I’m three weeks into the higher dosage and it’s working — mostly.
I woke up feeling blue this morning and still feel that way, though the sunrise through the living room window helps. Sunday, I went through some pretty wild mood swings.
But most of the time I feel balanced. A friend recently commented in this blog that he sees anti-depressants as more of an art than a science. I see it as both.
Another friend, who has worked as a mental health worker, said my mood swings seem more like a bi-polar thing than OCD.
OCD is the root problem, though one of the byproducts is certainly bi-polar feelings and behavior.
I mentioned Sunday’s mood swings to the therapist, who reminded me that I went through the same thing last time the dose was adjusted. I had a couple touch-and-go weeks and then all was well. I’m starting to see the same trajectory, which is good.
Remember: I’m writing about this from my personal perch. What works or doesn’t work for me is not going to be the same for most other people who deal with some form of mental illness.
That fact is why I like the comments that are coming in. I want to be disagreed with when someone who knows what they’re talking about feels strongly about something.
So I say thank you and keep it coming.
I leave you with the song that best captures my mood this morning: “The Ballad of Love and Hate” from The Avett Brothers:
Truth: People who engage in addictive behavior lie all the time.
Mood music:
You might remember a few years back when the author James Frey wrote A Million Little Pieces; his memoir on life as a 23-year-old alcoholic and drug abuser and his rehab in a Twelve-step program.
The credibility of the book was eventually ripped apart after it came to light that a lot of the book was fiction. You might remember how Oprah Winfrey took him apart piece by piece on her show over his lack of honesty. She was especially livid because the book had once been at the top of her book club reading list.
But when I think of the book my thoughts turn to horror novelist Stephen King. I’ve never been much of a Stephen King fan, though I did love “The Stand.” But at the height of the Frey controversy, he wrote an absolutely brilliant article called “Frey’s Lies.”
King, himself a recovering addict, shines a bitter, devastating light on one of the most uncomfortable truths people like us live with: When it comes to honesty, we suck.
Here are some of my favorite parts of the King article:
“Substance abusers lie about everything, and usually do an awesome job of it. I once knew a cokehead who convinced his girlfriend the smell of freebase was mold in the plastic shower curtain of their apartment’s bathroom. She believed him, he said, for five years (although he was probably lying about that, it was probably only three). A recovering alcoholic friend of mine reminisces about how he convinced his first wife that raccoons were stealing their home brew. When she discovered the truth, she divorced him. Go to one of those church-basement meetings where they drink coffee and talk about the Twelve Steps and you can hear similar stories on any night, and that’s why the founders of this group emphasized complete honesty — not just in ”420 of 432 pages,” as James Frey claimed during his Larry King interview, but in all of it: what happened, what changed, what it’s like now.”
He concludes: “Surely there are more important lessons to be learned here. They have to do with drugs and alcohol as well as truth. Addiction is a plague on American society. The cruelly ignorant assumption that addicts bring it on themselves (and thus can take care of the problem themselves) only exacerbates the problem. No child on third-grade Careers Day says he wants to grow up to be an alcoholic like Mommy or a rock hound like Dad, and no addict struggling to get clean before the spike or pipe can do him in deserves to be told, ”Just pull yourself together and clean up your act like James Frey did.” Because, dig: James Frey isn’t the way you sober up…and if you think I’m lying, let’s go to the videotape.”
I’ve mentioned my own talent for lying to those around me during times where my demons were out of control in The Most Uncool Addiction. The lies aren’t built around malice. It’s more about the shame an addict feels after giving in to the craving and feasting on their chosen substance like a wild animal in the sewer.
To help you understand, I need to repeat the story I told in that earlier post:
In my case, the addiction is food, something we need to survive. It’s not the least bit cool. Certainly not a “normal” addiction.
That food would be my problem makes perfect sense. As a kid sick with Chron’s Disease much of the time, I was often in the hospital for weeks at a time with a feeding tube that was inserted through the left side of my chest. That’s how I got nourishment. I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink anything. At a very early age, my relationship with food was doomed to dysfunction.
It didn’t help that I was from a family of over-eaters who would stuff themselves for comfort in times of stress and fatigue.
In our society it’s considered perfectly OK to indulge in the food. Time and again, I’ve heard it said that overeating is a lot better than drinking or drugging. But for me, back when I was at my worst, binge eating was a secret, sinister and shameful activity.
Here’s how it works:
You get up in the morning and swear to God that you’re going to eat like a normal person. You pack some healthy food for the office. Then you get in the car and the trouble starts before the car’s out of the driveway. Another personality emerges from the back of the brain, urging you to indulge. It starts as a whisper but builds until it vibrates through the skull like a power saw.
The food calls out to you. And you’ll do whatever it takes to get it, then spend a lot of time trying to cover your tracks.
Before you know it, you’re in the DD drive-thru ordering two boxes of everything. It all gets eaten by the time you reach the office. You get to the desk disgusted, vowing to never do that again. But by mid-morning, the food is calling again. You sneak out before lunchtime and gorge on whatever else you can find, then you do it again on the way home from work.
You pull into McDonald’s and order about $30 of food, enough to feed four people. From the privacy of the car, the bags are emptied. By the time you get home, you wish you were dead.
The cycle repeats for days at a time, sometimes weeks and months.
For many years I hid it well, especially in my early 20s. I would binge for a week, then starve and work out for another week. That mostly kept the weight at a normal-looking level.
Call it athletic Bulimia.
In one inspired episode, I downed $30 of fast food a day for two weeks, then went a week eating nothing but Raisin Bran in the morning, then nothing but black coffee for the rest of the day. After the cereal, I’d work out for two hours straight.
In my mid-20s, once I started working for a living, I kept up the eating but couldn’t do the other things anymore. So my weight rose to 280. In the late 1990s I managed to drop 100 pounds and keep it off through periodic fasting.
Then I started to face down what would eventually be diagnosed as OCD, and I once again gave in to the food. The gloves were off.
The binging continued unabated for three years. The weight went back up to 260. I also started to run out of clever ways to mask over all the money I was spending on my habit. I was slick. I’d take $60 from the checking account and tell my wife it was for an office expense or some other seemingly legitimate thing. But she’s too smart to fall for that for long.
Then I discovered Over-eaters Anonymous (OA), a 12-step program just like AA, where the focus is on food instead of booze. I didn’t grasp it immediately. In fact, I thought everyone at these meetings were nuts. They were, of course, but so was I.
Thing is, I had reached a point in my learning to manage OCD where I was ready to face down the addiction. If it had to be through something crazy, so be it.
Through the program, I gave up flour and sugar. The plan is to be done with those ingredients for life. Put them together and they are essentially my cocaine. I dropped 65 pounds on the spot. But more importantly, many of the ailments I had went away. I stopped waking up in the middle of the night choking on stomach acid. The migraines lessened substantially. And I found a mental clarity I never knew before.
I can’t say I’ve slaughtered the demon. Addicts relapse all the time. But I have a program I didn’t have before; a road map unlike any other.
When Erin read that post, she was pretty shocked, even though I eventually told her the truth. I told her the truth in bits and pieces, though, which is different than having it delivered in one, vivid flashback in the form of a blog entry.
That she was surprised makes sense on review. Even though I eventually gave her the honesty she deserved, I’m sure that in coming clean, I used the most passive, diluted language possible. Shame makes people talk that way.
King was right about another thing: Addicts don’t find recovery on their own. They need help from others who have suffered.
They are dragged up those 12 steps kicking and screaming in the beginning.
As a result I’ve gotten a fair amount of questions about the true value of anti-depressants. I’m not a doctor, so don’t take my perspective as Gospel. Also remember there’s no one-size-fits-all solution here. What I write here is based on my own personal experiences. What works for me may not work for the next person.
The more I read up on depression, mental illness and the drugs prescribed for it, the more I see the human brain as an engine. Comparing it to an engine makes this whole think easier to understand.
We know that the engine of a car is made up of many small parts and when one part gets worn out the rest of the engine can fail. We know that a car needs just the right amount of oil, transmission fluid, brake fluid etc. to function properly. If the oil runs out, the engine seizes up. If the brake fluid runs dry, the breaks fail. On the flip side, too much of these fluids can harm the engine.
We also know that the auto mechanic uses many different techniques to keep engines healthy or fix them when they break.
The brain works much the same way.
Think of the different drugs as different tools to deal with very specific problems in the engine.
In my case, Prozac addresses the very specific fluid deficiencies that spark OCD behavior. The effect is not as simple as the image below suggests (though I do like the image and need to find the artist so I can properly credit him/her):
It may also be useful to think of the therapist as the auto mechanic who is well versed in how to regulate the different engine fluids and pinpoint specific fixes for specific problems. It’s also true that there are good mechanics and bad mechanics who sometimes make the problem worse. [More on this in my previous post: Have Fun With Your Therapist (A.K.A.: The Shrink Stigma)]
In the brain, when certain fluids are running low, the engine stops working properly. The result is depression and a host of other mental disorders.
Since OCD is essentially the brain pumping and spinning out of control, I like to think of my specific problem as a lack of brake fluid.
But the good folks at WebMD explain it much better than I ever could. Here’s some WebMD wisdom I included in a previous post, Prozac Winter:
How Antidepressants Work
Most antidepressants work by changing the balance of brain chemicals called neurotransmitters. In people with depression, these chemicals are not used properly by the brain. Antidepressants make the chemicals more available to brain cells like the one shown on the right side of this slide:
Antidepressants can be prescribed by primary care physicians, but people with severe symptoms are usually referred to a psychiatrist.
Realistic Expectations
In general, antidepressants are highly effective, especially when used along with psychotherapy. (The combination has proven to be the most effective treatment for depression.) Most people on antidepressants report eventual improvements in symptoms such as sadness, loss of interest, and hopelessness.
But these drugs do not work right away. It may take one to three weeks before you start to feel better and even longer before you feel the full benefit.
And, just as weather can impair the performance of your car engine (my father‘s car went for a swim when Revere got flooded out in The Blizzard of 1978 and never worked properly again), too much bad weather can keep the brain from working properly:
Why do I seem to get so gloomy each winter, or sometimes beginning in the fall?
You may have what’s called seasonal affective disorder, or SAD. The condition is marked by the onset of depression during the late fall and early winter months, when less natural sunlight is available. It’s thought to occur when daily body rhythms become out-of-sync because of the reduced sunlight.
Some people have depression year round that gets worse in the winter; others have SAD alone, struggling with low moods only in the cooler, darker months. (In a much smaller group of people, the depression occurs in the summer months.)
SAD affects up to 3% of the U.S. population, or about 9 million people, some experts say, and countless others have milder forms of the winter doldrums.
So this worsening of mood in the fall and winter is not just my imagination?
Not at all. This “winter depression” was first identified by a team of researchers at the National Institute of Mental Health in 1984. They found this tendency to have seasonal mood and behavior changes occurs in different degrees, sometimes with mild changes and other times severe mood shifts.
Symptoms can include:
Sleeping too much
Experiencing fatigue in the daytime
Gaining weight
Having decreased interest in social activities and sex
SAD is more common for residents in northern latitudes. It’s less likely in Florida, for instance, than in New Hampshire. Women are more likely than men to suffer, perhaps because of hormonal factors. In women, SAD becomes less common after menopause.
I’m still learning the science of mental illness, and remember I’m not a doctor. I just share my personal experiences and explain what works for me.
As an obsessive-compulsive binge eater, the author feels it’s only proper that he (cough) weigh in (cough) on the notion that regulating junk food might help. Here’s why the answer is probably not.
The cattle prod for this item is a new book called “The End of Overeating.” The author is David A. Kessler, MD, and a former commissioner of the US Food and Drug Administration under presidents George H. W. Bush and Bill Clinton. I actually have a lot of respect for this guy, whose tenure included the successful push to enact regulations requiring standardized Nutrition Facts labels on food. That, in my opinion, was a huge win for those of us who want truth in advertising.
In “The End of Overeating,” Kessler makes a compelling argument: Foods high in fat, salt and sugar alter the brain’s chemistry in ways that compel people to overeat. “Much of the scientific research around overeating has been physiology — what’s going on in our body,” The Washington Post quoted him as saying in the story “David Kessler: Fat, Salt and Sugar Alter Brain Chemistry, Make Us Eat Junk Food.”
The real question is what’s going on in the brain, Kessler says.
His theory on food as an addictive substance is as on the mark as you can get. Trust me. I’ve lived it. Binge eating is all about addiction for me. It’s tied directly into the same corner of the brain where my OCD resides.
He is also right that sugar, salt and fat are addictive substances, though for a lot of people, the components of our poison boil down to sugar and flour. Of course, most of the food that has flour and sugar also tends to be high in salt and fat.
The first and most important tool in my OA recovery program is a plan of eating. Flour and sugar are off the table — period. Almost everything I eat goes on a little scale. 4 ounces protein, 4 ounces raw vegetable, 6 ounces cooked vegetable, 2 ounces potato or brown rice, etc. Every morning at 6:15 I call my sponsor, someone who hears my food plan for each day and gives me the necessary kick in the ass.
But salt and fat are not forbidden for me. In fact, I’m allowed to substitute 4 ounces of meat with 2 ounces of cheese or nuts.
To some, this may sound like a typical fad diet, but people in OA have used a plan like this since the beginning. And the plan isn’t the same for everyone. If you have diabetes, for example, removing every scrap of flour from the diet isn’t usually an option. No matter. The only requirement of the program is to stop eating compulsively, no matter how you get there.
This isn’t something I pursued to drop 65 pounds, though I did lose that amount pretty quickly. This is a food plan for life — a key to my getting all the nutrition I need and nothing more. Just as an alcoholic must put down the booze or a narcotics addict has to put down the pills, I have to put down the flour and sugar.
This is the plan that got me out of the darkest days of addictive behavior and I’m a true believer.
Flour and sugar mixed together becomes a toxin that knocks the fluids in my brain out of balance. Kessler’s research is definitely in line with what’s happened to me.
But the idea of regulating food the same way as something like cigarettes? It won’t do much good.
It certainly couldn’t hurt. The nutrition labels at the very least gave us an education on what we put in our bodies, and it’s been especially helpful to parents who are trying to raise their kids healthy. Regulating cigarettes has certainly made it harder for minors to buy them.
But for the true addict, regulation is a joke.
Knowing what’s in junk food won’t keep the addict away. I always read the labels AFTER binging on the item in the package. And the labels have done nothing to curb the child obesity pandemic.
If you smoke, it’s certainly more expensive to buy a pack than it used to be. But if you crave the nicotine, you’ll find a way to get your fix. It’s the same with drugs, and with food.
I’m going to read Kessler’s book because it sounds like he has some breakthrough findings that can help make people better.
But when someone suggests regulation as a solution, don’t ever believe ’em.
A suffering brain will always find a way to disregard the rules for the three minutes of rapture that follows the binge.
The author has written much about his Faith as a key to overcoming mental illness. But as this post illustrates, he still has a long way to go in his spiritual development.
The scene is the parking lot of All Saints Parish, just after today’s 9:30 Mass. Father Mike Harvey greets the Brenners and the conversation somehow turns to the kids listening to their mother and father.
Father Harvey: Remember kids, if your mother asks you to do something or tells you something, she is always right.
Me: Does that rule apply to me?
Father Mike: Yes. You always should answer her with “Yes Dear.”
Me: I’m an editor so I always try to make do with fewer words. So instead of “Yes Dear,” I shorten it to “Whatever.”
I have to be honest: While Sunday Mass is always a place for me to find peace and get closer to God, sometimes I ruin it for myself. I’m not a special case, because we all have our good days and bad days, but it’s worth noting here because it shows that while I’ve come far in conquering my demons, sometimes I backslide.
Case in point: I woke up cranky as all hell this morning, and as a result I went to church with a lousy attitude.
I didn’t hear the Homily, or the Gospel, or the Readings. I stood stone-faced during the Prayers of the Faithful. I got annoyed with the school principal sitting in the pew in front of us because her perfume was inflaming my allergies. I looked with disdain at a couple people who were reading the church bulletin during the Homily. It’s not my business, and I was as poorly-focused as they were. I was being judgmental, something I need to work on.
What’s this have to do with managing OCD? Let me explain:
Even though I’ve come a long way in managing my demons, there are still going to be days where I’m not as on top of things as I should be.
It’s also easy to get caught up in parish politics and attitudes. Sometimes we get pissed because we feel someone is judging us. Yet we turn around and judge them back.
Today was a reminder that my mental tools are only going to remain effective if I keep working to perfect them. That includes the eating plan at the center of my recovery for binge eating.
The battle against the demons is never completely won. It’s a battle that continues until death.
I like to think of it as something more positive: a journey.
Part 2 of the author’s list of serious songs/films that are meant to be serious but only succeed in making him laugh.
Yesterday I went on for a bit about songs that were meant to be serious that instead tickle my dark sense of humor. Today, I share some films that have the same impact on me. What does all this have to do with managing my mental illness? As I’ve said, humor is an important coping tool.
The Exorcist
I won’t play the clip of Linda Blair shooting pea soup from her mouth and levitating off her bed. Instead, I’ll let Beetlejuice sum up my position on this classic.
OK, this is based on a true story. And there is nothing funny about this sad piece of American criminal history. But Jeremy Davies’ portrayal of Charles Manson is so over the top in this 2004 remake of Helter Skelter, I can’t help but be amused.
War is hell. So when the characters in this movie trudge through hell with their off-colored humor intact, it says something about personal survival in the mental sense.
This one just came out, and, granted, a lot of this is meant to be taken with a laugh. But me being a devout Catholic and all, I find the whole concept of this film so over the top that I can’t see it as anything other than comedy. Which is exactly why I want to see it.
For some reason, the author always seems to get the most comic relief from things that are supposed to be serious.
I’ve spent a lot of time in this blog talking about music and humor as therapy. Today, I share some more favorites. The thing is, everything I’m about to share isn’t meant to be funny. But for someone with a dark sense of humor, these things offer true levity. Seriously.
Poison: “Every Rose Has It’s Thorn”
The very fact that Brett Michaels sings these lyrics with a straight face makes you wonder if he was taking himself a bit too seriously. By the way, this is my friend Linda White’s all-time favorite song.
Ronnie James Dio. The man. Scary and intense during his Black Sabbath days. Then, to keep up with all the glam bands of the mid-1980s, he went and did this.
You all know I love this band. And true, there was meant to be humor here. But their glam image in 1985, along with their choice of this song to cover, shows they truly were on drugs.
I wrote this in 2010, not long after starting this blog. Since then, Dad has had a series of strokes and has trouble walking, seeing and swallowing. His refusal to let it break his spirit reinforces my appreciation for him all the more.
Thanks for the inspiration, Dad.
The author has learned some surprising lessons from Dad on how to control one’s mental demons.
My father is on my mind this morning. I’m meeting up with him at a meeting of business owners who hope to learn more about a subject I’ve written about extensively for CSO Magazine: The Massachusetts data protection law. I find it odd that my father is reaching out to me for understanding on such a complex subject. I’m used to him giving me advice instead of asking for it.
Back when I was deep under the spell of OCD, his advice was the last thing on Earth I wanted. A little background on Dad: He was always the easy parent. If we kids asked him for something and he said “we’ll see,” it usually meant yes. He would fall asleep watching TV by early evening, while my mother was out with friends, giving us the run of the house. I could always count on him to take me to the Osco Drug store in Lynn to buy a new Star Wars action figure every Sunday, followed by a trip to Friendly’s for some black raspberry ice cream.
He knew that sometimes, when he was still asleep, I’d go in his wallet and grab myself some cash. But he never called me on it. Well, once he did, when I was in sixth grade. He called school looking for me because $100 was missing from his wallet. That time I wasn’t the culprit.
He runs a business in Saugus, Mass. that sells ladies shoes, gloves and all the other things girls go looking for when they need to dress for their prom or wedding.
As a kid, I always felt like the business was his favorite child. He worked hard and expected me to work hard.
He didn’t like to see me resting. If he caught me doing so, he’d give me something to do. Rake the leaves. Take out the trash.
As a teenager with a chip on the shoulder the size of a baseball, I grew to resent this. I especially hated it when he’d make me do deliveries with him on the truck. I sucked at the manual labor thing, and he’d always be on me to lift boxes “with my legs, not my back.” Good advice, it turns out. But I didn’t want to hear it.
My friends and some ex-girlfriends remember him walking around the house in his saggy underwear, hairy belly and other things hanging out for all to see. He didn’t care. It was his house. But he was always nice to the friends, and they all in turn got a kick out of his lack of modesty.
He also keeps his emotions largely to himself. The only time I ever saw him cry was when my brother died.
As my mental health really started to come unhinged, he started to grate on me. If I got a promotion at work, he’d ask how much of a raise I got. I’d tell him. He’d reply with a “That’s it?”
He also has terrible eating habits that have led to a variety of health problems. Much of my binge eating is inherited from him. He’ll down a large tray of stuffed cabbage or a box of frozen Devil Dogs as naturally and as easily as most of us take a breath. I’m pretty sure he’s part shark.
But as I approach my 40th birthday, I’m really starting to appreciate the guy and everything he taught me. I started to feel this way a long time ago, actually, but now that I’m keeping this blog, the memories are more vivid and the appreciation is in better focus. I used to see his stiff upper lip as a weakness; the result of cold emotions.
But I’ve learned the value of keeping a stiff upper lip when times are tough. And I’ve realized that it’s not the result of something cold. I think it’s more a case of him trying to be strong when people around him are falling apart.
He’s also far more giving than he might admit. If one of his employees is in a jam, he usually helps them out of it. I remember when one employee, his wife pregnant, needed a little extra financial help. My father gave it, but was quick to say something to the effect of, “I’m paying for this kid and I didn’t even get to have any fun.” I laughed hard when that employee told me about it. He laughed hard, too.
I’ve also come to appreciate his work ethic instead of being insulted by it.
As I’ve gotten over my fear and anxiety in recent years, I’ve come to see work as one of the most honorable responsibilities one can have. Your providing for family and, if you’re lucky like me, you get to do something you love that just happens to be important as well.
He certainly provided for his family. He still does. Without his prodding, I’m not sure I would have had the career success I’ve had. I also love to watch him with my kids. They are always at ease around him, and Duncan will grab his security blanket and sit with him.
The kids have always been good judges of character.
People ask me if he was upset when I converted from the Jewish Faith to Catholicism. He wasn’t upset at all. In fact, he likes to tell people that those of different religious stripes are really going to be surprised when they die and discover that it’s the same God for everyone.
The old man has been through a lot. He watched one of his children die and watched two more go through all kinds of mental and physical hurt. His marriage to my mother collapsed and was probably doomed from the start. He’s suffered a lot of illness himself.
Yet he still stands tall, even with the bad back and the bad knees. He’s taught me a lot about pressing forward despite life’s demons.
Mental-illness sufferers often avoid therapists because the stigma around these “shrinks” is as thick as that of the disease. The author is here to explain why you shouldn’t fear them.
Mood music for this post: “Just Another Psycho” by Motley Crue:
It’s a funny thing when I talk to people suffering from depression, addiction and other troubles of the mind. Folks seem more comfortable about the idea of pills than in seeing a therapist. After all, they’re just crazy “shrinks” in white coats obsessed with how your childhood nightmares compromised your adult sex life, right?
Since I rely on a therapist and medication as two of MANY tools in my recovery, I’m going to take a crack at removing the shrink stigma for you.
I’ve been to many therapists in my life. I was sent to one at Children’s Hospital in Boston as a kid to talk through the emotions of being sick with Chron’s Disease all the time. That same therapist also tried to help me and my siblings process the bitter aftermath of our parents’ divorce in 1980.
As a teenager, I went to another therapist to discuss my brother’s death and my difficulty in getting along with my stepmother (a wonderful, wonderful woman who I love dearly, by the way. But as a kid I didn’t get along with her).
That guy was a piece of work. He had a thick French accent and wanted to know if I found my stepmother attractive. From the moment he asked that question, I was done with him, and spent the rest of the appointment being belligerent.
That put me off going to a therapist for a long time. I started going to one again in 2004, when I found I could no longer function in society without untangling the barbed wire in my head. But I hesitated for a couple years before pressing on.
The therapist I started going to specialized in dealing with disturbed children and teenagers. That was perfect, because in a lot of ways I was still a troubled kid.
She never told me what to do, never told me how I’m supposed to interpret my disorder against my past. She asked a lot of questions and had me do the work of sorting it out. That, ladies and gentlemen, is what a good therapist does. They ask questions to get your brain churning, dredging up experiences that sat at the back of the mind like mud on the ocean floor. That’s how you begin to deal with how you got to the point of dysfunction.
She moved to Florida a year in and I started going to a fellow who worked from his house. I would explain my binge eating habits to him, specifically how I would down $30 worth of McDonald’s between work and home.
“You should stock your car with healthy foods like fruit, so if you’re hungry you can eat those things instead,” he told me.
That was the end of that. He didn’t get it. When an addict craves the junk, the healthy food around you doesn’t stand a chance. The compulsion is specifically toward eating the junk. He should have understood. He didn’t. Game over.
The therapist I see now is a God-send. He was the first therapist to help me understand the science behind mental illness and the way an inbalance in brain chemistry can mess with your thought traffic. He also provided me with quite an education on how anti-depressants work. Yes, friends, there’s a science to it. Certain drugs are designed to shore up the brain chemicals that, when depleted, lead to bi-polar behavior. Other meds are specifically geared toward anxiety control. In my case, I needed the drug that best addressed obsessive-compulsive behavior. For me, that meant Prozac.
That’s not to say I blindly obey his every suggestion. He specializes in stress reduction and is big on yoga and eliminating coffee from the daily diet. Those are two deal breakers for me. Yoga bores the dickens out of me. If you’ve been following this blog all along, I need not explain the coffee part.
I also find it fun to push his buttons once in awhile. I’ll show up at his office with a huge cup of Starbucks. “Oh, I see you’ve brought drugs with you,” he’ll say.
Thing is, he’s probably right about the coffee. But I’ve given up a lot of other things for the sake of mental health. I’m simply not putting the coffee down right now.
I think part of this is about testing him, too. I can’t help but push the buttons sometimes just to see what I can get away with.
But on balance, it’s a productive relationship that has helped me to find a lot of peace and order in my life. I thank him for that.
He kind of reminds me of Dr. Keyworth, the shrink who counseled Josh Lyman and President Bartlet on “The West Wing.” He took their crap with a straight face, not the least bit concerned that these were powerful, intimidating people.
The main point of this post is this:
There are good therapists and not-so-good therapists, just like there are good and not-so-good primary care doctors; just like there are good cops and bad cops.
But if you feel like you need to talk to someone objective and you hold back for fear of being in the same room as a quack, well, then you’ll never know what you could have accomplished.
I chose to talk to a professional despite my deepest reservations. I’m grateful that I did.
The author has been thinking a lot about courage lately. Some have told him it takes courage to write about his OCD battles. He thinks it’s more about being tired of running.
Over the weekend, I got this e-mail from an associate in the IT security industry I write about for a living:
“I’ve been reading your OCD diaries lately. This is perhaps one of the most courageous blogs on the planet and the work is stellar. Sometimes, insanity and the brilliance are intertwined. Your writing is meticulous and it’s a gift. That which the madman downs in, the mystic swims in. Same stuff. Keep swimming.”
A few people have told me it takes courage to write this blog. But I’m not so sure about that.
When I think of courage, I think of my grandfather. He was a career military man who propelled himself toward danger many times. He parachuted behind enemy lines in the hours leading up to the D-Day invasion of France in WW II. He was among those pinned down by the Germans at the Battle of the Bulge. He took a bullet in the leg during the Korean Conflict.
That’s courage: Putting your life on the line for the greater good when chances are better than average you’ll be coming home in a box.
I inherited a lot of things from my grandfather. I have his over-sized nose and ears. I wear a hat that was his. I like cigars. And on my desk at home I keep some of his service medals in a glass case, and I have the flag that was draped on his coffin when he died in 1996:
But I certainly am not risking my life to write this blog. I’ve never been in a firefight, and can’t be sure how I would handle myself under such circumstances. So it would be stupid for me to suggest I inherited courage from him.
When I really stop and think about it, I’d say this blog is less about courage and more about me being tired of running.
I got tired of keeping this disease to myself because of everything I’d been told about jeopardizing career and friendships by being too honest. I’ve seen too many good people go down in flames by keeping the affliction to themselves.
I just came around to realizing that when you rip your biggest skeletons from the closet and toss the bones into the sunlight, they turn to dust and you can then be free.
I’m not afraid of damaging friendships, because I’ve been open about my OCD to them all along. And it’s not like they couldn’t tell before that something was amiss.
I’m not afraid of this damaging me at work. The law protects me from discrimination. But what’s more is that I work with some great people.
Given that lack of fear, I’d have to say courage has nothing to do with it. Courage means pressing on in the face of fear.
I do think this is something God wants me to be doing. And I do see it as an act of service.
Service helps make me feel whole. And that’s reason enough to keep at it.
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