The OCD Diaries

January 12, 2015

Brother Lives on in a Nephew He Never Met

Thirty-one years ago this week, my older brother Michael died at age 17. I felt the need to write something to mark the anniversary. But to be honest, I didn’t know what to say.

Part of that is because I wrote the whole “how his death affected me” post three years ago in “Death of a Sibling.” I also delved into the lighter memories — the outrageous and hilarious shit he used to pull — in “Celebrating a Lost Sibling.”

Then yesterday, during my 45-minute drive to the office, I was chuckling over a crack my oldest son made at my expense a few days ago.

“You know, Dad,” he said, staring at the Superman S on the T-shirt I was wearing, “you look like Superman, 20 years after saving the Earth, with more gray hair and more than a few extra pounds.”

I have the same, serrated brand of snark. I’ll scold him to teach him manners and respect, but I’m usually laughing inside. More often than not, I laugh aloud, which admittedly defeats the purpose of scolding him in the first place.

Truth is, I also enjoy it because it reminds me of my brother.

It’s funny how life works. Sean is named for a best friend and surrogate brother who died some years ago. But he’s sounding and looking more like my real brother all the time.

Like Michael, Sean has a unibrow and the start of some whiskers above his upper lip. He’s tall and lanky, the way Michael was before he started weight lifting in his early teens. His hair grows wild, the way Michael’s did, though the latter tried to control it with frequent hair cuts. Sean prefers a shaggy head.

There are some distinct differences between Sean and the uncle he never met, however. Michael was studying to be a plumber at the time of his death. He enjoyed the art of putting pipes together in just the right formation, allowing water to flow. Sean prefers putting LEGOs and robotic machinery together.

Sean is a Boy Scout, a choice his uncle — and dad, for that matter — would never have made. Sean is also more cautious and refined than Michael was. Sean hates his braces but hasn’t pulled them off with a pair of pliers like his uncle did the same day his mouth metal was installed. Years later, my brother’s act of rebellion is the stuff of treasured family lore. But Sean knows better than to try such a thing.

Differences aside, the similarities are hard to miss.

That makes me happy.

December 28, 2014

The Sister Who Saved Her Family

My youngest sister, Shira Beth Brenner, was born 29 years ago today, sending rays of sunshine into a house that was in darkness.

You might think it’s hyperbole for me to say she saved the family. We were surviving, after all. But we were surviving badly, reeling from the death of my brother barely two years before.

Shira helped us smile again.

Mood music:

I was a bitter 15-year-old home sick with the flu and a Crohn’s flare up the day she arrived. She was an especially adorable baby and was a welcome distraction from everything that was going on at the time.

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.

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.

In more recent years, as she traveled and I got absorbed with work, marriage and parenthood, we didn’t see much of each other, save for some holidays and a couple birthday dinners.

But I’ve seen a lot more of her this year in the last three years, as my father’s ailments forced us all closer together.

At one point soon after a series of strokes, we siblings worked in shifts, helping to keep Dad out of trouble. He may have trouble seeing, swallowing and walking, but he still likes to keep everyone busy. Shira usually got the task of sleeping over on Saturday nights. She never complains and always smiles.

I’ve heard it said that a kid like her lives life on a rainbow, always in a zen-like state despite all the hard reality around her.

In Shira’s case I think that’s true. And it’s something we can all learn from. She’s not oblivious to the reality around her. She just handles it with a lot more grace than the rest of us.

You could say she’s doing for the family today what she did the day she was born — giving the family color and light at a time when we need it most.

Happy Birthday, kid.

November 22, 2014

The Lost Generation of Revere, Mass.

An old friend from the Point of Pines, Revere, sent me a note some time ago. He came across my post on Zane Mead and another on the Bridge Rats gang. For him, they brought up more memories of kids from the neighborhood who died young.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/jX-yuZFVm34

I’ll keep his name and certain details out to protect his privacy, but here’s some of what he wrote to me:

I came across your piece in your OCD Diaries about Zane Mead. It stirred up some old memories of growing up. I was actually friends with Zane until I left for the military in 1985. He was a sweet kid with a good heart most of the time. Occasionally he would be angry and self destructive. This was usually followed by an attempted suicide.

I had many talks with him about it. he never would say what was eating at him. Not sure why but I don’t think it was an issue at home. I feel like it was a personal daemon. As you stated, our life’s experiences at the time didn’t give us the ability to see the problem no less the wisdom to offer any real help. I often wonder if there was something more I could have done.

It seemed that I lost a lot of friends over the five years I was gone.

We lost your brother, Scott James, Mike McDonald. Kenny Page. It’s like we lost a generation. For years I thought I was a under achiever in my life. The more time moves on I think we may be lucky for just getting out of the city. Revere was just eating people up back then. Probably still is.

I also read you piece on bullies where you mention the Bridge Rats. I’m sincerely sorry for any part I may have caused in your distress.

Thanks for the memories. Good, Bad and Ugly. I guess they make us who we are.

Indeed they do, my friend.

I had forgotten about Mike McDonald and Kenny Page. As a teen I was so self-absorbed over my brother’s death that I didn’t realize how much loss our generation was suffering. After reading my friend’s note, I thought hard about his points about Revere eating people up. Was there some kind of curse hanging over the city in the 1980s? Were all my adolescent traumas part of that curse? Was my brother’s death and Sean Marley’s death part of it?

If you asked me that about six years ago, I’d have bought the theory straight away. Today I tend to doubt it.

It was a sad and unfortunate period, but it wasn’t a curse. We all had our share of childhood happiness in Revere in between the bad stuff. And I know now what I didn’t get back then: That we weren’t meant to live soft lives devoid of pain and struggle. These things are tossed in our path to mold us into what we can only hope to be: good people. It doesn’t always work out that way, of course. But let’s face it: Has life ever been fair?

As for the Bridge Rats, my memories are fond ones.

The last post I wrote about this gang suggested they were a band of bullies. But if you read all the way through the post, you’ll see some nostalgic warmth in my memories. As I’ve said many times, I was a punk like everyone else. I got picked on, but I did my share of picking on other people. For the most part, the Bridge Rats were a collection of pretty good kids. Some grew into happy, productive lives. Some didn’t.

That’s life.

I recently wrote about the time the Brenners nearly left Revere. There’s no question that for a time, I hated that city and would have done anything to get out.

But I stayed, and good things happened in the years that followed. A lot of good things. Precious, joyful things. I look at my kid sister Shira and the amazing, beautiful woman she is today. Would she have been that way if not for the Revere in her? Perhaps. But living there certainly didn’t damage her.

I’ve said before that Revere is where I survived and my current city of Haverhill is where I healed. That was and still is the truth.

But make no mistake about it: Revere helped make me who I am today.

And I’ll admit it: I like who I am today.

September 18, 2014

A Sick Mind, A Tragic Situation

A few years ago I wrote about childhood friend Mark Hedgecock, who at the time was a thrice-convicted pedophile who was chatting up young girls on Facebook. He got kicked off Facebook shortly thereafter, and I lost track of him.

Unfortunately, his name has surfaced again.

Mood music:

He’s been accused of soliciting and collecting child porn through his email account. According to Boston.com, the AG’s office was tipped off by the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, which discovered the email account. Investigators traced that account to Hedgecock. He was held on $50,000 bail and, if he gets back on the streets, he’ll have to wear a GPS device.

Part of me feels for him, because he’s mentally sick. But given his long history as a sex offender and pedophile, I believe he needs to be locked up permanently.

I feel especially bad for his stepfather. For him, this is the latest tragedy in what has been an unspeakably terrible year.

Late last year, Hedgecock’s sister and mother died within a couple days of each other. Stefanie died from complications with pneumonia, then his mom suffered a fatal aneurysm.

As a kid, I was in their home constantly, from first grade straight through high school. His parents treated me like part of the family. I never knew Stefanie in adulthood, but I remember her as the baby sister. My most recent memory of their father, Victor, is from around 1986, when he scolded me for speeding around our Point of Pines neighborhood in my father’s 1985 Lincoln.

Last time I was sick from Crohn’s Disease was that same year. Mark came over to check on me almost daily.

As angry and unforgiving as I am about his record as a child predator, that’s an act of friendship I can’t forget. I also know what it’s like to lose a sibling, and I remember how Mark was there for me when my brother died in 1984.

I sometimes wonder if Mark’s life would have turned out differently had I been a better friend after high school. I tend to doubt it, because I was damaged and couldn’t get out of my own way back then.

Sometimes people simply grow up to be monsters. When that happens, they need to be removed from society. Call me intolerant, but that’s how I feel.

That said, I’m going to keep this family in my prayers. It’s all I can do.

Roosevelt School, Grade 6
My sixth-grade class photo from the Roosevelt School in the Point of Pines, Revere, Mass. I’m at the bottom left. Mark Hedgecock is behind me at the upper left.

May 12, 2014

5 Reasons We Should Give Monica Lewinsky a Break

Monica Lewinsky is back in the news. Sixteen years after she became a household name for her relationship with then-President Bill Clinton, the former White House intern has decided to speak out in the latest issue of Vanity Fair.

Mood music:

You’ve heard about the blue dress, the oral sex in the Oval Office, the attempt by Republicans to impeach Clinton over the affair — specifically his attempts to cover it up. Lewinsky addresses those issues, writing:

Sure, my boss took advantage of me, but I will always remain firm on this point: it was a consensual relationship. Any “abuse” came in the aftermath, when I was made a scapegoat in order to protect his powerful position. … The Clinton administration, the special prosecutor’s minions, the political operatives on both sides of the aisle, and the media were able to brand me. And that brand stuck, in part because it was imbued with power.

With Lewinsky back in the spotlight, the jokes are sure to resume. She will once again be maligned for what she did. To those who will participate, I have a few words:

Sure, she was 24 at the time and maybe she was old enough to know better. But that’s still a young enough age to be intoxicated by presidential power. And not just any presidential power. Clinton’s a charming guy, and charm is sexual power.
Lewinsky is 40 now and has no doubt experienced a lot of growing up since 1998.
We’re all guilty of doing stupid things, and most of us get a chance to redeem ourselves. She deserves the same opportunity.
Sixteen years on, America has some serious problems resulting from two political parties hopelessly corrupted by money. We Americans have allowed it to get that way by our own apathy. Don’t you think there are more important things to worry about than what Lewinsky did as an impressionable, immature young woman?
If all your misdeeds — we all have them — became the stuff of public ridicule and press banter, you wouldn’t like it. In some cases, it would ruin you.

Move along, folks. Nothing more to see here.

Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky shake hands

February 12, 2014

The Danger of False Memories

Since this blog is part memoir, I worry about misremembering the past when I write about it. I’m obsessed with truth and recall things to the best of my recollection. But I know that for every memory I share, someone out there will remember things differently.

A Daily Beast article reminds me that I’m right to be obsessive about honesty.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/_FPBi9N9hNc

The article notes how terrifyingly easy it is for therapists and investigators to plant false memories in a person as they lob one question after the next in an ironic attempt to get to the truth. From the article:

In the real world false memories can result from well-meaning investigators asking leading questions, from therapists trying to uncover hidden truths, and yes, from distraught parents engaged in acrimonious divorce proceedings. …

It’s important to point out that a false memory is different from a lie. Liars know what really happened, but claim something different. People with false memories honestly believe what they’re saying—there is no intent to deceive. They’re just wrong about what actually happened, for predictable reasons.

There’s some comfort in knowing that you’re not lying if you misremember. But that’s cold comfort to someone who remembers an event differently and feels you have lied about them.

All I can do is keep recounting things to the best of my ability. And I try to always put a disclaimer in posts saying that I’m writing my memory of something, not necessarily the unvarnished truth.

That said, the article prompted me to think back on my own therapy in search of times when a therapist’s questions may have led me to a false memory.

My therapists have helped me a lot, and their approach has always been to ask me questions but not steer me in one direction or another. They’ve typically asked general questions and let me talk from there. If any false memories have been created, it would have been during follow-up questioning. But none of my therapists have questioned me aggressively.

I’ve also always approached therapy in a somewhat standoffish fashion, skeptical of any suggestion they give me. I’ve approached my appointments that way specifically because I didn’t want to be led wrong by their feedback. Therapists are human, after all, and I do know people whose therapists filled their minds with a bunch of bunk.

Up to this point, I think my strategy has worked. Still, you never know when you might be remembering something differently than how things really went down.

Fortunately, many people who were there have told me they remember events much the same way. But some have recalled a different version of events. Whenever they do, it’s my job to think long and hard about their version versus mine, and, whenever necessary, to correct the record.

Memories

November 19, 2013

Is the Point of Pines of My Generation Cursed?

A friend from my old neighborhood opined a couple years ago that our generation of Revere kids lived under a curse. “The more time moves on, I think we may be lucky for just getting out of the city,” he told me in an email. “Revere was just eating people up back then. It’s like we lost a generation.”

Mood music:

The death tally boggles the mind:

Stefanie Santarpio died last week at age 36 from pneumonia complications. Her mom died a couple days later.
TJ Leduc died in early October in an apparent suicide. His father died a few hours later.
Jay Nickerson died from cancer in 2006.
Sean Marley ended his life in 1996.
Zane Mead was the first of the three people on this list to die of suicide, in 1988.
Michael Brenner, my brother, died in 1984 from a severe asthma attack.
Michael McDonald was a name I remember from the neighborhood, though I didn’t really know him. He died several years ago.
Kenny Page was also a name I remember but someone I didn’t know, who died several years ago.
Scott James also died several years ago. He’s the one I know the least about.

A sad legacy, for sure. A curse? You be the judge.

I keep all these people in my prayers, and I’m thankful for those I was blessed to know.

Point of Pines

November 18, 2013

Another Point of Pines Tragedy

For the second time since October 1, something terrible has happened to people that were part of my childhood orbit.

Last month, my old friend TJ committed suicide, hours before his father died of leukemia. This past week, the sister and mother of another childhood friend both died within a couple days of each other: The sister died from complications with pneumonia. and then the mother suffered a fatal aneurysm.

Mood music:

The latter case is particularly sad. Mark Hedgecock, my friend and classmate from grades 1 through 12, is a registered sex offender. There’s no glossing over it. His records are all over the Internet. I talked to him a few years ago but broke off communications shortly after that. Earlier this week, I got word that his sister, Stefanie Santarpio, had passed away, leaving behind a young son.

Then a couple days later I heard about his mother Betty’s death.

Last time I was sick from Crohn’s Disease was that same year. Mark came over to check on me almost daily. As angry as I was — and still am — to learn the nature of his criminal record, that’s an act of friendship I can’t forget. I also know what it’s like to lose a sibling, and I remember how Mark was there for me when my brother died in 1984.

I feel terribly for the family and hold them in my prayers.

Roosevelt School's 1983 Grade 6
The 1983 grade 6 class picture from the Roosevelt School in the Point of Pines, Revere, Massachusetts. Mark Hedgecock is at the top left. I’m below him at the bottom left.

March 29, 2013

Human Tourniquets And Freaks Who Love Them

I originally wrote this three years ago. Looking at it again, it’s an important post describing a time when not even best friends were safe from my insanity. I’ve updated it for the present.

Mood music:

[spotify:track:2YGwSRjcY4Hjz6fktW9619]

You know the type. They hang out with people who act more like abusive spouses than friends. They are human tourniquets. They absorb the pain of their tormentor daily and without complaint.

This is the story of the man who used to be my tourniquet.

I met Aaron Lewis in 1985, my freshman year of high school. He was the kid with really bad acne. But nothing ever seemed to bother him. I’m sure a lot of things bothered him, but he was very good at hiding his feelings.

That made him the perfect target for a creep like me.

Don’t get me wrong. He was a true friend. One of my best friends. We shared a love of heavy metal. We both got picked on, though unlike me, he didn’t take it out on other, weaker classmates.

We hung out constantly. He practically lived in my Revere basement at times. I let him borrow my car regularly. And if I drank, that was OK, because he almost never drank. He could be the driver.

Except for the time I encouraged him to drink a bottle of vodka. He had just eaten a bag of McDonald’s and I told him I was sick of him trying to get buzzed off of wine coolers. This night, I told him, he was going to do it right. He got smashed, and proceeded to puke all over my basement — on the bed, the carpets, the couch, the dresser. That was some strange vomit. It looked like brown confetti.

I sat on the floor, drunk myself, writing in my journal. I wrote about how drunk Aaron was and prayed to God that he wouldn’t die. Man, would I love to find that journal.

We saw a lot of movies together. We watched a lot of MTV.

He was the perfect counterweight to Sean Marley. Marley was essentially my older brother and I spent a lot of time trying to earn his approval. I didn’t have to do that with Aaron. He didn’t criticize. He didn’t judge. He just took all my mood swings on the chin.

I would sling verbal bombs at him and he’d take it.

I would slap him on the back of the neck and he’d take it.

I was evil. And he took it.

That’s a true friend.

Aaron got married, moved to California and has a growing family. He’s doing some wonderful things with his life. I cleaned up from my compulsive binge eating, found my Faith and untangled the coarse, jagged wiring in my brain that eventually became an OCD diagnosis.

If he’s reading this, I apologize for all the times I was an asshole. I hope somewhere in there, I was a good friend, too.

Buddies — Left: Aaron Lewis. Right: His asshole friend

March 28, 2013

Don’t Go Away Mad

A funny thing happens when people share stories of the not-so-happy moments of their lives: You walk away thinking they’ve experienced nothing but tragedy. In reality, there are plenty of uneventful pages in between the drama.

Mood music:

One time I was asked to tell my story at a 12-Step meeting. Under the format, you tell your story for about 15 minutes. The first five cover the speaker’s ugly path to addiction, the second five focuses on the point we hit bottom and entered the program, and the final five are about how our lives are today in recovery.

So I delved into the stormy past: The older brother dying, the best friend killing himself, the childhood disease and the depression and addiction that resulted. And, of course, the underlying OCD.

At the end of the meeting, someone expressed shock over all the troubles I’ve been through. “It’s just been one tragedy after another,” the person said.

I had to laugh. I’ve experienced my share of adversity, but a tragic life? Not even close.

It’s easy to feel punched in the face by the gravity of the experiences I shared because it’s all concentrated into one intense place, whether it’s reading all the back entries in this blog in one sitting or hearing me talk about it for five minutes of a 15-minute talk. Inevitably, it’s going to come off to the observer as a horror movie.

In truth, while I have been through the meat grinder, there have been many years of peace, joy happiness in between all the bad. All these events are stretched out over the 42-plus years I’ve been around. If you were to sit and watch even a three-hour replay of events, you’d find it a lot more boring.

To understand this, think about your own life. You’ve no doubt experienced sickness and death, family dysfunction and career ups and downs.

If you haven’t, you will.

In between the rough patches, I fell in love with and married the best gal on Earth, had two precious children who keep me laughing and loving, I’ve enjoyed a lot of success in my career, traveled to a lot of cool places and found God.

Would I want to go through the bad stuff again? Of course not. But the weird truth is that I’m not sure I’d change the past, either. It’s easy for someone to wish they had a lost loved one back in their life and that they were less touched by illness.

But without having gone through these things, would I be where I’m at today? I really don’t see how.

So when you read about some of the tougher things in this blog, don’t worry about me and don’t feel bad. I’m no different from most people in what I’ve been through, and it’s all good.