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Will E-Cigs Get Me Over Smoking?

Update: July 26, 2012: I’ve been leaning on my crutch like a motherfucker during a trip to Las Vegas. But I haven’t touched the real thing or drank, which is progress.

I’ve been using electronic cigarettes lately. Why, you ask? Let me try to explain.

When I’m in the mood to feel sorry for myself because I can’t do things I’m addicted to, I’ll throw up my hands and ask myself, “What else is there if I can’t drink, smoke, eat flour and sugar and all that other shit?” I’m particularly prone to getting this way when life pushes me outside my comfort zone.

Mood music:

[spotify:track:1wPhx62DRpvULqckrdWlIt]

Life of late has been very good, but it’s also been very fast and exhausting. One big event after the next, lots of mileage on the car plus all the typical pressures we all experience as parents and spouses. A few weeks ago, I started feeling the pressure to the point where I seriously considered resuming the smoking habit.

Why would I do something so stupid, especially after all the trouble I got into with my wife the last time I was busted?

A question like that ignores the most fundamental truth about addictive behavior: When the urge builds up, it becomes a relentless, physical ache. At that point, the brain’s wiring gets all coiled and tangled, and it tightens until you find a way to untangle it. In moments like that, consequences don’t compute.

But as I get older, I refuse to give in so easily. Especially with the smoking, because as bad habits go, it’s probably the worst. That said, the most recent urges got so bad that I turned to e-cigs.

Here’s how they work:

  • The white part that looks like tobacco rolled in white paper is actually a battery.
  • The “flavor cartridge” looks like a filter and is filled with water and flavoring (tobacco, cherry, coffee, chocolate, etc.). You can purchase them with various amounts of nicotine, from the full amount found in a cigarette down to nothing. I’m using them with no nicotine.
  • When you drag off it and inhale, it feels just like smoking, only you’re inhaling water vapor. No smoke, no tar, no cancer-causing carcinogens. And no odor or ashes.
  • The batteries recharge when you screw ’em onto a charger that plugs into the USB port of your laptop, car charger or plug adapter.
  • Each “filter” lasts for about 200 puffs, roughly the equivalent of a pack of cigarettes.

Costs vary. I bought the standard starter kit for $75, which included two batteries, a charger and a couple boxes of cartridges, which seem to be lasting me a long time. I was never a pack-a-day smoker. In fact, I was probably a five-a-day smoker at my worst, which probably has you pack-a-day addicts laughing your heads off. Thing is, I had to have those five. Anyway, my cartridge refills should last a long while.

The hope is that once I’ve inhaled vapor sans nicotine for a while, I will grow bored with it and stop. That’s always been the good thing with me and smoking. When I start back up, I get bored after a while and stop. And that’s with the nicotine.

When I’m done with this experiment, I’ll probably keep one battery in a drawer and give away the other along with what’s left of the cartridges.

Wish me luck, and stay tuned for updates.

For those who want to try it as an alternative to cigarettes, there are a lot of places to find them. Most gas stations with mini marts sell the disposable kind, and most malls have them for sale at kiosks along the main walkways. Online, there are tons of options. Here’s a pretty good list of different brands.

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Teachers Who Ignore Kids With Food Allergies Should Be Fired

When school officials repeatedly fail to protect a child from something like a life-threatening nut allergy, the damage to that child’s mental health is as bad as to their physical health. When that happens, even if the child is physically unharmed, the reaction from us grown-ups should be nothing other than outrage.

Mood music:

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In elementary school, I was banned from any food product with dairy in it. Even a trace of it was forbidden. That was the Crohn’s Disease. I often felt left out when some kid brought cookies to school or the class got to have an ice cream social. But overall, my teachers worked hard to make sure I was taken care of. Say what you will about Revere Public Schools in the 1970s and ’80s; I’ll always be grateful for the care they gave me as a little boy coming to grips with a scary and, back then, rare disease. Today everyone and their grandma seems to have Crohn’s Disease, but at that time the illness was still a mystery to most people, including those in the medical profession.

By contrast, the childhood nut allergies we hear about so much these days aren’t a mystery. Every day you can find a news report about a child having a severe allergy attack and in some cases dying from it.

So when high school friend Carl Sackrison and his wife Glenda told me about their son’s experience in the Methuen Public School System, I was mystified. I’ve had many backs and forth with them over this, and they permitted me to use their names because, as Glenda said, they’ve already been vocal and public about their son’s experiences.

There was the teacher eating Snicker’s bars in front of their son, even though the nut allergy is well-documented. There was an ice cream social where one of the toppings was contaminated with nuts (the container said manufactured in a facility with nuts), resulting in a facial rash and an ER visit for the young boy. And there was the teacher who told the boy that he wasn’t the snack police when he expressed concern that there was food in the room he might get sick from.

“When we sat down to talk about it, he said to me, ‘Why won’t anyone listen to me? Mommy, I just don’t want to die,'” Glenda told me. “This is very heartbreaking to hear knowing that this has been an ongoing issue since he started school and that there is nothing I can do to make it stop to keep him safe while he’s in school.”

When teachers make a child feel like his health is going to be threatened whenever he enters the classroom, it’s a mental health threat as much as a physical one. Glenda and Carl’s son has experienced a worsening anxiety and paranoia as a result of what’s happening in school.

If the school district doesn’t start dealing with it and getting him the help he needs, things will get a lot worse.

The district needs several big kicks in the ass to keep that from happening. Consider this post one such kick in the ass.

Kids and Peanuts

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People Surprise Me Sometimes

The wedding I wrote about a few days ago has come to pass, and it was a great night. Everyone got along, which isn’t always easy in this family, and it was great to see the newlyweds look so happy. It was also a night where a few people defied my expectations.

Mood music:

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Two people I was certain wouldn’t talk to me came up and greeted me warmly. Another couple we haven’t seen in six years greeted us warmly, too. One person, probably the oldest family member in the room, snubbed me, which was a surprise based on our last encounter.

Just goes to show that people are rarely predictable.

It sucks that some of the relationships in the room are damaged. Nobody ever wants it to be that way, but sometimes perfectly good individuals find it impossible to talk to each other without fireworks going off. What looks like something normal or positive to one person comes off as selfish and malicious to the other person.

To some of the bystanders in the room, it just doesn’t make sense. Like Rodney King during the L.A. riots 20 years ago, they ask aloud, “Can’t we all just get along?”

If only life were that sensible.

In the end, though, it’s good to see that people can defy expectations. Whether the outcome is pleasant or not, it goes to show that the future is never set in stone and family discord doesn’t have to last.

It’s been said that with love all things are possible. It’s true.

It’s also true that all things are possible when people who don’t get along make it through an event without coming to verbal or physical blows.

Holding Hands

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Zombies Are Addicts, Too

Zombies have become the new American superhero, revered in countless Facebook memes and magazine articles. Now we have real people eating other real people.

Mood music:

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I normally wouldn’t touch a topic like this, because zombies are a work of fiction. But lately people have been trying hard to will the fiction to life. We have one guy eating the face off a homeless man and another guy eating his buddy’s heart and brain. Somewhere in the news coverage, we started hearing of bath salts, a synthetic drug that turns users into zombies, not the stuff you put in a bath.

I get it. All these reports of cannibalistic behavior make the zombie apocalypse talk too easy to pass up.

But what’s more interesting to me than the zombie jokes is an article about cannibalism as an addictive, obsessive behavior. Though I’m a guy who suffers from an addictive, obsessive personality, I’m still trying to wrap my head around how someone could get addicted to eating their own kind. Huffington Post scribe David Moye wrote an enlightening article on the subject.

In it, he interviews Karen Hylen, primary therapist at Summit Malibu Treatment Center in California. Hylen said that although cannibalism has historically been for survival or religious purposes, recent cases have been caused by addiction or mental illness.

“People who have engaged in this act report feelings of euphoria or get a ‘high’ by performing the action to completion,” she told The Huffington Post. “These individuals have psychopathic tendencies and are generally not psychotic. They know exactly what they are doing.”

According to Hylen, cannibalism starts out as just a fantasy, but when the fantasy is acted on, “the pleasure center of the brain becomes activated and large amounts of dopamine are released — similar to what happens when someone ingests a drug like cocaine.”

The result is similar to those of other addictive behaviors. The addictive needs to experience that pleasure again and repeats the activity, from the hunt to the gruesome end, “just as a cocaine addict becomes addicted to the process of cutting up lines before they ingest the drug itself,” said Hylen.

Addiction and obsessive-compulsive disorders can be damn scary in the random ways they choose to manifest themselves.  If you’re a drug addict who cleans up, you’re called an inspiration. If you’re a cannibal who cleans up, you still go to jail and get called a freak. That’s as it should be, of course.

I’ll just consider myself lucky because my personality latched on to junk food, tobacco and alcohol. It’s easy to gorge on that stuff without having to murder someone.

Those binges have turned me into a zombie many times before. But I was a more acceptable kind of zombie.

There’s a bright side to everything. Even a zombie apocalypse.

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Grief Management Put to Music

Weeks after a loved one dies and we’ve allowed ourselves to fall apart, we have to make a choice: Stay in a fetal position, hidden from the world, or stand up and move forward. This is a little tribute to someone who made the latter choice.

Mood music:

[soundcloud url=”http://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/48842027″ iframe=”true” /]

I don’t know Ian Clark very well. We’re connected on Facebook, and I’m very fond of his mom’s band, The 360s (he plays drums in that band and is guitarist/vocalist in a band called Razors in the Night). But I sure as hell know what he’s going through.

A few weeks ago, he lost his best friend and cousin, James Morrill. I’ve watched his family grieve in their Facebook posts, and I can’t help but remember when my brother died unexpectedly in 1984 and my best friend followed suit nearly 13 years later. My friend’s death had a particularly damaging effect on me because that was a suicide. After he passed, I spent the next two years viciously binge-eating my way to 280 pounds of uselessness. Badly depressed, I hid from the world, staying indoors watching Star Trek reruns instead of staying connected with other friends.

You could say I chose to stay in the fetal position.

Since his moment of heartbreak, Ian has plowed ahead with his music and has honored his cousin by writing a song — the one featured as today’s mood music.

So far, I’d say he’s decided to move forward. It inspires me.

I hope he keeps doing what he’s doing — channeling his feelings into the music. Music is one of the best therapies in times of grief. And when you’re writing it, you have the chance to help others make it through their own trials.

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Hit Me Again, I Can Take It

Despite the sometimes divisive topics I write about daily, most of the comments people leave under my posts are positive. But don’t you worry — I take my share of  barbed rebukes as well. Since it can be terribly difficult for some to take criticism, I thought I should share what I’ve learned.

Mood music:

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To show I’m an equal opportunity kinda guy, let me start by sharing the not-so-nice reactions readers have had to my work of late. This one came from a guy who didn’t like my tone in the CSOonline Salted Hash security blog when I told people to stop passing around a hoax Facebook message about privacy rights (or the lack thereof for those who insist on posting everything about themselves):

Wow. Have you ever considered writing in a slightly less condescending, obnoxious manner? It might improve the rate at which your message is successfully received by others … that is, of course, premised on the notion that your words function as a means for communication and not as a tool for artificially boosting your self-esteem.

My response was this:

Sorry you feel that way. It’s not about trying to be condescending. It’s about forcefully arguing a point. You are, of course, welcome to stop reading. No hard feelings.

It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he were one of the people who fell for the Facebook hoax. If he’s embarrassed and lashing me makes him feel better, I’m fine with that.

Yesterday’s post on dealing with dysfunctional family got me a flaming response from a relative who told me I should stop being mean. It was the kind of message that had various words in all caps and lots of exclamation points. In an act of mercy (I didn’t want people to see this person making herself look bad), I deleted the comment, which is rare for me.

Angry comments from family tend to be toughest to digest, but given the semi-autobiographical nature of this blog, I’d be a fool to expect all sunshine and roses.

Happily, most family members who read my posts get where I’m coming from. And I’ve said it before: My memories are my memories. They may not represent the whole unvarnished truth, and there’s always another side to the story. But I tell you things as truthfully as I can, based on how I remember events. It’s but one perspective.

I could stop writing or limit what I do write to the type of stuff that never offends and never tries to get at the truth. But that’s not my style.

If you don’t want to offend or be offended, writing is the wrong profession for you. There are times when you have to take clear, forceful views and  prepare to be violently disagreed with. There are also times when every unpleasant detail must be added to give readers the clearest picture of the points you need to make. I’ve written about some unpleasant childhood memories, but I’ve ended almost all such posts on a positive note, because I know how lucky I am to have the life I’m living.

If you want to disagree with me, go ahead. If you want me to change my approach or my opinions, you may as well stop reading now.

You Can't Handle the Truth

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Four Survival Tips for Dysfunctional Family Events

I’ll admit it: I’m something of a black sheep in my family. There’s a large chunk of family I have little to no communication with. But sometimes big events require us to be together in the same space, like a wedding this coming Saturday. What to do?

Mood music:

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I’m thinking about this because the family member I’m most estranged from sent me a Facebook friend request yesterday. Since she unfriended and blocked me a few months ago, pissed to the gills over this blog and some of the memories I’ve shared here, I decided to decline the invitation. I really don’t need to hear the same old bullshit about how this person is the victim and how my recollections are distorted.

But Erin, the kids and I still have to share the same space with this person on Saturday, so I’m thinking a lot about how we should conduct ourselves. In the process, a survival guide is forming in my head. It is in no way scientific. It may not even work. But it’s what I’ve got so far.

  • Smile and say hello. Sure you can give your estranged loved one an icy stare and cold shoulder, but all that will do is throw tension in the air for everyone to bathe in. That wouldn’t be fair. I despise people who let their selfishness wreck someone else’s special occasion. Just smile and say hello. You don’t have to have a conversation. Just be cordial when face to face. My extended family deserves some credit on this score, because at a wedding over the summer everyone behaved. I think it’ll be the same this time.
  • Don’t stare. If there’s one thing I hate at family gatherings, it’s when people stare at you. I’ve been stared at during all kinds of family events involving all sides of my clan. It leaves me wondering if I have potato salad in my beard or a hole in my pants. I can’t stop people from staring, but I’ve decided not to stare back. Staring contests never end well.
  • Find a buddy. No matter how many people you’re not getting along with, you can always count on finding a few people you are getting along with. Instead of staring at others, find the family and friends you get on well with and spend your the time talking to them.
  • Don’t linger if you’re uncomfortable. Some would say it’s rude and selfish to be the family member who leaves the event early. I disagree. If you linger and your comfort level is stuck in the low setting the whole time, it’ll show in your body language and the people around you will feel it. Why do that to them?  When that’s the case, gracefully remove yourself from the scene.
  • Say your goodbyes, give some hugs and leave.

Help Me Wedding Photo

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When We Look in the Mirror, We See John Edwards

I admit feeling some glee over the fall of former U.S. senator and presidential hopeful John Edwards. I always thought the guy was full of himself, and cheating on his cancer-stricken wife was probably one of the shittiest examples of infidelity you could find. Yet I’m going to defend him — a little.

Mood music:

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Edwards was back in the news this week when a jury found him not guilty on one count of accepting illegal campaign contributions. A mistrial was declared on five other charges after the jury declared it was hopelessly deadlocked, USA Today reported. He was accused of using nearly $1 million from Rachel “Bunny” Mellon and Fred Baron to cover up his affair with Rielle Hunter, a former campaign videographer.

At a press conference yesterday, Edwards said, “I do not believe I did anything illegal. I did an awful, awful lot that was wrong. There is no one else responsible for my sins. … I don’t have to go any further than the mirror. It’s me and me alone.”

Yeah, I’ll say it:

  • I always believed Edwards was more about cockiness and empty rhetoric than substance.
  • I hate him for the way he treated his wife, Elizabeth.
  • I’ve always seen him as a political narcissist.

I also admit that in holding those views, I’m a hypocrite. I think any of us who judge him are hypocrites. We’re all sinners, right?

I’ve never cheated on my wife, but I’ve sure as hell lied to her. It’s usually because I’m embarrassed or ashamed of something stupid I’ve done in the addiction department. I’ve written about the lying at length in this blog.

The dumb things I did to cover the damage of my addictive behavior makes me understand all too well how a guy like John Edwards could play fast and loose with the law to hide his sins. It’s a human weakness we all have inside of us. Some are luckier than others at controlling it.

I also have an ego of my own, so it’s kind of funny that his irks me so much. Maybe it’s because his ego comes with a stylish head of hair.

Convictions or not, Edwards is paying for his sins. His political viability is vaporized and he knows he did shitty things and that the public hates him for it. I think the suffering he has to go through for that is appropriate. But like the rest of us, he could — if he really wants to work at it — rebuild himself and turn his experiences into something good.

If he can do that, I’ll be one of the first to give him credit.

John Edwards

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Sometimes, Sobriety Sucks

Some days I wish I could have a glass of wine or six. This leaves me with two choices: Fall off the wagon with zeal or stay sober and resent the world with zeal.

It’s funny, because binge eating was the addictive behavior that got me into the most trouble and I don’t get this way over the flour and sugar I used to stuff myself with.

Mood music:

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Yesterday afternoon I was really feeling it. The pressures of the day were weighing me down like a board loaded with bricks. It wasn’t even a bad day, really. I got to spend most of the work day on the back deck with Erin (I love working in the open air. It’s even better when my beautiful bride is working next to me). We got a walk in. I got a lot of work done.

And yet …

This resentment usually takes hold when I have family concerns on my mind or the work day has wiped me out. Sometimes, in that state, I want the release a buzz can provide. Since I’ve pretty much given up everything else, I badly want something I can use as my crutch. No booze. No sweets. No cigars. What else is there?

I came to my senses last night and went to bed instead of contemplating a fall off the wagon. I’m thankful that I can do that when the tension gets to be too much.

In the final analysis, I know it has to be this way, because I have absolutely zero ability to enjoy these things in moderation. When you have an addictive personality, moderation doesn’t exist. It’s as foreign a concept as walking on Mars. I have to have it all. Other addicts know this feeling.

So I have to abstain. I have no choice.

Ninety-nine percent of the time, I’m grateful the substance demons aren’t running my life anymore. It’s a freedom unlike any other. I experience more life more often as a result. It’s better that way.

But one percent of the time, I despise the universe for giving me an addictive mind. In those moments, I want a bottle of wine so badly it makes my head hurt.

I survived it last night. I’ll take satisfaction in that and move on.

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Maybe It’s Time for a New Therapist

Lately I hate going to my therapy appointments. I dread getting in the car to go, and once I leave his office my head goes from slight ache to migraine in the course of an hour. It’s not the therapist’s fault as much as it’s a change brewing within me.

Mood music:

[spotify:track:7rvD6aTf1Aa2OMwzAQbQwO]

I’ve written about my therapist before. He’s taught me a lot about how the brain works, what happens when a mental disorder takes hold and how specific drugs go to work on specific defects. In that regard, he’s been a godsend. I’ve never agreed with everything he tells me to do, especially the bit about not drinking caffeine. To protest that suggestion, I usually show up for an appointment with a Venti Starbucks bold in my hand. But that’s never taken away from what he’s helped me with. In fact, his good humor under my needling has only made me like him more.

But lately I keep feeling like we’ve hit a wall, that he can’t take me any further on this journey.

I’ve been here before with other therapists. They help me move forward up to a certain point, then we start going in circles, covering the same ground over and over again — sometimes simply for the sake of using up the 60 minutes that I pay for.

To some extent you have to retread the same ground in therapy, because the patient is usually dealing with the same old issues. Retracing the old steps is how a therapist checks to see how well you’re managing and using the tools you’ve developed.

But lately, I’ve had less and less patience for covering the ground I know all too well.

It could simply be that I need a fresh face to dump on every few years, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I used to hate having to change therapists because in my mind it meant I would have to tell someone the whole back story all over again. What I’ve learned, however, is that I can tell the backstory through a fresher mindset, one that works differently now that I’ve significantly improved my ability to manage the demon.

I’m not the anxious, fear-filled introvert who first walked into a therapist’s office in 2004 when I first realized I had big issues that were making my life unbearable. Today I’m a lot more outgoing, sure of myself and at ease with who I am. But I’ll always need therapy to ensure that I’m still using all my coping tools the way I’m supposed to. Besides, life is always changing, throwing new curve balls my way. Through the normal challenges of life, I need help keeping my balance.

Maybe that’s part of my current dilemma: I’ve gotten better to the point where I’ve become too comfortable with this particular therapist. In life, we’re always searching for the comfort zone, but sometimes being in the comfort zone makes you forget what really needs to be discussed in that 60-minute block.

I could be imagining all this right now. It could be that I’m looking for excuses to stop talking about things I actually need to talk about. Taking the necessary medicine is often unpleasant.

But for now I have that feeling in my gut, telling me that something isn’t working like it used to when I first step into that office.

Time for a change? We’ll see.