Admittedly, my eating has been less than stellar. It’s the opposite of binging at this point; my appetite cuts out a lot and I skip meals. But I haven’t binged and I haven’t had a drink. How I’ve gotten this far without those things happening is anyone’s guess. Call it luck. Call it will. Maybe a little of both.
I have been making an effort to keep it all under control.
For two Thursdays in a row I had two medical appointments on the calendar. This past Thursday, for example, I had a chiropractic appointment and a psychotherapy appointment. Work was busy and I wanted that time to keep working, but I kept my appointments.
That may be why I haven’t crashed and burned, even though my head feels like it’s on fire when I know there’s a lot of work to do.
It’s been said that people like me need to take things a day at a time. When you have OCD, one day at a time is an alien concept. But I’m trying it out.
In the day-at-a-time spirit, I’m doing fine today. Tomorrow? I only know that I’ll do my best when I get there.
Last week I was in Fort Lauderdale on business. Not a bad place to be after the winter we’ve had in Boston. My hotel was right on the beach, and I walked it every day.
Before that, it had been a long time since I’d taken an hour-long power walk and at least a couple decades since I’d done so on a beach.
Mood music:
I made a point to get the walks in because I’m way out of shape, and I have an all-night walk coming up in June to raise money for suicide prevention programs.
As a kid and young adult, I walked Revere Beach every single day, rain or shine, day or dark. Those walks kept me sane in a world that was insane. The last time I walked Revere Beach like that was with my friend Sean, days before he ended his life.
It makes sense that I resume power walking in preparation for the big walk in June. I’m quickly remembering the calming effect the exercise had on my mind and how I was in much better shape when I was doing it.
That I restarted the daily regimen on a beach was simply icing on the cake. The sound of waves lapping the sand brings me a peace of mind few other things in this world can.
Back home, where I live now, there is no beach. But there’s a river. A mighty one at that. There are also tons of walking trails and plenty of hilly terrain.
I won’t let the French Peas get me down. Let the training commence.
I am your main man, if you’re looking for trouble. I’ll take no lip, no one’s tougher than me. I kicked your face you’d soon be seeing double. Hey little girl, keep your hands off of me…I’m a rocker.
“The Rocker,” by Thin Lizzy
A lot of people are amused to learn about my musical tastes. My work space at home and the office is cluttered with political and history-based trinkets, which would leave one to believe I listened to country or folk or maybe even some 1970s rock.
Heavy Metal music? It just doesn’t fit my image.
And yet, some 30 years ago, that music saved my life. And to this day, I listen to it faithfully. In fact, it’s become one of the main tools of my recovery from a life of mental disorder.
Let’s start from the beginning.
1984
This is the year my older brother died. But even without that, life was pretty miserable. I wasn’t exactly popular in school. I was overweight and the subject of ridicule. Emotions were understandably raw at home.
But that was also the year I began listening to heavy metal music.
It allowed me to escape the pain around me. The aggressiveness of the music gave me an outlet to process all the rage I was feeling. Without it, drugs and violence toward others might have been next.
My closest friend at the time, who lived two doors down, got me into the music — introducing me to the likes of Motley Crue and Thin Lizzy. When that friend died 12 years later, the music would again help me process my rage and keep me steady.
I’d be angry, hurt or scared, and I needed something to absorb my aggression. Heavy metal was the punching bag.
One of my favorite songs in 1984 was “Knock ‘Em Dead Kid” from Motley Crue’s “Shout At The Devil” album. The lyrics go something like this:
Heard a star-spangled fight/A steel-belted scream
Now I’m black/I’m black/I’m black
Another sidewalk’s bloody dream
I heard the sirens wine/My blood turned to freeze
You’ll see the red in my eyes/as you take my disease
For me, it was excellent therapy.
Around 2003, as I was going through a rough patch at work (my own shortcomings at the time more than anything else), that therapy took the form of Metallica’s “St. Anger” album. The album itself is far from their best, but the opening song, “Frantic,” tore a path straight into my soul.
The song came out a year before I started to come to grips with the OCD, and the guy in the video WAS me. The lyrics were me. I was frantic. I just didn’t realize it at that point.
Today, I listen to the music more for simple enjoyment than as an anger-management device. The anger went away some time ago.
The nostalgia is a big attraction for me, too. It takes me back to a time when I was in pieces; to a time when the music literally saved me. It has become something of a security blanket.
A lot of it makes me laugh as well — no small thing when you’re struggling not to take life too seriously.
How can you not find a live Motley Crue clip funny? Vince Neil sings every fifth word of most songs live. It’s amusing to watch.
The spikes-and-leather dress code make me laugh, too.
It reminds me not to take myself too seriously. And once I’m brought down to Earth like that, sanity prevails.
We all go through it: Something upsets us so much that we go into a fog; unable to function when we’re still required to do so. It rises up like a brick wall.
Mood music:
We smash into it a few too many times and go through the rest of the day dazed and confused. It’s a natural reaction to life’s more stressful and traumatic moments.
If a loved one is sick or dead, or you get into a huge fight with your spouse, or you just discover you’ve been robbed, the feeling hits you.
But what do you do when that feeling clings to you every day like a wet, filthy rag?
Monday was one of those days; let’s just say it was driven by guilt.
But here’s the difference between now and the old days:
It didn’t incapacitate me and leave me lying half dead on the couch like it used to. I didn’t check out of the hotel of reality. I may have wanted to, but I didn’t.
I felt every bad feeling and it did stick in my brain all day like a splinter. But somehow, I was able to make it through the day. I got my work done, I got chores done and I was even able to focus on the not-always-easy task of helping Duncan do his homework.
I can point to a lot of things that make the difference today:
—Medication to control my OCD, ADD and the depression that comes with it;
–An eating program devoid of flour and sugar. When I’m not sinking under the weight of a food binge, my thinking is clearer.
I don’t think it’s possible to avoid the fog altogether. Life is too unpredictable and dramatic for that. Sometimes the stresses get the better of you and you lose sight of everything around you. It’s a very shitty place to be.
But there is a positive in this: If you never felt the fog, it would mean you didn’t care about anything or anyone.
You would see clearly and keep walking, but the destination would always be some selfish pursuit.
Some of this may sound a bit hyperbolic. I use some fancy language along the way to explain it.
I’ve been releasing posts as part of a project where I put my feelings to images created by artist and infosec pro Eddie Mize, more popularly known as EddieTheYeti.
The project will continue indefinitely, but here’s a compilation of what’s been done so far. Think of it as chapter 1.
I sucked at a lot of things as a kid, but I could draw. It was the one thing that always got me compliments from people who otherwise ridiculed me. Those drawings were an exercise in emotion. A good example of that is the Paul Revere Owl of Rage I wrote about a while back. Writing eventually replaced drawing, though I’ve maintained a life-long appreciation for art that captures emotion. Which brings me to Eddie Mize, also known as EddieTheYeti.
Every year, I have trouble finding my Christmas spirit. I’ve written a lot about why that is, and 2014 was no different. But I feel like God is throwing me more clues than usual. One such clue came as I was reviewing some works from Eddie Mize.
Here’s the thing about remorse: You can’t change what’s in the past. You can let the memories rip you apart, or you can learn from the experiences and invest it in being a better person.
Instead of fighting some mental disorders, such as OCD or ADHD, picture yourself accepting and even embracing them. Then learn to use your disorder to your advantage.
For those who don’t experience or understand depression, it can be hard to understand the duration of someone’s melancholy and why, after a while, they can’t just snap out of it.
I had a vicious temper when I was younger. To call it a byproduct of OCD, depression and addiction would be pushing it, because I think the temper would have been there even without the mental illness.
We all have dysfunctional friends and family. In some respects, they add color and fun to our lives. But sometimes you find yourself up against that special someone who constantly complains about others and puts you down. We want to accept the latter as much as we accept the former. But there’s a problem.
Mood music:
The latter group — we’ll call them the toxic people — rub off on you. Their toxic tirades seep into your pores until you either (a) get sick with worry because of all the rumors you’ve been fed or (b) end up as a toxic complainer yourself. When you get this way, you will surely bring other people down.
As a Catholic, I’ve been taught that we have to love and accept everyone, regardless of their flaws. Unless, of course, they are a pro-choice Democrat.
Political jokes aside, the line about acceptance makes perfect sense. Love is supposed to win out against hate. I badly want to believe it. But I’ve also learned from experience that it simply can’t always work that way. If someone insists on vomiting verbal toxins every time you have a chance to converse, you have to cut them lose before they poison your soul.
That’s the inconvenient truth about toxic people. You want to love them because you know that, deep down, there’s a good heart beating away. But if you stand too close, you’ll adopt the very qualities in them that you despise.
Don’t let it happen.
If you have a toxic person in your life, cut them lose. Not because you’re selfish and you can’t handle the pressure, but because you have to stay strong for yourself and many others.
Life is too hard and too short to be dealing with negative souls. Pray for them because you want them to be happy and more pleasant to be around. But do so from a distance.
Instead of fighting some mental disorders, such as OCD or ADHD, picture yourself accepting and even embracing them. Then learn to use your disorder to your advantage.
It’s kind of like Luke Skywalker learning to use and control the Force instead of it controlling him, or Superman learning to control his super-senses.
This won’t work for every disorder, of course. Some are more serious than others, like PTSD and schizophrenia. But Edward (Ned) Hallowell, psychiatrist and co-author of Driven to Distraction and Delivered from Distraction, has advocated for years that some disorders can be an advantage, if approached correctly.
In my battle with my own demons, it’s an approach that works.
I’m not the only one. A few years back a friend told me, “Dr. Hallowell shaped a lot of my perceptions about ADHD and how to live with it rather than fighting it.”
Hallowell has written about mental disorder being the stuff legends are made of. The thinking is that you have to be a bit crazy or off-balance to do the things that change who we are and how we live. He often uses ADHD as an example, but it’s also true of people with OCD, like Harrison Ford, Howie Mandel, and the late Joey Ramone.
Early on in my efforts to get control of my life, one of my biggest struggles was that I didn’t want to completely rid myself of the OCD. I knew that I owed some of my career successes to the disorder. It drove me hard to be better than average. I needed that kick in the ass because being smart didn’t come naturally to me. I had to work at it and do my homework.
There was a destructive dark side, of course. When stuck in overdrive, the OCD would leave me with anxiety attacks that raised my fear level and drove me deep into my addictive pursuits. That in turn left me on the couch all the time, a pile of waste.
My challenge became learning to develop what Hallowell calls a set of brakes to slow down my disorder when I needed to.
You could say those are the things my brakes are made of.
I still need a lot of work and the dark side of my OCD still fights constantly with the light, but I’ve come to see the OCD as a close friend. Like a lot of close friends, there are days I want to hug it and days I want to launch my boot between its legs.
But I am in a happier place than I used to be, so it’s a trade-off I’m willing to accept, even if gets me into trouble sometimes.
A few months ago I told you about an artist from the security community named Eddie Mize, a.k.a. EddieTheYeti. I identified with his use of artistic expression as a way to cope with inner demons. Since then, we’ve gotten to know each other better.
Mood music:
I’ve used his art to illustrate several posts in this blog. At DEF CON in August, his art exhibit was one of the more popular attractions, and he kindly personalized my DEF CON badge with some OCD Diaries art.
The more I review his work, the more it stirs up feelings that have been deep inside me.
So I put the question to Eddie: What if I did a series of posts where I took specific pieces of his work and wrote a narrative for it based on the emotions the work stirred within me?
Eddie is a gracious guy, so I wasn’t surprised when he said it “sounds like a plan!”
The posts will be an ongoing series. You won’t see me focus on it for several days in a row. I’ll probably settle into a post a week. His gallery on the DeviantArt site is more than 2,000 entries deep, so there’s a lot to sift through.
I have two goals with this series:
Help make EddieTheYeti a household name
Continue the scouring of my soul that is key to my own survival
I don’t expect total victory in either case. But I have high hopes that together, Eddie and I will move some people who badly need it.
Occasionally, my kids get all kinds of upset when their high hopes for something don’t go as expected.
A good example is the disappointment Duncan felt when it was too chilly to go in the campground pool Memorial Day weekend. He remembered one campout last year when he got to swim for hours, and to him, that was an important ingredient for an awesome weekend. He got over it and still had a good time. But the disappointment he expressed was dramatic.
I was thinking about his disappointment on the drive into work this morning and was reminded that I used to be equally dramatic when something failed to meet my expectations. My typical reactions were far worse, though. I’d give into my addictive impulses, mope for days and, perhaps worst of all, I’d let disappointment completely destroy the rest of the day, weekend, holiday, what have you.
Mood music:
When you have OCD and a brain that never stops thinking, you tend to expect certain things out of your day. When the expectation is a bad one and isn’t fulfilled, it’s a huge weight off the shoulders. Expect to be told that you have cancer and then learn it’s just a benign lump is freeing.
But when you expect something good and it doesn’t happen — a snow day, a night out, a promotion at work — the sudden change of events can be devastating to a guy like me.
I’ve gotten better, though, because I learned to keep my expectations low.
That same Memorial Day weekend experience is a good example. I remembered how it rained so much the year before and how disappointed I was. This time I went in assuming the weather would suck, and I prepared, bringing some good reading and the laptop in case the writing muse paid a visit, which it did. It turns out the weather, though chilly, was pretty decent. We got in a lot of time outdoors.
I went in with low expectations and got a far better weekend than I planned for.
I don’t pull this off every time. But I have certainly gotten good results more often from lowered expectations. I’ve also learned to look at plans that fall apart as plot twists, and that’s helped me roll with the punches better.
The first car I ever owned as a kid was a beat-to-shit 1983 Ford LTD wagon. It had a catalytic converter that always flooded and stalled the car. The power steering was gone. And it was the misguided coping tool of my teenage rage.
Mood music:
http://youtu.be/biXnwOMznkg
The LTD’s exterior was a toxic green, covered over in patches with stickers promoting whatever anarchist political causes I espoused at the time. In one inspired move, I took a “No Sludge” bumper sticker that had been proliferated by groups opposed to a sludge burning plant at the Rowe Quarry, cut off the no part and stuck sludge to the rear hatch. (The no-sludge people ultimately won. A massive condo complex sits where Rowe used to be on the Revere-Saugus border in Massachusetts.)
Some days I loved that car. Some days I hated it.
I hated the constant stalling and the smell of gas and oil that always seemed to make its way into the passenger compartment. The steering wheel was thin, which wasn’t masculine enough for my liking. Loose metal around the rear passenger-side wheel well constantly sliced the tires, though that at least gave me plenty of tire-changing practice.
But I loved its battered exterior and the sound system. The speakers were actually blown out, but I liked how it made the bass rattle the car whenever I put an Ozzy cassette in. I loved how I could pack a bunch of friends in the back for trips to the Worcester Centrum, the main place to see the big rock acts before we had the TD Garden and Verizon Center.
I was always told the back was perfect for sex, though I never attempted it. At least two friends did. If I wasn’t in the car at the time, I didn’t care, as long as they cleaned up after themselves.
Despite the engine’s shortcomings, I broke a lot of speed limits with that car. I had a vicious temper and often drove too fast to feel better. I used to blast up and down the causeway between Lynn and Nahant. You had to slow down before reaching Nahant, though, because the police loved to bust kids like me. They often did.
I would drive within an inch of the car in front of me and bang the horn. I would flip off anyone who slowed me down. And I punched the ceiling over the driver’s seat so much the fabric started to sag.
Looking back, I could have killed someone. There were many opportunities to do so. I could have killed myself and my friends in those moments of road rage. By the grace of God, that never happened.
The coping tools I have today — music, my guitars, walks with my wife, the elliptical machine in the garage, my faith, my mindfulness exercises — are far more effective. Nobody gets hurt. Everyone wins, because I’m easier to deal with.
Still, there are occasions, however infrequent, when I miss that wreck on four wheels.
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