Yup.
THE OCD DIARIES, Two Years Later
Two years ago today, in a moment of Christmas-induced depression, I started this blog. I meant for it to be a place where I could go and spill out the insanity in my head so I could carry on with life.
In short order, it snowballed into much more than that.
Mood music:
http://youtu.be/IKpEoRlcHfA
About a year into my recovery from serious mental illness and addiction — the most uncool, unglamorous addiction at that — I started thinking about sharing where I’ve been. My reasoning was simple: I’d listened to a lot of people toss around the OCD acronym to describe everything from being a type A personality to just being stressed. I also saw a lot of people who were traveling the road I’d been down and were hiding their true nature from the world for fear of a backlash at work and in social circles.
At some point, that bullshit became unacceptable to me.
I started getting sick of hiding. I decided the only way to beat my demons at their sick little game was to push them out into the light, so everyone could see how ugly they were and how bad they smelled. That would make them weaker, and me stronger. And so that’s how this started out, as a stigma-busting exercise.
Then, something happened. A lot of you started writing to me about your own struggles and asking questions about how I deal with specific challenges life hurls at me. The readership has steadily increased.
Truth be told, life with THE OCD DIARIES hasn’t been what I’d call pure bliss. There are many mornings where I’d rather be doing other things, but the blog calls to me. A new thought pops into my head and has to come out. It can also be tough on my wife, because sometimes she only learns about what’s going on in my head from what’s in the blog. I don’t mean to do that. It’s just that I often can’t form my thoughts clearly in discussion. I come here to do it, and when I’m done the whole world sees it.
More than once I’ve asked Erin if I should kill this blog. Despite the discomfort it can cause her at times, she always argues against shutting it down. It’s too important to my own recovery process, and others stand to learn from it or at least relate to it.
And so I push forward.
One difference: I run almost ever post I write by her before posting it. I’ve shelved several posts at her recommendation, and it’s probably for the best. Restraint has never been one of my strengths.
This blog has helped me repair relationships that were strained or broken. It has also damaged some friendships. When you write all your feelings down without a filter, you’re inevitably going to make someone angry.
One dear friend suggested I push buttons for a good story and don’t know how to let sleeping dogs lie. She’s right about the sleeping dogs part, but I don’t agree with the first suggestion. I am certainly a button pusher. But I don’t push to generate a good story. I don’t set out to do that, at least.
Life happens and I write about how I feel about it, and how I try to apply the lessons I’ve learned. It’s never my way or the highway. If you read this blog as an instruction manual for life, you’re doing it wrong. What works for me isn’t necessarily going to fit your own needs.
Over time, the subject matter of this blog has broadened. It started out primarily as a blog about OCD and addiction. Then it expanded to include my love of music and my commentary on current events as they relate to our mental state.
I recently rewrote the “about” section of the blog to better explain the whole package. Reiterating it is a pretty good way to end this entry. You can see it here.
Thanks for reading.
Pepperspray, Waffle Makers And Other Black Friday Stupidity
This post is all about the folks who make it hard for me to keep my faith in humanity. Consider it a momentary indulgence where I give thanks that for all my screw ups, I don’t behave like this.
I spend a lot of time in this blog looking at the brighter side of human nature — examples of people rising above the odds and living to the fullest despite the hand they’ve been dealt.
This is not one of those posts.
Really, people — you’re acting like apes throwing feces over a waffle maker. This is the problem with Black Friday. We spend the day before giving thanks for all the things we have. Then at midnight we go out and resort to greed-driven animal behavior.
I’ll give you this — you’re making me feel pretty good about myself right now. I may struggle with OCD and addictive behavior, I may have trouble expressing my emotions and I may be a bit of a control freak.
But I will never go out at midnight and dive into a quivering mass of angry humanity over a waffle maker.
Damn, I’m thankful.
But the waffle fight wasn’t even the biggest low.
One asshole shot a shopper who wouldn’t relinquish his purchases outside a San Leandro, Calif., Walmart store, leaving the poor guy hospitalized in critical but stable condition.
The Washington Post and the AP report that at another Walmart in a wealthy suburb of Los Angeles, a woman trying to get the upper hand to buy cheap electronics unleashed pepper spray on a crowd of shoppers, causing minor injuries to 20 people, police said.
That’s some interesting behavior in a country where much of the population is supposedly out of work and unable to afford the products they’re fighting over.
To be fair, there ARE a lot of people out of work who can’t afford these things. But, fortunately, the majority appear to have more self control than these other Black Friday kooks.
Here’s hoping that yesterday was just a freakish blip on the screen in which the human experience is played out.
Get In The Van And Head To The Channel
A friend from the Point of Pines, Revere shared a memory yesterday. It involved getting in my brother Michael‘s van and going to see a rock legend perform at the Channel in Boston.
Mood music:
Julie Doyle Frascino read my post “Lost Brothers” and posted this on my Facebook page:
“Michael was such a good kid! I remember one time we all piled into that van he had and went to see the Joe Perry Project at The Channel rock club in Boston. It looked like a Cheech and Chong movie when we all pratically fell out of the van in the parking lot! Kids! We were all crazy back then!”
That van was quite a site. The paint was peeling off and the body was covered in rust. Exhaust fumes rose through tiny holes in the floor and into the back. It probably wasn’t good for his asthma.
But that van shuttled kids to a lot of shows at The Channel, which used to stand at 25 Necco St. in Boston. It’s where I first saw live Rock ‘n Roll and I would go on to spend a good chunk of the late 1980s there, usually with Sean Marley, Dan Waters and an assortment of others.
Bands I saw there included Gang Green, The Neighborhoods, Kix, King Diamond, Flotsam and Jetsam, Extreme, The Circle Jerks, Slapshot and The Ramones.
The place had a bar called The Cage for the obvious reason that it was caged in. I couldn’t go in there for the first few years because I was under 21. There were a lot of 18-plus shows there, but I did manage to sneak into one 21-and-over show, which was The Ramones. I skipped the senior prom for that, and never regretted my choice. I couldn’t find a date for the prom, anyway.
They used to have Sunday afternoon shows that I loved going to because they were more lightly attended. It was also typically when the more obscure bands got to play, though one of those shows was The Neighborhoods, which Dan took me to see. Before that day, I had never heard of them. It wasn’t the type of band Sean was inclined to go see, because his tastes by that point were veering off to industrial metal, which wasn’t popular yet.
Dan shared his passion for that stuff, but he also had a deeper appreciation for the more melodic, pop-driven bands.
I spent a lot of angry nights heading to The Channel. I had a chip on my shoulder the size of Texas and I could slip through the front door, become invisible and shake my fist all night to whatever band was playing until I was exhausted and felt like I’d been kicked in the gut. Once I reached that state, I would feel better. That kind of pain is perfect for pushing the anger out a young kid’s pores.
Since my brother was five years older, I didn’t get to go to any shows in that van. But like him, I would shuttle a car full of friends to The Channel in a beat-to-hell, putrid green 1983 Ford LTD station wagon I bought from my aunt after I got my driver’s license. The radio didn’t work so I kept a portable radio in the front seat; one of those big cassette players we used to call ghetto blasters. That car also made a lot of packed runs to the Worcester Centrum to see the bigger bands, including four Metallica shows in 1989 alone, during that band’s “And Justice for All” tour.
But the trips to The Channel were always a lot more fun. They were short runs from Revere, which meant less opportunity for the car to break down en route.
In the worst of times, those were some of the best of times.
A Facebook Fad I Can Embrace
There have been a lot of groan-inducing Facebook fads along the way. The “25 Things About Me” is one example. The “only some of you will have the guts to repost this” is another. But the latest fad is one I can actually embrace.
Ever since the redesign everyone complained about, amusing posters have popped up everywhere. I suspect the ability to play images bigger was the prime motivator.
A lot of them are pretty good. Allow me to share some of my favorites. Some are clever and humorous. Others simply speak the truth.
The French Toast Alert System
Bookmark for use in the upcoming winter storm season…
For those in New England who tend to panic over impending hurricanes, Nor’ Easters and the like, here’s something that’ll help you prepare while taking the edge off.
From the folks who run the excellent Universal Hub site, I direct you to the French Toast Alert System. (They also have a Facebook page.)
“The French Toast Alert System has been developed in consultation with local and federal emergency officials to help you determine when to panic and rush to the store to buy milk, eggs and bread.”
Visit the site for regular updates on Sandy and other hurricanes. This thing was primarily designed for the winter Nor’easter season. Here’s the color-coded alert system they use. It’s truly the best thing I’ve seen since DHS put out that color-coded terror alert system:
I Pet My Peeves Until They Become Triggers
I really hate all those pre-written, self-righteous Facebook posts. I told Erin I was going to write a post flaming all those stupid sayings.
Mood music:
“Tell me what that has to do with OCD?” she asked, giving me that stare she gives me when she’s certain that I’m full of shit.
“It’s a trigger,” I said, not really meaning it.
“It’s not a trigger. It’s a peeve. You going to go pet it now?” she asks, still giving me that stare.
She’s on to something, though.
Before I go further, let me share some of the Facebook blurbs that set me off this morning. Hold your nose and read on:
“I was RAISED, I didn’t just grow up. I was taught to speak when I enter a room, say Please & Thank you, to have Respect for my elders, lend a helping hand to those in need, hold the door for the person behind me, say Excuse me when it’s needed, & to Love people for who they are, not for what you can get from them! I was also taught to treat people the way I want to be treated! If you were raised this way too, please re-post this…sadly, many won’t, because they weren’t, and it shows~Thank you”
Then there’s this little chestnut:
I may not be the most beautiful girl or the sexiest girl nor do I have a perfect body. I might not be everyone’s first choice, but I’m a great choice. I do not pretend to be someone I’m not, because I’m good at being me. I might not be proud of some of the things in my past, but I’m proud of who I am today. So take me as I am, or watch me as I walk away! ?
OK. I’m walking away now.
When people post this stuff, it’s like they’re telling the rest of us that we don’t respect our elders and don’t love the right people.
OK. I pet the peeve. On to Erin’s point.
I do sometimes obsess about peeves until they become OCD triggers. I think a lot of people do, but since this blog is about my own blemishes, it seemed like a good idea to put this one in the archives of insanity.
Have a nice day.
http://youtu.be/_7EQlfprV9E
Caught On Camera: The Aging Process
Remember that post I wrote about the time I tried to be Jim Morrison? Well…
Mood music:
My stepmom found some photos of the younger me during a recent cleaning spree. Here I am, with long hair and very large glasses, circa 1992:
That hair was halfway down my back before I decided to chop it a year later. Now, nearly 20 years later, the hair is ON my back. I still have pretty big glasses, though.
That’s not the only thing that hasn’t changed, though. Review the next set of before-after pictures and see if you can spot the common elements between 1992 and 2011:
Those who find the common element will win… absolutely nothing.
By the way, that younger Bill Brenner may look better than I do, but I wouldn’t change a thing. I may be uglier, but I’m a lot happier than I was when those long-haired photos were taken.
Born On A Street Corner
I thought we had a good childbirth story when, on the way to the hospital to give birth to Duncan in 2003, Erin’s water broke as I plowed our brand-new car over the train tracks.
But Tim Whitman, one of my security PR friends, and his wife, Lauren, just wrote their own birthing tale that just goes to show how far Tim will go to generate publicity.
Here’s a bit of the story from the Brookline Tab:
Lauren Arnold planned to give birth to Wyatt Whitman from the comforts of a hospital bed, surrounded by nurses and family. Wyatt? He chose the corner of Independence Drive and Russett Road in Brookline.
“When he walks to school every day he’s going to be able to say ‘this is where I was born’,” Arnold said with a laugh, gesturing towards the corner where she gave birth to her second son on July 19. “It’s crazy.”
Like many expecting parents, Arnold and her husband Tim Whitman spent months preparing for Wyatt’s birth. So when her contractions worsened they knew what to do: they hopped in a car and drove to the hospital.
At the hospital the staff told her she was not quite ready to give birth and sent her on a walk. When that did not work they sent her home with instructions to take a warm bath and walk some more. The couple headed home, even though they were surprised by the decision.
Around 4:30 a.m. the couple decided to take a stroll around their neighborhood. About halfway through the walk Arnold’s water broke. Cue the chaos.
I guess the water breaking all over the floor of a new car isn’t so dramatic after all. Oh, well.
A hearty congratulations to the Whitman family on their latest addition.
My Filthy, Despicable Mouth
When my first child was born, I resolved to clean up my language. I was pretty successful for a long time. Lately, though, the Revere talk is reasserting itself.
Mood music:
I probably wouldn’t even notice the increasingly filthy mouth if not for the curse jar Erin put out. Whenever someone uses a curse word, they have to put 25 cents in the jar. The kids were delighted last week when Erin herself said something requiring her to cough up a quarter.
“Give me a hint on what Mom said,” I told the kids on my arrival home.
Duncan spelled it out: “D-A-M-M-I-T.”
Sean corrected him: “You forgot to add the ‘N’ stupid.”
I wish I could report that the worst thing to come out of my mouth is that word. I tend to veer toward words starting in “F” and “S” — and while I haven’t realized I said it at the time, the kids point out that they’ve heard me use the “S” word more than once.
Then there’s the cursing that involves using the Lord’s name in vain. I do that more than I should, and Sean is quick to call me out on it.
“Stop using the Lord’s name in vain,” he sneered at me one day, barely looking up from his video game.
Great. Even when he’s distracted by video screens he can hear me.
How much have I put in the curse jar? Nothing yet. But my tab is probably up to about eight quarters by now.
I’m not going to give you a tale of the past to explain my use of profanity. I can tell you it’s because I came from Revere, but I’ve found that language isn’t always about where you come from. Sometimes, it’s the emotions. In my case, a quick temper and a history of anger.
I’m a more peaceful person than I used to be. I’m certainly a very grateful person. I think in this case I’m swearing more simply out of fatigue. Going back and forth to see my father in rehab after a day of work, an hour-plus commute that almost always involves heavy traffic, is probably wearing down my discipline.
I refuse to give in to my addictions, so I do the swearing instead.
If it helps, it helps. But doing it in front of the kids is probably a bad idea.
I know that one of these days, one of them will get in trouble for cursing in school. They will inevitably be asked where they heard the word in the first place and they won’t hesitate to throw me under the bus.
They’ve seen “A Christmas Story” and have opined that Ralphie was stupid not to sell his old man out for using the “F” world all the time.
Oh, well.
This is just one more thing I have to work on. But I guess it’s better than having nothing to do.
After all, boredom leads to swearing, too.
