But I Made All These End-of-the-World Plans

Here I sit at 6 a.m. on December 21. We’re all still here as I expected we would be, despite all the end-of-Mayan-calendar, end-of-the-world talk we’ve been listening to for what seems like an eternity. I’m actually a little disappointed, because there were a few things I was looking forward to, such as:

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  • Avoiding the age-old problem of two kids who refuse to get out of bed on time during the school week but who come running downstairs at 5:15 a.m. on their first day of Christmas vacation, hounding me to let them use their electronics.
  • Not having to see any more of those stupid zombie apocalypse memes that flood my Facebook feed.
  • Enjoying a few glasses of wine in the afterworld. Now I have to keep staying sober.
  • Not having to fold laundry or buy groceries.
  • Not having to wrap Christmas gifts.
  • Gaining the ability to levitate.
  • Getting out of jury duty.
  • Not having to get up and dressed.
  • Getting to meet Jim Morrison, Dimebag Darrell and John Belushi.

Truthfully, though, I’m happy to have some extra time to get life right. I’m not there yet.

Carry on.

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One Good Thing About Westboro Baptist Church

The Westboro Baptist Church (WBC) hates homosexuals. In fact, its members hate pretty much everybody. When terrible tragedy strikes, they praise it as God’s retribution for all the things they’re against.

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That alone is reason for me to hate them back. But these people take it to even lower levels by picketing the funerals of fallen soldiers. Now they’ve threatened to picket funerals for the tiny victims of Friday’s Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre.

But I’m not going to hate them back, because even a filthy group like this serves a purpose.

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Here’s the one good thing about WBC: Their hateful actions bring out the good in others. They inspire people to take a stand for what’s right.

The best example this week: police, firefighters and others from neighboring states have come to Newtown, Conn., to form massive human walls at the funerals, blocking the Westboro picketers from the mourners’ view.

It goes to show that for every hateful action, there’s a loving reaction to overpower the bad. In this case, the WBC picketers were scared away.

God is good.

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My ADD Ran Over My OCD

As I struggle to get through all the stuff to be done at work and home before Christmas, something is occurring to me: My ADD runs over my OCD this time of year.

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I guess I’ve understood what happens for a while now. It’s all part of the seasonal depression that whacks me upside the head come Christmastime. For most of the year my challenge is to control my OCD, to keep it from overtaking my mind and sending me into physical overdrive. But earlier this year, I learned from my doctors that I also have ADD. It feeds into the winter pattern where I’m much more easily tired and forgetful.

Unfortunately for me, December isn’t a time where I can kick back, enjoy my December-itis and let the world float by on pretty clouds. At work, we’re busy finishing up some big projects we’re using to kick off January. At home, there are appointments and Scouting activities to drive the boys to. There are gifts to wrap, laundry to fold, groceries to buy, homework for the kids to finish up and a house to clean.

I’m like Luke Skywalker after he escapes the wampa cave on Hoth in The Empire Strikes Back, flailing around and stumbling in the snow.

So what am I sitting here thinking about? I’m feeling whiny because the damn OCD doesn’t surface when I really need it. As insidious as the disorder can be, it’s pretty damn handy when there’s a lot to do. It gives you a drive other people don’t have.

In recent years I’ve had a lot more success harnessing that piece of it while keeping the darker traits locked away. But when winter roles through, the ADD kicks in and spoils everything.

Funny how this works. It’s like the person who longs for summer heat waves in the dead of winter, then pines for winter’s icy grip when he’s sweating through July and August. In the summer I want to be a little more mellow; in December I need the overdrive to get everything done.

What to do?

Fight it, of course.

Erin’s worried I’m not going to get done everything I have on my plate. I’m out to prove I can get it all done.

What could possibly go wrong?

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To the Siblings in Sandy Hook

To the people of Newtown, Conn., particularly the surviving children of Sandy Hook Elementary School:

I have no idea what it’s like to lose a child, and I pray to God I never will. But I’ve lost a sibling and know how that feels. So I’m hoping, nearly 30 years after my brother’s death, that some of what I’m about to say will be of some comfort to you.

We all experience the death of relatives and friends. Usually, it’s our grandparents and great-grandparents. It hurts, but it’s the normal circle of life. There are younger people in our lives who suffer and succumb to disease. That hurts, too, but there’s at least some comfort in the fact that they’re no longer suffering.

The sudden, unexpected death of a sibling is something quite different, as you’ve unfortunately discovered. My brother had asthma, a serious condition but not one we typically consider fatal. And yet just one major attack took him from us. Our family had been through the pain of divorce and dysfunction, but we had survived it. Our lives imploded with my brother’s death.

The manner in which your brothers and sisters were taken from you must feel 1,000 times worse. Though I can’t imagine how that feels, I’m hoping I can make a few points based on my own experiences.

My advice to you:

  • Don’t be afraid to cry. When I was a kid I never cried in front of others unless it was family. I thought it would make me look weak and stupid. I was wrong. No one — and I mean no one — will hold your tears against you. In fact, people will be relieved that you’re able to let the tears out. When tears are suppressed, you feel worse. The longer you go without crying, the worse it gets. Let it all out.
  • Remember that for every evil event in this world, there are countless good people around to help you through it. They will make sure you’re not forced to linger in the cold darkness. Mister Rogers described it this way: “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers — so many caring people in this world.” Those people won’t disappear when the TV news crews go away and the funerals are over. They will always be there, and you will never be alone. That’s why good always wins out over evil in the end. Good people never give up or give in.
  • Be patient with your parents and give them all your love and help. Burying a child is the absolute worst thing a parent must do. It’s the greatest fear of every parent. After my brother died, I rebelled hard against my parents, partly because I lost patience with them as their grief made them stumble. It’s one of my big regrets. Don’t let it happen in your house. Help your parents and be very patient with them, and they will be able to function again. They’ll always carry a sadness, but they’ll also learn to experience new joys. You can be a big part of that.
  • Take your greatest dreams for the future and make them come true. Your brother or sister won’t get to experience the big moments of adulthood. It hurts knowing that. But they will be watching you from Heaven. Make them proud. No dream or goal is too big for you. If you keep studying and don’t give up when the going gets tough, you’ll be able to do anything you set your sights on. If anyone tells you a certain career is too hard to get, don’t believe it. I’ve managed to make a long, satisfying career out of writing. I’m not rich, but I’m happy.
  • If you find yourself laughing and smiling, don’t feel guilty about it. A few months after my brother died I went to see a movie. It was a comedy and I laughed hard. Then I felt horrible for laughing because I thought you weren’t supposed to laugh ever again. But that’s not true. It’s not only OK to laugh, it is essential to your survival. Humor will help you through all the difficult times ahead. Embrace it.

You will feel better in time. You’ll experience more difficult moments in your life, but that’s OK. We all have to go through the difficult times to truly understand and appreciate the good times. It may not make sense to you now. But in time, it will.

May God Bless you, your family and friends.

— Bill
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Sandy Hook Lesson: Be the Change, One Soul at a Time

Like most of you, I’ve spent a good part of the weekend thinking about the lives lost at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. We all want specific solutions that will prevent more of these tragedies, but what we’re dealing with is too big and too gray for that.

 

A lot of people are debating gun control. Some people think the world would be safer if every law-abiding citizen had a firearm. Others say they support the Second Amendment but that there’s no reason for anyone other than police and soldiers to have access to weapons that can fill a body with scores of bullets in the blink of an eye.

A lot of people are also debating what this tragedy says about how we should treat the mentally ill. Some people think the mentally ill should be locked away. Others cry out for better services and educational tactics to drive disturbed individuals away from the the path Adam Lanza took when he grabbed his mother’s guns, killed her and headed to Sandy Hook Elementary School, where he stole the lives of 20 precious children and six heroic adults who died saving the children who made it out alive.

Would stricter gun control prevent future massacres like this? I doubt it. Would giving every school principal a gun prevent it? I doubt that, too. I believe in the right of citizens to bear arms, but I don’t see how that makes it OK for people who aren’t soldiers or cops to carry handheld weapons of mass destruction. A hunting rifle for hunting and a handgun for self-defense when a home is invaded is one thing. High-powered rifles are something else entirely.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that on the subject of mental illness, I agreed with those who said we need better treatment and counseling to reach troubled youths before they become murderers.

Maybe I’m biased because I was one of those troubled kids. People made fun of me in school and I could never seem to get the hang of sports and other things that might have made me more socially acceptable. There were times in my youth when I’d occasionally think of how sweet it would be to grab a rifle or a knife and tear into the bodies of those I felt were oppressing me. Luckily for me, there were enough positive influences in my life to make the difference.

I know one kid who has a lot of emotional issues and has been through every kind of therapy and drug treatment known to man. He’s doing well, but a paper-thin line separates the sweet side of his soul from the side that could send him on a rampage. The more positive influences he has now, the better.

As for those who suggest we simply lock up the mentally disturbed: who do you think qualifies for the cage? You’ll likely point to the troubled guy who walks down the street shouting obscenities at everyone he crosses paths with, but that doesn’t mesh well with the profiles of those who went on to shoot up schools and movie theaters. This latest gunman had no criminal record and was described as a fairly docile person by family and neighbors. Charles Manson’s most blood-thirsty followers were model students and athletes in high school.

At some point their minds became twisted and sick, but outward appearances wouldn’t have indicated that they should be locked up. That’s something else I have firsthand experience with. During some of the worst periods of mental illness in my life, I was able to put on a smile and calm exterior. I could function in society, but inside I was a time bomb.

You want an easy fix for this problem? You can’t have one. It doesn’t exist.

The answer is much more difficult but worth the effort: If you know a young man or woman who goes through periods of depression, rage or self-imposed isolation, someone who struggles to fit in, try to spend time with them. Show them love and kindness. Mentor them.

Doing so has a better chance of preventing the next school massacre than more or fewer guns. We can’t catch every troubled soul and turn them around. The task is simply too big for any of us to handle.

But if we can guide one or two of them, that’s huge.

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Heartbroken and Praying

This is not a post about whether we need more guns or fewer. This is not a post about what makes a man sick enough to fire a weapon at innocent children. It’s just a post to say how heartbroken we are in the Brenner house.

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We don’t know any of the victims in Newtown, Connecticut. But we have children under this roof and couldn’t even begin to understand what so many families in our neighboring state are going through right now. I want to hug my kids and never let go, though I know I can’t shield them from every danger out there.

We’re praying hard for the victims and their families. At last count, CNN said 20 children, 6 adults and the shooter were dead. These kids were between the ages of 5 and 10. Precious children with full lives ahead of them. That this has happened before Christmas makes it all seem all the sadder. From here on out, a lot of people in Newtown will forever dread the holiday season. It’s all too much to take.

A while back I wrote about something Mister Roger’s mother once told him about terrible tragedies. “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping,” he once recalled his mother saying. “To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers — so many caring people in this world,” he said.

I know the helpers will be there in this case. And that’s how I know that God is good, even when we want to hate Him. God has a plan. We have no idea what it is and many times I sure don’t like it. But when the helpers arrive, I firmly believe that’s Him in action.

Since the shootings, I’ve seen a lot of traffic coming to this blog, particularly to the post about Mister Rogers’ mother. I sure hope it helps the good people of Newtown find some comfort, however small.

God bless every one of you.

Related posts:

Mister Rogers’ Mother Was Right

Why Does God Let This Happen?

I Accept God’s Plan, But I Don’t Have To Like It
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People Who Talk About Themselves and Those They Torture

I admit I haven’t always been the best listener. God knows I try, but sometimes my dysfunctional brain shuts down after more than 15 minutes of someone telling me about everything happening in their lives.

I look like I’m listening, but I’m only quiet and staring at you because I’m numb.

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I’ve invested a lot of time and energy into changing that. I took a class about ways to stay in the present moment. I’ve kept on top of my anti-depressant medication, getting adjustments as needed. That helps keep my OCD under control, which in turn makes me a better listener. Some days are better than others.

But there are still certain people out there that I’ll always have trouble listening to. That’s because they’ll talk about themselves for hours and show little interest in letting the other people around them talk. You know the type: a friend that bends your ear on the phone, going on about all their problems while you’re forced to sit there in silent torment. The person at a party who corners you and waxes poetic about all the important work they’re doing and how awesome they are. Or how awful everyone and everything is until you want to leave the party so badly that you’re willing to fake cardiac arrest.

Those people are so oblivious to the fact that they do this that they may read this post and not realize that it’s about them.

I admit straightaway that it’s hypocritical of me to point a finger, because I have a history of being a better talker than listener. I could tell you I’m not talking about myself and am instead gifting my victims with juicy historical facts and stories so funny they drop their glass from laughing so hard.

But that would be bullshit.

I’m like anyone else who talks more than he listens. I’ll tell you about what’s going on in my life and leave you little room to do the same.

Knowing that I can be that way has actually made me more tolerant of other over-talkers. I also try to remember what my therapist says every time this comes up: “There’s no greater gift you can give another person than your time and attention.”

I could end this by suggesting other over-talkers try doing the same. I could suggest they take a mindfulness class or go in a church and sit quietly for 30 minutes. But it’s not my place to do that.

All I can do is work on myself and be the better listener.

And if there are people that are too obnoxious to listen to, I can simply avoid them.

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When Living in the Past Is Your Only Sanctuary

I had coffee with a friend and former coworker recently, and we reminisced about some of the colorful characters we’ve worked with. One person we particularly admired has suffered through a life of depression, fear and anxiety and is mostly a recluse these days.

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When this person does surface to talk to someone, the topic is always the old days. He carefully avoids the present because it’s so painful. Talking about the past is safer. We’ve been there. There are no strangers to deal with, no surprises. The past is etched in stone. It’s a safe cave you can hide in without worrying about the walls crashing in.

I understand why people with fear and anxiety hide in the past, because I used to do it all the time when my demons were getting the better of me.

I’ve always been a history buff, and I’ve read a ton of books on the subject, though lately I’ve been reading more music-related books. My interest is partly because I need lessons on how people in the past lived right and wrong. I want to read about the strengths someone used to make a mark on the ages and try incorporating some of that into my life.

But I’ll be honest: Those history books were a big, thick blanket I could hide under. Instead of trying to deal with the present, I’d loiter in FDR’s second-floor study in the White House (today’s Yellow Oval Room). I’d hang out in the smoke-filled rooms of Capitol Hill, enjoying a smoke of my own and watching the masters make grand bargains.

I did something similar by hiding in movies. By watching a Star Trek film, I could witness some adventure without getting shot or stabbed in the real world.

I think one of the reasons I don’t read quite as much history or watch as many science fiction films anymore is that I beat the fear and anxiety. I still have moments of anxiety, but not the fearful variety. With that fear gone, I’m more comfortable hanging out in the present and even participating in it. Good thing, too, because my work and family life leaves little time for the old ways.

True, reading a rock star biography deals with the past, too, but I also get a lot of information about how favorite songs I listen to today came about. Since I’m playing guitar again, I enjoy them even more.

I also go back to the history books on occasion. The difference is that I’m not afraid to leave the past when reading time is done. In fact, I’m usually eager to return to the present.

I’m praying hard that it’ll turn out that way for my old friend, because he deserves better.

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The OCD Diaries in Book Form

Erin and I are making plans for 2013. One is to turn The OCD Diaries into book form.

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Almost since the beginning of this blog, readers have suggested that I do an OCD Diaries book. Flattering as that suggestion is, I sort of balked at the notion. This began as a memoir of sorts, and that might have been worth making a book out of. But the subject matter quickly evolved, and I’ve felt that wrapping the whole thing into one book would be cumbersome to the reader.

But Friday I got an idea: I could do a series of books &mdash smaller, bite-sized works we could make available in print and digital formats. I could set them up to have the feel and reading experience of the Devotionals you see offered in various religious communities. The print editions would be pocket-sized so you could pull ’em out as needed.

So far, we’re planning topics to include:

  • Dealing with OCD, depression and other disorders
  • Living through addiction
  • Dealing with grief
  • Spirituality
  • A survival guide for children and parents
  • A survival guide for relationships
  • Life with Crohn’s Disease and how the related coping tools apply to a multitude of health challenges
  • A book of humor, featuring selections from humor writers I admire
  • The common element tying it all together will be pieces of my back story, what I’ve experienced and how I’ve learned to manage the challenges.

    These will not be books telling you how you should live. I’m the last guy on Earth who should be advising you on that. They will simply be stories of what I’ve done and why, with lots of resource material so you can seek out the professional experts.

    Onward.

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Me, Duncan and December-itis

I’ve had a lot to say lately about my own efforts to manage winter’s depressive effect on my brain, but this is also a challenging month for my younger son, Duncan.

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I’ve written at length about Duncan and my struggle to help him when his ADHD comes crashing into my OCD. I’m proud of who he’s becoming. But no matter how much progress father and son make on our mental health, December may well remain the month that throws us for a loop.

I feel like I’m having an easier time of it this year. I have depression, but it’s just the tired, memory-challenged kind. So far I’ve mostly escaped the feelings of sadness and outward crankiness of past years. Yesterday I visited the nurse who manages my medication and she doubled my Wellbutrin intake for the winter.

Now it appears to be Duncan’s turn for such an adjustment. His teacher has been praising his behavior all fall but, like clockwork, he started experiencing difficulty in class as the calendar switched to December. We’re hearing about the usual winter outbursts. He’ll argue with classmates, his temper comes to a boil easily and so on.

It kills me every year when this happens, because I know he inherited his mental health challenges from me and my side of the family. It’s not his fault.

The good news is that we’re getting better at anticipating his behavioral changes and responding faster. This afternoon I’m taking him to an appointment where his medication might be adjusted. We’ve also been blessed with some outstanding, nurturing teachers. I was particularly fond of his first-grade teacher, who was there when Duncan first got his ADHD diagnosis. She worked closely with us to make adjustments in the classroom that helped immensely.

His teacher this year is another gem. She meets with us whenever we ask and keeps us informed of Duncan’s progress by email. When he started acting up a couple of weeks ago, she invited us to call her at home in the evening. Few teachers do that these days, and we’re grateful for it. Duncan also has terrific classmates who cheerfully help him stay organized. And when he has a mood swing, they’re patient with him. Impressive, when you consider they are all under the age 10.

I chalk it up to the loving environment of the school. The place is far from perfect, as I’ve noted before. But as time goes on, I’m more convinced he’s exactly where he should be.

The trick now is to get him — and his teacher and classmates — to the other side of winter in one piece.

Duncan and Bill