The OCD Diaries

December 14, 2012

People Who Talk About Themselves and Those They Torture

I admit I haven’t always been the best listener. God knows I try, but sometimes my dysfunctional brain shuts down after more than 15 minutes of someone telling me about everything happening in their lives.

I look like I’m listening, but I’m only quiet and staring at you because I’m numb.

Mood video:

I’ve invested a lot of time and energy into changing that. I took a class about ways to stay in the present moment. I’ve kept on top of my anti-depressant medication, getting adjustments as needed. That helps keep my OCD under control, which in turn makes me a better listener. Some days are better than others.

But there are still certain people out there that I’ll always have trouble listening to. That’s because they’ll talk about themselves for hours and show little interest in letting the other people around them talk. You know the type: a friend that bends your ear on the phone, going on about all their problems while you’re forced to sit there in silent torment. The person at a party who corners you and waxes poetic about all the important work they’re doing and how awesome they are. Or how awful everyone and everything is until you want to leave the party so badly that you’re willing to fake cardiac arrest.

Those people are so oblivious to the fact that they do this that they may read this post and not realize that it’s about them.

I admit straightaway that it’s hypocritical of me to point a finger, because I have a history of being a better talker than listener. I could tell you I’m not talking about myself and am instead gifting my victims with juicy historical facts and stories so funny they drop their glass from laughing so hard.

But that would be bullshit.

I’m like anyone else who talks more than he listens. I’ll tell you about what’s going on in my life and leave you little room to do the same.

Knowing that I can be that way has actually made me more tolerant of other over-talkers. I also try to remember what my therapist says every time this comes up: “There’s no greater gift you can give another person than your time and attention.”

I could end this by suggesting other over-talkers try doing the same. I could suggest they take a mindfulness class or go in a church and sit quietly for 30 minutes. But it’s not my place to do that.

All I can do is work on myself and be the better listener.

And if there are people that are too obnoxious to listen to, I can simply avoid them.

Yip Yip Martians

November 27, 2012

The Dumbest OCD Gag Gifts Ever

Those who know me understand that I’m not bothered by humor that pokes fun at OCD. As long as there’s plenty of education available for people to manage the more insidious parts of the disorder, I’m fine with having fun with the quirks. My only requirement is that the jokes be clever.

Some time ago, I wrote about clever OCD gag gifts. These gifts, though, I never want to find in my Christmas stocking. Not because they’d hurt my feelings, but because they’re not even remotely funny. Everything I’m about to pick on is available on CafePress. I have nothing against them, really. I just wouldn’t buy or wish to receive them.

Let’s start with this ornament, which plays on the long-accepted fallacy that people with OCD love to clean:

The fact is that we don’t like cleaning any more than the rest of the population. We’re just driven to do it because our brains get stuck on things that look unsanitary or out of place.

If you see this hanging off of someone’s tree, chances are they need their head examined for some other kind of disorder. Or maybe they just own a cleaning company.

Next we have a variety of signage playing around with the OCD acronym. You can order these on T-shirts, mugs, mouse pads, and the like:

Call me dimwitted, but I never knew a love of fishing and canning qualified as a disorder.

Here we have some poorly done wordplay that tries to have fun with the more stereotypical OCD quirks like hand washing:

This particular design appears on a thong for sale in the online store. Finding this on underwear really should creep a person out.

I’ll end with one I actually included on the good list of gag gifts, but it just hasn’t stood the test of time for me. The problem, I suppose, is that this sort of thing has really been overdone:

It’s not that it bothers me. It just bores me.

If you want to buy a gift that makes light of a person’s disorder and think the recipient will enjoy it, go for it. Humor goes a long way in making a scary, frustrating thing seem smaller and more harmless.

Just try to know the difference between clever and stupid.

November 16, 2012

WebMD’s Symptom Checker: Crack for OCD Heads

WebMD has a fantastic thing called the Symptom Checker. Have a headache and numbness in the toes? Just punch it into the symptom checker and get a diagnosis.

Mood music:

[spotify:track:79DVDD46pdqwjYucn91fny]

In the hands of an OCD patient, this thing can provide hours of obsessive-compulsive fun, as you pinpoint every ache and pain in your body and have the Symptom Checker tell you what’s the matter.

The first thing you do is point to parts of a human body displayed in the first column on the page. If the problem area is the abdomen, click there and a list of possible symptoms pop up. Click the different symptoms (bloating, lumps, etc.) to collect them in the second column. The third column gives you a list of possible ailments. Click bloody vomit or vomit that resembles coffee grounds, and a red box pops up telling you to get “emergency medical attention.” Given all the coffee I consume, it’s hard to imagine my vomit not looking like coffee grounds.

Occasionally you’ll get a diagnosis for something you’ve probably never heard of, like Mallory-Weiss Syndrome. This affliction is some pretty serious shit. WebMD describes it this way:

Mallory-Weiss syndrome occurs in the mucous membrane where the esophagus and stomach connect. Vomiting or coughing strongly or for a long period of time can cause the membrane to tear and possibly bleed. Seizures may also cause tearing. People in their 40s or 50s are most likely to have Mallory-Weiss tears, but children can have them, too. Pregnant women are also at risk due to vomiting in the first trimester. Mallory-Weiss tears often heal on their own in a few days. In rare cases, surgery is required. Blood loss is a concern, so get medical care right away.

I get a lot of headaches, so I played around with the Symptom Checker for a while. I already know my trouble stems from sinuses that refuse to drain properly, but WebMD offers a much wider list of possible ailments: brain tumor, brain bleed, and so on. Go back a decade, when I would feel a pain and instantly assume the worst, and this potential diagnosis would have catapulted me straight to the nearest emergency room.

It turns out that pulling whiskers from my beard is a sign of bone infection. I always thought I did it as a distraction when the kids ignore my commands to pick up the room or shut the TV.

Bottom line: This can be a useful tool, but if you’re an OCD case it can be the catalyst for endless worry and panic. Like any medical symptom tool to be found online, it lists everything from the slightest to most serious conditions. I can poke fun now, but back when my fear and anxiety were out of control I’d have played with this thing for hours, breaking into a cold sweat and assuming the worst.

If you’re in that situation now, my advice is to walk away. A tool like this is dangerous in the hands of an unstable mind. If you’re in a calmer state of mind, it’s nothing more than a time-sucking distraction.

It’s a lot like Facebook, actually.

Sympton Checker

October 18, 2012

I Was Tricked Into Yoga

I’ve long balked at the idea of doing yoga. Frankly, it always looked boring to me. It didn’t fit the tough-guy image I have of myself, either. Tough guys don’t do a bunch of poses. They lift heavy things. Yet here I am, doing yoga.

Thing is, I’m starting to appreciate and respect it.

Mood music:

[spotify:track:3b04Qs9AoBRBIFu9aDQfqI]

How did I reach this strange place? My therapist tricked me.

For years, he’s been trying to push yoga on me as a tool to reduce stress and get out of my head. For years, my response has been “no fucking way.”

I recently signed up for my therapist’s Mindfulness-based Stress Reduction class because for a guy trying to manage clinical OCD, you need as many tools as you can gather. I’ve gotten the upper hand over the more insidious byproducts of my OCD in recent years, particularly the fear, anxiety and inability to go about my day because of the worry spinning in my brain. Now I enjoy many of the things I once feared, including travel, and I’m able to truly live. But I still get stuck in my head, which is bad when someone’s trying to talk to you. So I signed up for the class.

My therapist didn’t mention there’d be yoga involved. The bastard.

I knew I’d been duped when I walked into the first class and saw yoga mats carefully placed in a circle. He finally sprung it on us at last week’s class, and last night we really got into it.

My first thought was that the beginner’s positions were a lot like the exercises I used to do for a bad back. My second thought was that the poses were a pretty strenuous workout. I didn’t expect to break a sweat, but I did. There was something satisfying about it.

I’m supposed to do this once a day as part of my homework. That’s going to be tough, given my schedule. But I’m sure there’s a way.

Erin has done a lot of yoga in the past but not much lately. Maybe I can get her to do it with me.

If someone told me a year ago that I’d be pondering this stuff now, I’d have laughed in their face. Actually, I did just that to my therapist.

You won’t find me wearing yoga pants, though. That would be gross.

May 1, 2012

Me and My Dysfunctional Twitter Family

It feels like Twitter has been with us forever. But in the grand scheme of things, it’s still a relatively new toy we’re learning to use. I see it as my second dysfunctional family.

Mood music:

[spotify:track:2eedJzR1h4Nxk7pGhhoJlb]

My Twitter house has 3,262 people crammed into it; many from the information security profession. Some of the smartest people I know sit around the kitchen table every day, bantering without ever getting tired.

As it is with any family, we often get on each other’s nerves.

For one thing, the house is always LOUD. It’s so loud that it’s normal for half the household to go to bed with headaches while the rest keep pontificating, sharing pictures and arguing.

There’s the older uncle who’s perpetually cranky but we can sit at his feet and listen to him for hours because he’s so damn funny. And smart. Let’s face it, every family had a beloved, crazy uncle.

There’s the other uncle who will disagree with you just to start a debate. But he’s such a nice guy you just can’t get angry when he picks your positions apart.

There’s the cousin who never stops talking. Any random thought he has, he says it. You can’t keep up with him, he talks so fast. But he too is smart and talented, so we put up with it.

There’s the cousin who puts everything and everyone down for the sake of starting a conversation. This one usually comes in the house blasted on vodka or wine and talks about tearing someone’s eyeballs out. But this cousin is harmless and, deep down, a good kid.

There’s a brother who is always telling people what they did wrong — that they didn’t work hard enough or made sweeping statements that tarred people who didn’t deserve it. The rest of the family is afraid of this one. Unfortunately for us, though, he’s usually right, so we put up with him and, occasionally, try to stop doing the stupid thing he says we’re doing.

There’s the cousin who will let everyone know the second she stubs a toe, gets charged too much at the auto body shop or finds a hole in her umbrella. She’ll make her grocery list and run down the list aloud for all to hear. That grates on a few nerves, but she’s a sweet lady who is always there when one of us has a problem, so listening to her grocery list recital is the least we can do.

There are the two middle siblings who fight about everything, especially politics. They’ll occasionally call each other names, usually personalized variations of the F-S- and C-words. But they know their politics, so we listen and learn for about a half hour before yelling at them to shut up.

Then there’s me, perhaps the most infuriating family member of all.

I’m constantly shoving the stuff I write in their faces because I want them to talk about how the subject matter plays in their own lives. I don’t say much else when I’m in the house unless I’m excited about a new band I want people to hear or my kids say something too damn funny not to share. But I write all the time, and I have to show them everything, even stuff they may have seen before.

People tell me to shut up and go away; to stop repeating myself and promoting myself. That last one pisses me off and I spit out a few choice words. Then I resume what I’m doing like nothing happened.

People seem to tolerate me because writing is my job and, once in awhile, I write something that resonates with a few of them.

The rest simply ignore me when I get to be too much.

A messy, loud place, this Twitter house is. I’ve thought about moving out a few times, to get away from the so-called echo chamber. But I always decide to stay.

Because love ’em or hate ’em, these people are family.

And because — I’ll admit it — I need a few dysfunctional people in my life.

March 11, 2012

Sumo Wrestler With An Itch For Life

This is one of many photos I took for a slideshow during the recent RSA Conference. For obvious reasons, I didn’t put it in the final slide deck. But this is a personal blog, so what the hell…

I actually liked this guy. He always had that smile on whenever I passed his booth. A smile like that is contagious.

The slideshow, for CSO, was of the more interesting scenes from the RSA exhibit floor. You can see the whole thing here.

As for running this shot, I doubt he would mind. He does, after all, where a diaper for a living.

March 7, 2012

Depressed? Try These Remedies (Or Don’t)

I noticed on Facebook this morning that one of my friends is still fighting a persistent bout of depression. She said something about staring at her clenched fist for nearly ten minutes.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/lspjLG9nHXk

We’ve compared notes on our depressed moments in the past, and since I dealt with a lot of depression in December and January (give or take a month. Winter’s a bitch) I thought I’d share some observations.

–The extra darkness of winter always fucks with me. But I’ve noticed something on my early-morning drives to the office — the sun is coming up earlier and earlier. By the time I pulled into the parking lot at 6 a.m., it was almost completely light out. More daylight is powerful medicine for the depressed mind.

–Despite the mood music I chose for this post, most of my musical selections of late have been the more party-oriented rock, like Van Halen. Van Halen always makes me think of summer, which warms the colder parts of my brain. Whatever your musical tastes are these days, I suggest listening to stuff that’s more shallow from a lyrical standpoint. If that fails, go for the dark humor. Ministry and Suicidal Tendencies works for me on that score.

–My depression used to be enhanced during political years like this because I used to think election outcomes mattered more than they really do. These days, though, I find the political news to be a source of spirit-lifting comedy. With guys like Santorum and Gingrich running for president, how can you not laugh?

–You’re going to hear a lot of people suggesting diet remedies. When I show my dark side, someone always suggests a gluten-free diet, either forgetting or not realizing I already avoid flour and sugar. These people are annoying, but they mean well. Just smile and walk away.

–As you walk the streets of New York City today, take a moment to appreciate the absurdity of humanity. Example: When I see scores of people talking at the air in front of them, Bluetooth device sticking out of their ear, it makes me feel cooler than everyone else. I don’t need an earpiece to talk to myself.

I realize these things might not help much. But if it helps a little, I’ve done my job.

March 1, 2012

Airport Observations

When traveling, I enjoy people watching — especially in airports. Some observations from the Virgin America terminal in San Francisco…

Mood music:

–The TSA lady who frisked the young woman with two kids in tow seemed to be enjoying herself a bit much. The mom stared stoically into space while her kids got a first-class education on freedom and privacy in America.

–The line at the Peet’s Coffee stand is about a quarter mile, and the kid crying behind me isn’t helping the impatient, caffeine starved grown-ups manage very well. His parents seem perfectly at ease though. They’re ignoring the kid, which is probably why he’s crying so much.

–The terminal has some very comfy leather chairs. But they are bolted to the floor and not even remotely close to the power outlets.

–The waitress who served me breakfast was freakishly cheerful considering the crush of starved. impatient humanity around her. It was actually an inspiring example of grace under pressure.

–Lots of flights are delayed. Not because of the weather, but because so many people haven’t shown up to board on time. That means the San Francisco fog has mucked up traffic. Or it could be that these people are just rude and inconsiderate. Good thing they don’t hold up planes indefinitely for stragglers.

–The Peet’s coffee I finally got to purchase really hits the spot. But it’s not nearly as awesome as the Vietnamese coffee I was introduced to at lunch yesterday. I must learn how it’s made and what kinds of beans are needed.

–I’m grateful as I sit here. The RSA Conference and B-Sides was exhausting but a smashing success. I got to see a lot of people I usually only get to talk to in cyberspace. But I’m even more grateful that I’ll be seeing my wife and kids in a few hours.

Seize the day, friends. And if you’re traveling by plane and fish is on the menu, order the cheese and crackers instead.

File:Airplane!.jpg

February 24, 2012

Things Kids Say, February Vacation Edition

The children and their friends have been giving me an earful this week. Silly little buggers always forget that I take notes.

Mood music:

“I demand my rights as an American!” Duncan, after being told he can’t watch TV before school (in this case, the Friday before vacation)

“Good luck. You’re gonna need it.” Sean, wishing one of Erin’s friends well in an important business venture

“Who do you think I am, Rosa Parks?” Sean’s classmate Nick, after I evicted him from my favorite living room chair

“All kids are stupid. Parents know this, but tell us we’re intelligent to make us forget we’re stupid.” Nick, a few minutes later, after I commented him on his whit and intellect

“Wow. It’s just like watching a 3-D movie.” Duncan, walking around the house wearing the 3-D glasses he got when we went to see “Star Wars: The Phantom Menace”

What Sean said: “Duncan nearly killed me just now.”

What really happened: Duncan kicked Sean in the ankle — and missed.

What Duncan said: “Sean just tried to break my arm!”

What really happened: Sean poked him in the arm.

“Everybody knows that.” Duncan’s classmate Gabby, after Sean tried to embarrass Duncan by telling her that Duncan wants to marry her when they grow up.

“Get out of the way, Lando! For crying out loud!” Sean, temper flaring, during a particularly difficult Wii game of “Star Wars: The Complete Saga.”

“But it doesn’t feel hot.” Duncan, after putting his hand on a hot pink electric mixer we saw in a store.

“Duncan, I took care of it for you.” Madison, the 3-year-old niece, after punching Uncle Bill in the arm for threatening to come get her. Duncan, Madison’s body guard, usually does the punching.

“Duncan, come take care of this.” Madison, a few hours later, after Uncle Bill playfully threatened to catch her again.

February 17, 2012

Chain Smoking In Bickford’s Was The Best

Though I no longer smoke or eat the kind of food they served, I’m feeling nostalgic about the days of old when you could sit in any of the dim, dank coffee shops in the local Bickford’s chain for hours, hanging out, chain smoking and drinking those awful, bottomless cups of black coffee.

I blame The Doors for this trip down memory lane. I’ve been listening to their first album this morning and when “Soul Kitchen” came on, the lyrics transported me back.

Well, your fingers weave quick minarets
Speak in secret alphabets
I light another cigarette
Learn to forget, learn to forget
Learn to forget, learn to forget

Let me sleep all night in your soul kitchen
Warm my mind near your gentle stove
Turn me out and I’ll wander baby
Stumblin’ in the neon groves

Well the clock says it’s time to close now
I know I have to go now
I really want to stay here
All night, all night, all night

It makes sense that I was going through the Jim Morrison phase in those days. I used to sit at the table for hours and hours, with friends or alone, tearing through a pack of Marlboro Reds and filling notebooks with song lyrics, bad poetry and, occasionally, an essay I had to write for school.

I had two favorites: A Bickford’s in Swampscott and another in Lynnfield, right off Route 1 North at the Peabody line. The latter location is now a pretty good Greek restaurant. The former is now an Uno’s Pizza restaurant.

The food at Bickford’s was pretty bad, too. But it always hit the spot for a 20-something kid who had just spent the night drinking, smoking marijuana or both. I would often end up at one of these places at 5 in the morning after a late night. We would order the junkiest breakfast food they had, drink the coffee, smoke and be generally obnoxious. But everyone else was usually there under the same circumstances, so we fit right in.

On Tuesday afternoons, me and a couple friends would sit in the Swampscott shop laughing at how we were the only people there under the age of 76. Tuesday afternoons was when they had the senior citizen dinner specials.

It always puzzled me that they would eat there, since the food quality was no better than what you would find in any given nursing home. I felt the same way about the old-timers who would flock to a place on Route 1, Saugus called the Hilltop Steakhouse. The food there was a little better than Bickford’s, but not too much better.

Here’s where we get to the big point of this post.

When we’re in our 30s, 40s and 50s, I think we go through a long phase of food snobbery where only the more sophisticated bistros will do. But when your very young or up there in age, all that really matters is the change of scenery and hanging out with friends and significant others.

Of course, we live in a much different world now. Smoking is almost universally banned. Restaurants kick you out if you don’t buy something.

True, you can sit in Starbucks for hours nursing the same coffee and not be bothered, but that’s different. Starbucks has a cleaner, more comfortable environment, and the food and drinks cost more than it used to cost at Bickford’s.

Meanwhile, the food is usually steeped in some “artisan” concept. The quality ain’t much better, but the packaging is a lot more slick than, say, Bickford’s corned beef hash.

I love that Starbucks has so many blends and roasts to choose from, though I sometimes laugh over how they over do it with their seasonal and holiday blends.

You have the Christmas Blend, Thanksgiving Blend, etc. They could go on with this shtick indefinitely, with a “Good Friday Blend” that has no taste or color, in keeping with the Christian obligation to fast. Or they could do a “Back To School Blend” with traces of speed in the mix to jolt students back into the studious frame of mind.

I’ll tell you what, though: It was far cheaper and efficient to get back into studying when you could make pennies for bottomless coffee and smoke your way through assignments.

Those are happy memories, but today’s scenario is a better fit for who I am.

I don’t smoke anymore. I’m sober. I don’t eat flour or sugar. I sleep at night and work by day.

It’s good to have the memories, though.