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A Good Day

These are the ingredients of a good day:

–Getting up at 4 and writing in this blog with a strong cup of coffee on the table beside me and Korn in the headphones.

–Seeing the sun rise from my living room chair at 5:30.

–Talking to my OA sponsor at 6:15.

–Talking to one of fellows I sponsor in OA at 7:30.

–Having an abstinent breakfast with the family and helping Erin get the kids ready for camp.

–Banging out this column and this podcast for CSOonline before 11 a.m.

–Helping unload a truck full of donated food at the church food pantry from 11:15ish to noon.

–Having an abstinent lunch with Erin and the kids.

–Nailing a couple interviews I’ve been trying to get done for the past week for a special report I’m working on.

–Having an abstinent dinner with Erin and the boys.

–Roughhousing with the kids on the living room floor after dinner.

–Reading Duncan a chapter of “Charlotte’s Web.”

–Finalizing plans for my day off on the beach tomorrow.

–Crawling into bed early with Erin and a good book.

–Not feeling the urge to binge all day.

–Getting through another day WITHOUT my brain spinning out of control.

–Having the next day to look forward to.

Goodnight, folks.

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The Kid Sister

The 80s weren’t all bad, thanks to the kid sister who came along.

Mood music: “Nobody Told Me” by John Lennon. I used to sing the “Everybody’s smoking, and no one’s getting high” line to my kid sister, much to her dismay.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gBCdlBrgEmE&hl=en_US&fs=1]

I’ve written about a lot of the darker parts of my childhood and teen years and how they factored into an adulthood of mental illness and addiction. But those years were brightened by a particularly strong ray of sunshine. Here’s the story of my kid sister, Shira.

Shira’s 15 years younger than me and was born nearly two years after my brother’s death. I was sick with the flu the day she was born and was also going through a Crohn’s flare up.

To say she brightened the mood at 22 Lynnway would be an understatement. She was an especially adorable baby and was a welcome distraction from everything that was going on at the time.

She’s grown up now and I don’t see her much these days, but last night we got a chance to catch up at my father’s birthday dinner. She was telling me about her current job teaching English and how she wants to use her teaching skills to work more with the disadvantaged. She recently got back from Mexico, where she lived for several months. Before that she lived in South America for quite awhile, teaching the locals.

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.

Naturally, 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.

She brought a lot of joy to a family that was reeling from a string of bad breaks. She brings a lot of joy to the family today.

This post is my little thank you note to her.

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Lessons of a Thirty-something

The author is reflecting a lot on things that happened in his 30s.

Mood music: “Lunchbox” by Marylin Manson:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5Fo57AXW3w&hl=en_US&fs=1]

Since my 40th birthday is next month, I’m thinking a lot about the last decade. In many ways, I’m not the same guy I was when I was staring at my 30th birthday. This has been a decade of healing, with a lot of broken scabs along the way.

At the start of my 30s, I started to come undone. The symptoms of what would eventually become an OCD diagnosis suddenly grew in intensity. The binge eating addiction entered a new era of viciousness. Some relationships imploded while others were renewed.

In my early 30s, the OCD manifested itself in some insidious ways. I was obsessed with pleasing people, especially my bosses at The Eagle-Tribune, and my mother. I was also obsessed with keeping my weight down in the face of the binging. So I exercised like a madman. In the process, I was just masking a physical decline.

At 31, I was busy being something I’m not good at — a hard-ass. My bosses demanded it. I would get wound so tight that I became impossible to work with. I was also busy trying to keep my mother and step-father happy, which was almost always impossible, especially when it came to their personalities clashing with that of my wife, who had given birth to Sean a year before.

I celebrated my 31st birthday with my mother, stepfather, in-laws and Erin at the Legal Seafood in the Peabody mall. I didn’t want a cake. My mother went nuts about it, because on someone’s birthday you give them cake. She couldn’t understand why I didn’t want it. She was going to ask the waitress to bring me a cake anyway, but Erin put her foot down, because, as I said, I didn’t want a cake.

The next day, my mother called:

Ma: “I just wanted to apologize for not having a cake for you.”

Me: “But I didn’t want cake.”

Ma: “I tried to get you one, but YOUR WIFE wouldn’t let me.”

It always came back to Erin. She was always the scapegoat for decisions I made that my mother didn’t like. And yet, I pressed on, trying to make everyone happy.

By 2006 I was long gone from The Eagle-Tribune, but was still obsessed with pleasing the masters at TechTarget. And I was still trying to please my mother. It was getting a lot harder to do, since I was two years into therapy, newly diagnosed with OCD and spending a lot of time digging back into an abusive past for clues on how I got the way I did. A lot of it came back to her. And so in the summer of 2006 that relationship broke apart.

Why go on about these things? Because some important lessons emerged from the experiences that were instrumental in my healing.

First, I realized that no matter how hard you try, keeping people pleased is impossible.

Second, I realized that the only way to achieve mental health is to be true to oneself. For me, that meant surrendering to a higher power and dealing head-on with the addictions. It also meant being honest about my limited ability to control OCD without medication.

And while some relationships fell apart, others that were damaged in my 20s started to heal in my 30s, especially in the last year.

To that end, I think of Joy, Sean Marley‘s widow. She’s remarried with kids and has done a remarkable job of pushing on with her life. She dropped out of my world for nearly 14 years — right after Sean’s death — until recently. The contents of our exchange are private, but this much I can tell you: I was wrong all these years when I assumed  she hated my guts and wanted nothing more to do with me.

I have to be careful with this last reconnection. I still have a lot of questions about Sean’s final years and the OCD in me wants to know everything now. If I’m lucky, some answers will come in time. But I’m not going to push. I have no right to.

Besides, simply being reconnected is, as Joe Biden might say, “A big fucking deal.”

I used the Marilyn Manson song above as my mood music today because I think of “Lunchbox” whenever I get angry about my limitations. By the time the song is over, I usually feel a lot better.

But while the kid in the song has his metal lunchbox and is “armed real well,” I got my tools of recovery. So you could say I’m armed much better than that kid.

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The Perils of Service, Part 2

Volunteering can be a bitch, especially when you forget who you’re there to help.

Mood music for this post: “My Way” by Limp Bizkit:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PQ8Qi86i82s&hl=en_US&fs=1]

Once a month, I spend a couple hours on a Saturday volunteering in the food pantry run by our church. It can be a frustrating endeavor.

Part of the frustration is my own fault. I should be there more often, but I’m only there once a month because I’m spread so thin these days between family, work and sponsoring people in my 12-Step program.

A lot of new people are working the pantry these days. They’re not that new, mind you. They just seem new to me because I’m not there enough to be used to them. They’re good folks, but in my head — when the rush of people come in for their food — I pick apart how they do things. I’ll get annoyed if they try to process multiple orders at once because the bags of food get mixed up and chaos ensues. One guy is very serious and doesn’t laugh at my jokes.

The Saturday crew is always bitching about the Tuesday crew leaving a mess. The Tuesday crew is always bitching about the Saturday crew for the same reason.

And there I am, on my own perch, picking apart how everyone does things because I want everyone to do it my way. I am a control freak, after all. Not that I have a right to be.

These people are there every Tuesday and Saturday. I show up once a month.

If anything, they should be annoyed by me, and they probably are.

Clashing egos is pretty common among those who do service. On the recovering addict side, everyone in the room suffers from compulsive behavior. People like us usually have bloated egos. Mine is especially bloated. This makes me an asshole at times.

But I press on and do what I need to do, and things always work out.

The friction that’s always present among the volunteers at the start of a shift always eases off and we’re all getting along midway through. You can pick on how different people do things, but they’re all giving up their time to make something work.

And once I get out of my own way, things start to fall into place.

At some point in the shift, it hits me. The people in line are there because they can’t afford groceries. They’re down on their luck and doing the best they can.

And when you hand them the bags of donated food, they are GRATEFUL.

And they help me as much as I help them. When I see people who need to live on donated food standing tall, helping each other carry bags to their cars, picking up food for someone who may live at the other end of town from where they live, enjoying time with the children they have in tow, they bring me back to Earth and remind me what life’s all about.

The other volunteers — the ones who are there practically every week while I just breeze in once a month — help me too.

When I see how dedicated they are, it makes me work harder at being a better man.

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One Happy Head Case

The author on how to be happy despite yourself. Or, at least, how he attempts it.

Mood music for this post: “In My Life” by Ozzy (covering The Beatles):

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ByB7Id67v3c&hl=en_US&fs=1]

When anyone writes about their journey from addiction and mental illness to recovery, it’s easy to focus on the darker things. But the truth is, I’m a pretty happy head case. I may be financially strapped and tired, but my head is in a better place than it was when the situations were reversed.

The big reason is that I have God in my life, and, by extension, wonderful family and friends. And my head is clear enough after all these years to see and appreciate that.

I also have one of the best jobs a journalist could have, and several writing projects in play. Since boredom is an addict’s worst nightmare, I’m grateful for this.

I get to do a lot of service these days, whether it’s through my church or through my 12-Step Program. It can be a bitch and I’m sure I’m making mistakes along the way, but it’s worth it.

I also don’t have to wake up in the middle of the night puking stomach acid or spending my mornings binge sick like I used to.

Today I get to plan out my security conference travel schedule for the fall and see a dear friend and her family this evening.

I’m in my favorite chair by the living room window, watching the sun rise through the fog at 5 a.m. A strong cup of coffee is on the table beside me.

There’s plenty of happiness to be found when you’re a head case. You just have to know where to find it.

Switching subjects, a lot of new readers are asking me about the back story to this blog. I’ve pulled together all the relevant links on who I am, what I was, what made me change and what life is like now in this collection.

Seize the day.

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You Can Learn a Lot from a Dummy

Sometimes, addicts look and talk like dummies. But they can teach you some surprising things about yourself.

Mood music for this post: “Dumb” by Nirvana:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CYC8w-qstc&hl=en_US&fs=1]

When you first walk into a 12-Step meeting, everyone in the room seems strange. People may be off the food, drugs and alcohol, but their speech may still be slurred. You dismiss them as dummies, failing to see you’re the same as them. They can teach you more than you can teach them.

Or so I’m discovering.

As I mentioned last week, I’m up to sponsoring three people in OA. It’s been a classic case of me feeling inconvenienced about helping someone else. The selfish side of me kicks in and I start getting pissed if someone has to call me five times a day to be talked off the ledge.

I may have found God and recovery, but I discover on a daily basis how much work I still have to do to become the kind of person I should be. Working toward redemption can be a bitch.

And yet, in a lot of little ways, I can see how I’m being pushed in the right direction despite myself.

The sponsoring is one piece of the puzzle. Being the jerk I’m capable of being, I found myself looking down on my sponsees at first. I had a stronger recovery than them, I felt. I was the teacher and they were the ones who couldn’t talk or walk straight. That’s a bullshit notion, of course. And I’m learning the lesson quickly.

The more I get to know my sponsees, the more I see what THEY have to teach ME. Two of them have been in and out of 12-Step programs for the better part of two decades. Hell, two decades ago all I cared about was getting wrecked in my basement in Revere.

They’ve been to the brink of death more than once at the hands of their multiple addictions. As the reader knows by now, binge eating is the main addiction I had to do something about, and I’ve enjoyed too much wine in the past, along with the pain pills prescribed to me for the constant back pain I used to have. But I have nothing on these folks. My other sponsee is somewhat new to the program, but he’s much more in tune with his Faith than I am at this point, so I’m learning from him, too.

I”m driving two of my sponsees to the Saturday-morning OA meeting these days, and one of them, a life-long resident of Haverhill, is teaching me a lot about the city. As we drive by all kinds of obscure buildings, he’ll tell me about how one used to be a shoe factory and another place used to be a bar he’d hang out in after 10-hour work days for two bucks an hour. He’s a big bear of a man with a heart of gold. Yesterday he left me the following voice mail:

“I just want to say two things to you: THANK YOU. I love you, buddy.”

This, from a guy who has only known me for a few weeks.

Just in case I needed any more convincing that sponsorship has become a necessary tool for me, the Gospel in Mass yesterday was The Parable of the Good Samaritan:

Luke 10:30-37: Jesus answered, “A certain man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell among robbers, who both stripped him and beat him, and departed, leaving him half dead. By chance a certain priest was going down that way. When he saw him, he passed by on the other side.  In the same way a Levite also, when he came to the place, and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a certain Samaritan, as he traveled, came where he was. When he saw him, he was moved with compassion, came to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. He set him on his own animal, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him. On the next day, when he departed, he took out two denarii, and gave them to the host, and said to him, ‘Take care of him. Whatever you spend beyond that, I will repay you when I return.’ Now which of these three do you think seemed to be a neighbor to him who fell among the robbers?” He said, “He who showed mercy on him.” Then Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.”

Father Michael Harvey expanded on what the Gospel means in his Homily. This was the children’s Mass, so he broke it down in terms that the dumbest among us adults could understand. His last line seemed to be pointed straight at me:

“Giving help was not convenient for the Samaritan. One might say it was a pain and that this is what it’s like when someone proves to be very needy. God puts these people in our lives because we need them as much as they need us.”

So I’m learning.

Yesterday afternoon, a couple close cousins — Sharon and Martha — came to visit us and we were sitting out back, talking about this blog. Sharon apparently keeps up on it more than Martha does, and Sharon said something like, “I tell Martha all the time — you can learn a lot from Bill.”

To which I chuckled, remembering the old commercials with the crash test dummies, and said, “Yeah, you can learn a lot from a dummy.”

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My Attitude is Gratitude

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about life in recovery from mental illness and addiction, it’s that nobody gets better without a lot of help. God works through different people. These three entries are about just some of the people who have helped me along…

Mood music for this post: “Classic Girl” from Jane’s Addiction:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w_KFq8A32Y4&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

We’re in This Together Now: Gratitude List, Part 2
The author realizes it’s not about what you do, but who you are.
http://www.theocddiaries.com/2010/06/08/were-in-this-together-now-gratitude-list-part-2/

The Gratitude List, Part 1
http://www.theocddiaries.com/2010/05/05/the-gratitude-list/

The Healers (Adventures in Step 9)
Tripped on Step 9 many times. But I got back up. Here’s what happened next.
http://www.theocddiaries.com/2010/05/04/the-healers-adventures-in-step-9/

Time to End This Sentimental Journey
The author realizes it’s time to let some things go.
http://www.theocddiaries.com/2010/06/07/time-to-end-this-sentimental-journey/

Friends Who Help You Heal
http://www.theocddiaries.com/2010/02/28/friends-who-help-you-heal/

I’m On My Way
http://www.theocddiaries.com/2010/02/28/im-on-my-way/

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We’re in This Together Now: Gratitude List, Part 2

The author realizes it’s not about what you do, but who you are.

Mood music for this post: “We’re in This Together” by Nine Inch Nails:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P9BfvPjsXXw&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

I used to have stupid ideas about how to measure a person’s worth. And when I say stupid, I mean STUPID. In my warped mind, you were nobody if you didn’t have a big important career. Then I slowly learned that it’s the overachievers like me that cause the most trouble.

It’s a not-so-surprising tick in the brain for someone with OCD and other flavors of mental illness: You feel like you have to do something big to prove your worth as a human being. In my case, it was to become a big journalist.

The guys who filled boxes with shoe orders in my father’s warehouse, the old high school chum who went on to manage a drug store; the other friend who can never seem to settle into a job and stay there: I always thought I was bigger than they were.

I really used to think this way. It took years of therapy and finding my Faith to realize what an asshole I can be.

It’s a funny thing OCD does to you: Your mind spins with worry, fear and anxiety that in turn leads to episodes of depression and a life of addictive behavior.

I’ve always carried a huge ego. I’m the first to admit that humility isn’t one of my strong suits. I’m working on it, because as a Christian that’s what I need to do. I’ve always been a better talker than listener. I still need to work on that.

Achieving big things is one of the ways we try to fill in that hole that’s always dogging us.  In my profession, getting access to the major power players of information security is a rush. I feel like I am somebody as a result. When I don’t make it to a big security conference, the wheels in my head start spinning. I start to worry that by not being there, I become irrelevant.

When I make it someplace and score, like the time I was able to corner Bob Woodward of Washington Post/Watergate fame at a conference in Florida four years ago, I can be insufferable for months. In that encounter, Woodward was there to deliver a keynote on the state of security. His forte was the larger war on terror and how the Bush White House was waging it. He needed to bone up on the IT aspect and started asking me about antivirus and firewalls, and whether those things really work. Later, during the Q&A part of his keynote, when someone asked him a cybersecurity question, he mentioned that he had talked to a fellow earlier (me) who mentioned that the emerging trend was toward a quiet, sneaky brand of attack. My ego boiled and rose. I told EVERYBODY about it.

Today, when I write what I think is a good article, I promote it nonstop. That’s part of my job, of course. If you don’t promote it no one will read it. But I do it with an uber-sized dose of zeal. I’m sure more than a few people on Facebook have unfriended me because of it, and I’m fine with that.

God has a funny way of teaching me a lesson. Eleven years ago my big dream was to be an editor at The Eagle-Tribune. I got there, but most of my tenure was marred by a deepening mental illness. To top it off, the environment there is not good for someone who needs constant praise to feel like he’s a real human being. It could be a viper pit. In hindsight, I worked with great people. But back then, I was looking for anyone I could blame for my unhappiness so I wouldn’t have to face that most of the blame was mine.

I’ve learned that it’s not what we do that makes or breaks us. it’s WHO we are. Take Gretchen Putnam, managing editor of The Eagle-Tribune. The woman led the team that won a Pulitzer Prize. But when I think of her, I think more about what a great Mom she is to her three children. My wife’s talents as an editor, organizer and blogger tower over my own skills. But when I think of her, which is pretty much all day, every day, I think of the woman who glued me together when I was falling apart and who deserves most of the credit for the compassion and intelligence my sons have developed.

My Father-In-Law has been a truck driver all his life. I used to think of that as a lesser profession. But he raised four beautiful daughters and has been there for his family through thick and thin. The man has a heart like no other. My Mother-in-Law works at McDonald’s and is shy to the core, but she has a silent peace about her that just calms you down in her presence. She doesn’t have to say anything to put you at ease.

Then there’s my cousin Melanie. I’ve teased her a lot over the years because she told me she had no real ambition to do anything but watch TV her whole life. But here’s the thing: She’s been there for everyone in her family. She doesn’t judge you. And she will always make you laugh — even if it’s at her own expense. To be honest, I don’t care what she does for a living. She never needed a career to be a force on this Earth and make a difference.

As for the guys in my Dad’s warehouse, they toil away for many hours a day on tasks I always thought were beneath me. But they always understood what I could never grasp as a 19-year-old punk: That their Faith and family were priority one. They were providing for wives and children who in some cases were still in their home countries. That’s all that mattered.

All these people figured out the key to Heaven long before I did. I’m still not sure I’ve earned my keep in that department.

But this much I do know: They have all taught me something about myself and about what it takes to be a better person. We’re all in this life together, and helping each other is what counts.

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Home Sweet Home

The author on returning home.

Mood music for this post: “Home Sweet Home” by the Motley Crue:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BrYmsU0ZknA&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

There have been a lot of times in my life where I looked forward to coming home only to be sorry I was back minutes after getting there.

When I used to spend six-week stints in Children’s Hospital for the Crohn’s Disease, I would always think about home. I would think of the day I’d be released with great anticipation. It kept me going.

Then I’d come home and quickly be reminded that my parents’ marriage was burning at both ends and destined to fail. I’d be back to all the yelling, and I’d be back at school wondering how I would ever catch up to all the things I’d missed.

Before getting treated for OCD, I used to dream of home when I was on the road for business trips. Then I’d return and get overwhelmed with all the normal things that come with having a busy family.

Since I’d freak out over the trips themselves, I’d come home exhausted and the pressures of home would finish me off.

Today it’s much better.

I don’t freak out over the travel. When it’s time to do it, I just go, get the job done, enjoy the whole process and I come home. Once there, I’m tired but grateful to see Erin and the kids.

It’s no longer something I have to over-think. It’s nice to be able to enjoy the precious present.

Last night I got home from New York City and got the following greeting from Duncan:

“I missed you, Dad. But I didn’t miss you making my lunches for school!”

I love that kid.

Duncan and Sean gave me a good snuggle before bed, and when Erin came home we got to catch up before I passed out.

Since this was the second bit of travel in as many weeks (last week the whole family did the drive to DC and back) I expect to be fried for the weekend. And that’s OK. I’m grateful for the journeys I get to take for my job, and the return home is always worth it.

Don’t expect me to pass the time on the couch, though.

That’s not how I recover anymore. [More on that in Rest Re-defined]

Seize the day (even when exhausted)!

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My Personal Ground Zero

A walk past Ground Zero takes the author from the darkness to the light.

Mood music for this post: “The Engine Driver” by The Decemberists:

If ever there was a day when I could relapse my way into McDonald’s to down $40 bags of junk and wash it down with four glasses of wine, this was it.

My mood took a deep dive this afternoon. And the source was the last thing I would have expected.

In New York City to give a security presentation, I walked past the World Trade Center site on my way to the my destination nearby. Gone are the rows of lit candles and personal notes that used to line the sidewalks around this place. To the naked eye it’s just another construction site people pass by in a hurry on their way to wherever.

I was pissed off at first. It wasn’t the thought of what happened here. My emotion there is one of sadness.

No, this was anger. I was pissed that people seemed to be walking by without any thought of all the people who met their death here at the hands of terrorists on Sept. 11, 2001. It was almost as if the pictures of twisted metal, smoke and crushed bodies never existed.

I wasn’t here on that day. I was in the newsroom at The Eagle-Tribune and remember being scared to death. Not so much at the scene unfolding on the newsroom TV, but at the scene in the newsroom itself. Chaos was not unusual at The Eagle-Tribune, but this was a whole new level of madness. I can’t remember if my fear was that terrorists might fly a plane into the building we were in as their next act or if it was a fear of not being able to function amidst the chaos. It was probably some of each.

This was a huge story everywhere, but The Eagle-Tribune had a bigger stake in the coverage than most local dailies around the country because many of the victims on the planes that hit the towers were from the Merrimack Valley. There was someone from Methuen, Plaistow, N.H., Haverhill, Amesbury, Andover — all over our coverage area.

When the first World Trade Center tower collapsed on the TV screen mounted above Editor Steve Lambert’s office, he came out, stood on a desk and told everyone to collect themselves a minute, because this would be the most important story we ever covered.

Up to that point, it was. But I was so full of fear and anxiety that my ability to function was gone. I spent most of the next few days in the newsroom, but did nothing of importance. I was a shell. I stayed that way until I  left the paper in early 2004. In fact, I stayed that way for some time after that. I should note that the rest of the newsroom staff at the time did a hell of a job under very tough pressure that day. My friend Gretchen Putnam was still editor of features back then, but she and her staff helped gather the news with the same grit she would display later as metro editor.

The bigger point though is that I was in that newsroom, not in lower Manhattan. Many of the people walking by today were, and their scars are deeper.

As I started to process that fact, my mood shifted again.

I realized these people were doing something special. No matter where they were going or what they were thinking, they were moving — living — horrific memories be damned.

They were doing what we all should be doing, living each day to the full instead of cowering in fear in the corner.

Doing so honors the dead and says F-U to those who destroyed those towers and wish we would stay scared.

It reminded me of who I am and what I’ve been through. I didn’t run from the falling towers or get shot at in the mountains of Afghanistan or the streets of Baghdad. But the struggles with OCD and addiction burned scars into my insides all the same.

I was terrified when I was living my lowest lows. But somewhere along the way, I got better, healed and walked away. I exchanged my self hatred and fear for love of life I never thought possible.

It’s similar to what the survivors of Sept. 11 have gone through.

They reminded me of something important today, and while some sadness lingers, I am grateful.