Law’s face. There are parishioners who get so caught up in church politics that they forget what they’re truly there for, and they make life miserable for others. There was Father LeBlanc.

On the other side of the spectrum was Father Nason going public about his alcoholism, inspiring us all with his comeback. And, most importantly, there are all the people who have found their faith in recent years regardless of whatever ugliness is in the headlines, including me.

We all fail, no matter what our position in life. The important thing is what we do with our failures.

I hope these disgraced priests find a way to turn their experiences into something we can all learn and benefit from. The jury is still out on whether that will happen.

But as I keep saying, my faith is in God, not the humans who serve the church for better and worse.

That’s what keeps me steady in moments like this.

March 16, 2012

Racism Is Alive And Well

I’d like to think those who dislike Obama simply have differences with him over economic and social policy. I’d like to think that in 2012, people don’t hate based on skin color.

Then I see something like this:

March 16, 2012

Things Kids Say, March 16, 2012

The children continue to let their guard down and say the most interesting things, apparently unaware — despite this being one of several installments in a series — that I’m lurking nearby, writing it all down.

Mood music:

“All this time I thought you wrote that song,” Sean, after hearing John Lennon’s “Beautiful Boy” on the radio. I frequently call both kids beautiful boy, much to their chagrin.

“John Lennon was shot to death by a fan? What kind of moron does that?” Duncan, after I told him about the former Beatle’s sad end.

“Are you called that because you pick corn in the winter?” Duncan, asking his pediatrician, Dr. Winterkorn, about her name.

“I’d rather dress up in red, like Darth Maul.” Sean, on why he doesn’t want to wear green to school for St. Patrick’s day.

Duncan: “Why do they call it a ballroom? I don’t see any balls in this room.”

What Sean said: “Duncan tried to break my breast bone!” What really happened: Duncan pointed toward Sean’s chest during an argument.

“Duncan bunny!” Sean’s latest pet name for Duncan. Duncan likes it as much as he liked being called cupcake, which is to say he didn’t like it at all.

“The food is better and they don’t tuck in their shirts.” Sean, explaining why he chose a different Boy Scout troop from the one all his friends went to.

Observation: If Duncan is going to lie and tell us he brushed his teeth, he probably shouldn’t leave a dry tooth brush behind as evidence that he lied.

“You need a new cell phone so you can get a husband.” Sean’s friend Nick, explaining to his single Mom why she should get an iPhone.

“They can be real idiots sometimes.” Duncan, telling a friend what he thinks of his parents’ decision to ban him and Sean from watching Mad TV. He didn’t realize that I was right behind him.

“Hahahaha! Stupid Uncle Bill.” Madison, the 3-year-old niece, after I called her stink-cake for the umpteenth time.

“Can I stab myself in the eyes now?” Sean, displeased that his cousin Madison is making him watch Strawberry Shortcake.

“All women are the enemy.” Sam Dalton, Duncan’s classmate, overheard at a birthday party. His indictment of females everywhere does not include Gabby, a classmate he and Duncan have had a crush on since kindergarten.

“They both like me, you know.” Gabby, telling me in a matter-of-fact tone that San and Duncan adore her.

Breaking Up (The Day) Is So Very Hard To Do

When you have the OCD blinders on, you can do the work of three highly-motivated people. You can go for hours and hours, your ass sinking into the seat like an anvil. The problem is that your muscles and mind are a tangled wreck when you stand up many hours later.

Mood music:

Any doctor or therapist will tell you to get up every 25 minutes or so and walk around for a bit. Maybe go eat lunch outside on a nice day instead of at the desk. They call this breaking up the day.

I suck at it. Always have.

So when I was asked to participate in a program where I would read to a second-grader at a school near the office once a week, I groaned. I didn’t want to do it. It would mean I had to stop what I was doing and go, whether I felt ready or not.

But I try to be a team player. So I signed up.

Every week, it’s the same feeling. I’m hauling ass on a project, and 11 a.m. rolls around. Time to get up and go read. I tell myself there’s a few more minutes to work. It’s usually 11:45 before I get up.

With no traffic, that would be fine. But there’s always traffic on this route because of all the traffic lights and a busy mall. So I get to the school a few minutes late.

Then I go in and meet up with the second-grader I’ve been assigned. His name is Luis. He has spiky blond hair and dark skin. He’s a very cool-headed little guy. Nothing seems to get him excitable. He lunchbox is always packed with chips, tacos and cheese in a box and something for dessert. He always eats the desert first. While he eats, I read. They call this the Power Lunch.

He likes the lighthearted stuff: The “Magic Tree House” series, the “Ricky Ricotta and His Mighty Robot” books, “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” and “The Adventures of Captain Underpants.”

Occasionally, I get him to pick a biography. Always about a sports legend. I’d try to turn him on to bios about politicians and rock stars, but there are none in the bin.

When he can’t listen anymore, we’ll play a game or two of Tic Tac Toe.

I like the kid a lot. I always admire the people who don’t get rattled. There are other kids in the group that bounce off the walls. One of my co-workers — a young, geeky type of guy — has the rowdiest kid of the bunch, which amuses me to no end. The boy is also one of Luis’ best buddies, so he spends a lot of time looking at our table, contemplating ways to get out of his seat and come over.

The whole thing takes 30 minutes a week. It goes by fast. And I always walk out of there with a smile.

Then the next reading day rolls around, and I repeat the process.

Thing is, I’m glad I decided to do this. It’s rarely convenient, but that’s the OCD talking. As I said earlier, I don’t like having to get up when I’m engrossed in a task.

But I do it anyway. And I’m better for it.

I guess the doctors and therapists aren’t full of shit after all.

I got a reward for my efforts too. Luis made me a card thanking me for reading to him. It warms the heart.

March 14, 2012

Such A Waste To Lose One’s Mind-Fulness

A combination of OCD and ADD has given me a bitch of a handicap: Living in the moment and being present has become tough as nails. Health experts call this elusive thing I search for “mindfulness.”

Mood music:

Here’s what happens:

When the OCD runs hot, I develop tunnel vision. I focus in on the task I’m either doing or thinking about. That’s good if you have a major work project to complete. It’s bad when someone is trying to talk to you and your brain is weaving a hundred schemes.

When the ADD picks up steam, I lose my focus. I’ll start thinking about a song I heard that day or how good it’ll feel to get into bed with a book. All while someone is talking to me.

I thought I stabbed this problem in the heart and killed it. On further reflection, I’m finding that the same problem has simply changed bodies like Dr. Who.

That in itself is still good, since the old persona was intense fear and anxiety that often incapacitated me. I broke out of that shell and life has been so much better as a result. But my current troubles are still painful.

Dealing with this issue has become the main focus of recent therapy sessions. I started bringing up the issue with my therapist because I’ve been realizing how unfair and hurtful zoning out can be at home. I don’t want to be that guy. And yet, for the moment, I am.

It’s not just a problem at home. Anywhere I go, when people are talking to me for anything longer than five minutes, I start to enter a fog. I still capture the main points of the conversation, but it requires heavy effort — effort that can be physically painful.

In recent weeks, I’ve considered what this handicap could cost me. My first reaction was to feel scared. That has settled into a low-grade anger.

Anger that I can’t just fix my brain and be done with it.

Anger that I have to do more therapy than usual.

Anger that the whole thing is exhausting me.

But that’s life. I have a problem, and I intend to beat it. And if I can’t beat it, I intend to figure out how to manage it.

At my age, I’m really not sure how much more I can fix. But even though I haven’t achieved perfection up to this point, the journey has been a beautiful one, full of experiences I never could have had a few years ago.

What lies ahead could be unpleasant. But as with past challenges, I may find gifts buried beneath the ugliness.

March 13, 2012

I’d Like To Blame My Parents, But…

I’ve been frustrated lately over my inability to balance how I express emotions. Forget balance — I suck at emotion, period.

Mood music:

With my kids I get too emotional at times, showering them with kisses and telling them I love them a lot more than they probably care to hear. Duncan’s refrain is usually, “I know already, Dad!”

With my wife I’m not emotional enough. When times get difficult — and even when they’re going well — I tend to clam up. I share my feelings in headline form or I don’t share at all. That’s pretty whacked considering all the opening up I do here.

I’ve been trying to solve this puzzle for years, but I’m no closer than where I started.

Sometimes I get really angry with my parents for this.

My mother was the smothering type. She wanted me close by at all times when I was a kid, and would get in my personal zone at the wrong times, hugging me when I wanted to be left alone. I don’t entirely blame her for this. She lost another child, and she was clinging to what she had left with everything she had. The effect was suffocating, and I ultimately rebelled.

My father, on the other hand, had no clue about expressing his feelings. Whenever I hit a milestone (in adulthood the milestones were promotions and raises at work), his response was always a detached, “That’s it?” If I expressed fatigue over life’s difficulties, the response — instead of relating his experiences and how he pulled through the tough stuff — was always, “It’s good for you.” My paternal grandmother was the same way. As the tired old saying says: The apple never falls far from the tree.

In the area of emotional balance, you could say I lacked role models — which is why I want to punch the walls a lot lately. I’m in my 40s and need to figure these things out with no prior experience. I think my trouble expressing emotions is why I started writing this blog. I can write my feelings and share just fine. But in face-to-face conversation, I flounder.

Some people would dismiss this as unimportant. No one is perfect at this, after all. Like everything else, this is life.

But I’m really starting to worry about doing to my wife what my parents did to each other. I’m worried that I’ll do to my kids what my parents did to me — ensuring that they grow up to start another generation of dysfunction.

But here’s the thing: I’m a grown man on the fast track to middle age. Too much time has passed since I left home for me to keep blaming everything on my parents. They did the best they could with the tools they had, but fucked up a lot. All parents do.

I’m a big boy now. It’s time to take ownership.