The OCD Diaries

November 5, 2014

A New Season of SAD: Self-Doubt Shows Up

In what seemed like seconds after turning the calendar to November, a wave of depression hit me hard. It dogged me through the weekend and it’s with me now. With it comes feelings of self-doubt.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/N88YgEKGMzI

Those who know me see me as a confident man, and most of the time I am. I’ve been through enough to know that with the right attitude and will, things ultimately work out.

I’m usually confident about my workmanship and ability to see through the clutter of life. But in this wave of depression, that part of me has gone missing. I find myself doubting my abilities.

In this state, the things I do wrong seem bigger and more pronounced than the things I do right. It can be paralyzing, but I can only allow it to be that way for a short time.

At work and at home, I have a lot of responsibility. I can’t neglect those responsibilities, no matter how hopeless I feel.

So I do what I’ve always done. I show up and take my best swing.

In the big picture, beyond the depression, I know I do more good than not. The depression is usually temporary, and I know that before long, the positives will look bigger than the negatives.

In real life, the positives ARE bigger than the negatives. But for now, I feel like shit.

I need to get back to using my coping tools — playing guitar every day, setting aside time daily for prayer, and seeing a therapist. Yesterday I found a new therapist, so I’m almost back on track there.

The Christmas season is usually when I feel like this. My goal this time is to make that the season where I emerge from the storm, stronger than ever.

After the Storm by William Bradford: Two sailing ships in a stormy sea

“After the Storm” by William Bradford

November 3, 2014

The Beauty in the Wreck

Kelly Lum (a.k.a., @aloria) has been an acquaintance for nearly four years, though I wouldn’t say we’re close friends. We’re both part of the information security community and bump into each other at the occasional conference. When we do talk, we find one thing in common.

A life-long struggle with depression.

Mood music:

I’ve been open about it in this blog. She’s been open about it in her social media postings.

Last week, she published an article in which she gives the fullest account yet of her struggles. Specifically, she writes about how finding beauty in abandoned, decayed places helped her find an appreciation and even a love for her inner demons.

As one of our common connections said online, if this were the first chapter of a book, I wouldn’t put it down.

I long ago learned to find the best parts of myself from within the mental disorder. By accepting OCD and depression as part of what makes me tick instead of a contagion that needed to be destroyed, I found my way forward in the world. I’ve found beauty and grace in the struggle. It’s a blessing to reach that realization. I’m glad Kelly has reached that place, too.

It doesn’t end the pain, but it brings purpose to it.

Thanks for sharing, Kelly, and Godspeed.

She's A Wreck blog logo

October 30, 2014

The Fat Guy on the Plane

An online posting about a guy who supposedly had to suffer through a flight sitting next to an obese man has gone viral. Like many things that go viral online, it’s bullshit.

Mood music:

Rich Wisken blogged that he paid an extra £13.50 for an exit-row seat, expecting to travel from Perth to Sydney with plenty of room. But he found himself seated beside an obese man. Wisken said “Jabba the Hutt” smelled like old cheese and flight attendants paid him little mind when he requested another seat.

People ate his story up, because on the Internet rage trumps truth.

Tony Posnanski came forward, claiming to be the obese man Wisken sat beside. Posnanski wrote of how he used to weigh more than 400 pounds and how he used to buy two seats on flights. This flight, he was thrilled because he could fit in one seat after losing 200-plus pounds. He said he takes care not to be offensive, showering and applying deodorant copiously. Posanski said Wisken shouldn’t have been offended since “I bought him THREE drinks just to shut him up.” He said Wisken bragged about being a famous blogger who would write about the flight. “I always laugh when people say they are famous bloggers,” Posnanski wrote.

For all I know, he’s full of shit, too. I’m skeptical of just about everything online these days.

But this sordid tale hits me where I live, for two reasons:

I travel often enough to encounter people like Wisken on a regular basis. Guys like him annoy me more than the overweight people I am often seated beside. The sense of entitlement people of his ilk possess makes me want to puke.
I’m overweight.

There’s often the assumption that someone is fat because they don’t care about hygiene and lack self control. People like that surely exist, but there are many heavy people who struggle with weight for myriad reasons.

My weight has always gone up and down. I’m nowhere close to my heaviest weight, but I’m not at my lightest, either. Some of that is because of a life-long struggle with depression-fueled binge eating. Much of it is because as a kid I was sick with severe Crohn’s Disease and the amount of Prednisone I’ve had to ingest permanently damaged my metabolism.

I’m not sedentary. I’ve always been a vigorous walker. I’m hard-charging in my work and I’m a busy family man. I’m always on the move.

Except for a recent slip, I’ve spent six years avoiding flour and sugar and putting portions on a scale.

Still, I’m not thin, and I don’t lament it. I’m kind of proud of my broken body for surviving so much and still affording me a full life.

I don’t lift weights or run marathons. But I’m a survivor with my own brand of toughness.

If you sit next to me on a plane, you might be annoyed that I need more room than you do. You may steam internally about what a loser I must be to let myself go.

But you don’t know me. Just as Wisken didn’t know the man seated next to him.

Obese
The picture Wisken posted of the obese man he shared a flight with. According to Posnanski, that wasn’t him and the photo was faked.

October 21, 2014

On Being the Office Jerk

Every office environment has its challenges. There are always colleagues who see the world differently from you. There are always situations that require extra work hours to address. Nothing is ever perfect.

Knowing that, in recent years I’ve worked hard to be the cheerful guy in whatever office I work in, the one who always smiles, never talks badly about others and always keeps a can-do attitude.

But when my OCD runs hot, I become the guy I don’t want to be — the office jerk.

And so it has been lately. That’s how I feel, anyway.

Mood music:

I’ve been short tempered recently and my ideas don’t come out the way I intend them to. I sit by my laptop for 16 hours a day, hoping beyond hope that I can somehow control the world as long as I don’t step away. When critical feedback comes in, I take it personally. By not stepping away, I get exhausted, which makes me even more prickly.

In recent weeks at work we’ve had some big challenges to address. The challenges come with the job and in the end, we thrive on the challenges. The team has impressed the hell out of me, and that has made me want to contribute to the work all the harder.

So I did. I’d like to think I did some good. But I can’t help but think that I was a jerk in the process.

So I’m re-evaluating how I went about things.

One thing I’ve learned over the years is that colleagues work hard to get it right and do well by their colleagues. No one sets out to be difficult, but in the heat of a deadline, it’s hard to avoid — especially when everyone cares so much about getting it right.

When I was an editor for a local daily newspaper, I saw enemies around every corner. From my perspective everyone was out to block my progress and throw me under the bus. But all the while, I was overbearing, standing over people who were trying to do their jobs and yelling across rooms. There’s a lot of that in newsrooms, so I got away with the behavior. But I know I made life miserable for other people and blamed everyone but myself when things went wrong.

When I started to get a grip on my OCD, I vowed never to be that guy again. For the most part, I think I’ve been successful. But in the last two months, I worry that I haven’t managed as well as I should. So it’s time for me to take stock and right myself.

I love what I do for work. I’m very fortunate to have this career. It’s been a huge blessing. I’ve made dear friends along the way and I’m constantly in awe of current colleagues.

I’ve forgotten the good parts in recent weeks because I stopped taking care of myself and started forgetting everything I’ve learned about being the blessing.

That brand of madness ends here.

If I’ve been difficult to colleagues of late, I apologize and thank them for their patience. The same goes for family who has to put up with my meltdowns at home.

My recalibration is under way.

Bill The Cat leaning on a lever

October 16, 2014June 5, 2020

Just Showing Up Is a Victory (Updated 6-5-20)

Firestorm in the shape of a fist and the middle finger

As anyone prone to mental disorder and depression knows, there are days when it’s all you can do to get out of bed in the morning. The pain in your emotional space travels to every muscle, every bone and everywhere on the skin. Why bother?

These moments used to give me cravings for dark, quiet rooms with a bed or couch, where I could binge eat, smoke, drink and sleep — in that order.

In the grip of depression, it can be hard not to go back there. But I can’t let depression do that to me anymore. So there’s only one thing left to do.

Show up.

Mood music:

Show up for my wife and kids.

Show up for work.

Show up for meetings and appointments.

No matter how dreadful I feel.

I need to show up for everything — the good and the bad.

I can stumble over my addictive impulses and overwork myself until I’m burnt to a crisp. But every time I show up, the demons lose.

Showing up is a road back to equilibrium, as crooked and unpredictable as that road might be.

Showing up means you can be a blessing to people without trying to blindly please everyone.

To sum it up:

Your demons will hate you for it.

Those who matter will love you for it.

October 15, 2014

A Vulnerable Soul, a Big Mountain and a Bigger Lesson

After weeks of feeling exhausted, depressed and out of control, I escaped to New Hampshire’s White Mountains with Erin for some rest, relaxation, romance, and hiking. We found all those things, but I also found myself humbled and shamed when hiking up the mountains.

Mood music:

After a back injury, job stresses and the breakdown of my food plan, I knew I was out of shape when we started up Mt. Willard in Crawford Notch. But we’ve hiked plenty of times before, and I’d done fine.

It didn’t take long before my heart started pounding through my rib cage and I lost my breath. Other hikers — many with children and dogs in tow — moved past us with what seemed like ease. Much older people blew past us like they were taking an easy stroll on the beach.

Erin noted more than once that the other hikers seemed to be struggling, too, that it wasn’t just me, but that’s not how I felt.

From my perspective, the mountain was taunting me, poking and shaming me into realizing just how badly I’ve deteriorated physically. I kept looking for the top of the mountain, but all I could see was a trail that kept shooting straight up.

The hike up the mountain: trail to Artist's Bluff

The mountain was showing me no mercy. It kicked me repeatedly when I was down. Then it rewarded me with a spectacular view that seemed to make the suffering worthwhile.

View from the top: Peak of Mt. Willard

It took us an hour to climb back down. I spent the rest of the afternoon in a haze.

We did an easier, shorter hike the next day, but it still wiped me out. Coming back down the second trail, I realized that the mountains were a metaphor for what I’ve been feeling.

As rotten as those feelings are, the mountains also taught me that I can overcome the demons, as I have so many times before.

I frequently doubted that I could make it to the top during the hikes. But I kept going, no matter how much pain I was in. And at the top, the world opened back up with endless possibilities.

I always keep going, and things always get better.

So it will be this time.

September 9, 2014

Those Scars Are for Life

Yesterday I came across this quote from Rose Kennedy, late matriarch of the 20th-century political dynasty:

“It has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.” –Rose Kennedy

Whatever you may think of the Kennedys, it’s a fact that Rose lived through more than her fair share of grief.

Her oldest son, Joseph, was killed in WWII. We all know what happened to JFK and RFK. A daughter, Kathleen, died in a plane crash. Another daughter, Rose, was mentally disabled, and she outlived two of her nephews — Patrick Bouvier Kennedy, son of JFK; and David Kennedy, son of RFK.

I haven’t lived through that much loss, but I’ve seen my fair share, including the death of an older brother and that of two best friends — one to suicide.

Knowing what that felt like and how I feel now, I’d have to say Rose was accurate in her assessment.

Time has certainly been a healer.

I’ve moved on with my life in the face of death, illness and other adversity. I have a wife who’s beautiful from the inside out, and we’re blessed with two great kids. I have a career I love, and I’ve gotten to do some very cool things.

The good experiences have been part of the medicine for grief, and there’s even some solace within the grief, because I was lucky enough to have such loved ones in my life early on.

But not a day goes by where I don’t think of the dead for at least a few minutes.

The good memories take up most of those thoughts, but it usually ends with the memory of their deaths, and that still hurts. It doesn’t paralyze me like it used to, because the scar tissue is thick. It’s the kind of scarring you always feel, tugging at you here and there. It’s part of my mental anatomy for life.

I’m OK with that, because it’s important to remember.

Mood music:

September 2, 2014

Trying to Make Peace with Prednisone

I’ve been on Prednisone for five days now, and the side effects are kicking in. My appetite has gone from zero to 100, and my moodiness is considerable.

Mood music:

But the drug is doing its work, easing my back pain from shooting, piercing spasms to a more manageable dull ache. Now I remember why they used to put me on this shit for Crohn’s Disease.

When it comes to putting the freeze on inflamed muscles and bone, it gets the job done.

Still, I wonder if the inflammation could have been dealt with using a different medication — something that won’t inflame my mood and puff up my face.

When the doctor said he was prescribing Prednisone, I let out a groan.

“What?” he asked, annoyed that I might be questioning his almighty judgement.

“Prednisone and I have a history,” I told him. “During the Crohn’s attacks …”

“But this is a low dosage, and it’s only for 14 days,” he said, using a tone one uses when addressing idiots.

This doctor is an arrogant bastard. I hope he knows what he’s doing. He’s a new doctor, so I won’t give up on him yet.

This back injury has been hard. I have to lie down and watch the world pass by, which isn’t how I prefer to operate. It’s been so bad that I’m willing to take my chances with a drug I said I’d never take again.

For now, I’m focusing on the positives:

It’s not the maximum dosage I used to take — eight pills a day in all.
It is only for another week or so. It used to take weeks just to be weaned off of it.
I’m hungry, but I haven’t fallen into any titanic binges yet.
I can sit up, lie down and stand up again, which I couldn’t do a week ago.

But still I worry. I will until this prescription’s time is up.

Stay tuned.

Red skull and crossbones on a patch of white pills

August 26, 2014

A Back-Breaking Plot Twist

Awhile back, I wrote about learning to roll with the unexpected punches life hurls at you. I called those occasions plot twists. Yesterday I got one hell of a plot twist, and at first I had trouble following my own advice.

Mood music:

The back injury I wrote about yesterday is much worse than I thought. I went to the chiropractor, figuring he’d fix me and I’d be on my way, even though I’d reached the point where I couldn’t do anything without waves of agony coursing through me. After trying to get me to lift my feet and get off the table unassisted, the chiropractor — who loathes the idea of people taking pain killers for their back — ordered me to do just that.

I went to my primary care doctor, who confirmed the extent of my injury and put me on Vicodin, Flexeril and my old enemy, Prednisone. (Expect a follow-up post on how I deal with being back on that drug, which I like to refer to as Satan’s Tic Tacs.)

Now I have to spend the next several days on the couch, except for daily visits to the chiropractor. My family has to pick up all the tasks I usually do, which I find upsetting. I had to postpone some video shoots at work that I’ve been throwing my soul into preparing. The week isn’t going to go as planned.

So how do I deal with this plot twist?

My wife and boss made the first party easy for me. They both ordered me to scrub work for the week, and assured me that postponing my project wasn’t the end of the world.

The drugs are already helping in that I can be a bit more comfortable, even if I hate taking them.

And I’m getting a lot of kind words from friends and family, which always lifts the spirits.

So I’m going away for a few days. But I’ll be back, in full force.

Be good to yourselves and each other while I’m on the sidelines.

July 30, 2014

Revere Tornado: Was Reaction Overblown?

Someone on Facebook complained about those who compared the damage done to Broadway in Revere after a tornado tore through on Monday to a war zone.

Soldiers who’ve seen battle wouldn’t appreciate the comparison, he said, and the damage was nothing like what people experience regularly in the Midwest, where entire towns are wiped from the map.

Mood music:

Normally, I’d agree with a statement like that. I spend much of my blogging time pointing out all the hyperbole and manufactured panic I see daily, and people certainly made a big deal out of what happened in my former hometown.

But accusing people of hyperbole is unfair.

Consider the following:

This was the first tornado to hit Massachusetts’ Suffolk County since 1950.
The tornado may have been small compared to those Midwest monsters, but after 64 years, any tornado is going to be a big deal around here.
Small as it was, the funnel still did a shitload of damage. It tore brick and concrete from City Hall and Revere High School, flipped cars over and demolished several roofs.

If your street is shredded, the scene is going to resemble a war zone in your mind, because you have no prior experience to compare it to. Also, if you tell someone they’re overreacting after their home has been rendered uninhabitable, you’re bound to get an earful or a punch in the face.

The city will get back on its feet in short order. The people of Revere are of sturdy stock. They’ve overcome devastating coastal flooding, fire, street violence and other big problems over the years.

But this event was different. Cut the residents some slack.

They’ve experienced a shock, which may make some hyperbole inevitable.

Let’s let them process this disaster in whatever dramatic verbiage they feel the need to use right now.

Funnel cloud in Revere on 7/28/14. Photo courtesy of Doreen Dirienzo.