Though OCD is no laughing matter for the sufferer, I personally like a good gag that pokes fun at my disorder. If you can’t laugh at the problem, you’re going to have a much tougher time getting a handle on things.
But it has to be a gag that’s cleverly done. The OCD hand sanitizer someone gave me for Christmas is an example of a good one:
Repeated hand cleaning was never my biggest OCD quirk. Checking my laptop bag a dozen times before leaving work and checking the door nob before leaving the house were much bigger hangups for me. But I have used a lot of hand sanitizer in my day, so this may come in handy at some point.
OK, it won’t. Taking it out of the package would ruin the joke.
So I’ve hung it right beneath the “Happy Childhood Memories” breath spray someone gave me at Christmastime six years ago.
One thing that would totally rock is a special OCD-proof laptop bag. I picture something see-through, the idea being that if you can see what’s in the bag, there’s no reason to unzip it a bunch of times.
I’ve actually heard of such bags being designed and manufactured so people going through airport security don’t have to take the computer out of the bag.
There are T-shirts and buttons that are supposed to be clever but are just stupid and unoriginal. Take this button, for example:
There are a lot of T-shirts that poke fun at all the stereotypical OCD quirks, but they’re just not amusing. It’s not that they hurt our feelings. They’re just not even close to clever:
Perfectionist? Control freak? Boring and predictable.
But I did find exceptions, like this one, which hits me where I live since I’m a writer and Erin’s an editor:
There’s an OCD man action figure, which also plays into the more predictable jokes. But I give the makers of this one high marks for effort.
I also managed to come across a clock for people with OCD. I would definitely hang this one up for all too see. I would also expect people to do what the clock says at the top of each hour:
The wall hangings are as hit or miss as the T-shirts, but given my love of heavy metal music, I couldn’t help but like this one:
The “Si” is a little bit stupid, but not enough to be a deal breaker.
Finally, there are the mouse pads. In particular, this mouse pad, which is brilliant in its simplicity:
Children continue to simplify life’s complexities for me, and this time I have video to prove it. But let’s start with a little history, courtesy of my younger son:
The story of Duncan’s birth goes something like this: Erin’s water broke in the car as I sped over the train tracks on Rosemont Street in Haverhill. Once at the hospital, as Erin was propping herself up to get out of the car, I accidentally slammed the door on her fingers.
The story, as told by Duncan: “When Dad was taking Mom to the hospital to have me, they had a rough ride. First her water glass broke, then she cut her finger.”
***
At Sean’s 10th birthday party, his friend Lukas expressed his awe over my being a writer. “I didn’t know you had a biography,” he said, meaning this blog.
“I sure do,” I said. “You want my autograph?
Lukas smirked, grinned and said, “Yeah, right. You wish.”
***
Sean, after watching Star Wars Episode 3: Revenge of the Sith: “This is the best day of my life. I got to watch a PG-13 movie.
***
Sean, explaining to his mother why he should be allowed to watch more violent movies: “I know what a real heart looks like, you know.”
***
My 3-year-old nephew, Chase, telling me to use my brain: “Think about it, will ya baby?”
***
My almost 3-year-old niece, Madison, letting me know what she thinks of my humor: “Stop talking and walk away, Uncle Bill.”
The niece
***
Duncan, informing me that Sean just questioned his intellect again: “Daaaaaad! Sean said my brain is empty and his is full!”
***
Madison, looking out for Cousin Duncan’s best interests:
It started with Sean and Duncan doing what they usually do in the car — taunting each other. Sean told Duncan he has ADHD. Duncan didn’t like that.
Mood music:
http://youtu.be/oF96Nvnf_IY
The fact of the matter is that we don’t know what Duncan has yet. He’s too young for an accurate diagnosis. Like everyone else, he has his challenges to overcome, and we’re working with him on it. Clearly, one of my weekend tasks is to take Sean aside and explain the role he needs to play. Task 1: Stop telling Duncan he has ADHD, and stop trying to set him off.
But I started the lesson right there in the car.
“You boys have heard about how I have Obsessive-compulsive Disorder, right?” I ask.
“Yeah,” they say in unison, their tone making it clear they’ve never really understood what OCD is other than an acronym that gets tossed around the Brenner home daily.
I tell them: “We all have our struggles. That’s mine. Duncan’s is that he has trouble focusing and channeling his emotions. And Sean, one of yours is the inability to put down one of your Star Wars Lego ships before you’ve fixed a piece that came undone. You may not have OCD like me, but that kind of obsession is definitely an OCD trait.”
I tell them there’s nothing wrong with us for having these struggles. It doesn’t make us freaks. It doesn’t make us animals. It simply makes us human.
“True, I do have an issue with that (the Legos),” Sean says.
I drive home the point that we don’t have to let these struggles hold us back. Hell, I’ve managed to enjoy a successful career in journalism despite my struggles. And, I tell them, it’s the same with people who have other ailments and disabilities.
Then a Def Leppard song comes on the radio.
I remember that the drummer, Rick Allen, lost an arm in a car wreck many years ago. That didn’t stop him from drumming. He simply taught himself to use his foot to compensate for what he could no longer do with the second arm.
The kids have been getting into my music of late, so this gives me a good opportunity to make a nice teachable moment out of this.
I call up the Def Leppard albums in my iPod and let it play for the rest of the ride.
They like what they hear. Especially the drumming.
I spring the shocking truth on them: The drummer only has one arm.
That doesn’t stop him from being a good drummer.
The kids are more subdued for the rest of the ride, in awe of what they’ve just learned.
This won’t stop them from taunting each other. It won’t stop Sean from tossing acronyms around like sticks and stones.
But it’s certainly going to make them think a lot harder about who we all are and what we’re capable of, regardless of the challenges that dog us.
Welcome to another installment of Stuff My Kids Say. Life is full of daily struggle and it can be hard to stop for a moment and appreciate one’s blessings. Fortunately for me, my kids are good at pulling me back down to Earth. And, I realized this past weekend, so are their friends.
I think you’ll walk away feeling that life isn’t so tough when you’ve seen it from a child’s perspective.
This episode is brought to you by our weekend Scouts camping trip to Battleship Cove in Fall River, Massachusetts, where we spent the night on the battleship U.S.S. Massachusetts.
Duncan, seconds before being "offed" for being a Nazi invader
One of the challenges of hanging out on a battleship is that Duncan just wants to run around unencumbered by his old man. He likes to hang out with his older brother and his friends, who don’t always want to hang around with him. They are 10 and he’s 7. To a 10-year-old, it’s just not cool to let a 7-year-old hang out with you.
So off Sean goes with his buddies, Jack Dalton and Lukas Rouleau. Sean considers Lukas to be one of his best friends.
Describing Lukas’ value as a buddy, Sean says:
“The thing about Lukas is he turns every party into a war game.”
The three run off and Duncan goes to follow them when he’s pulled back by my hand on his jacket.
Annoyed, Duncan says, “I don’t understand why I can’t run around and why I have to hang out with you, Dad. The camp leaders did say ‘enjoy.’ You’re not my idea of enjoyment.”
He gets over it quickly enough, and we make our way to the top of the ship, where he settles into the captain’s chair on the bridge.
Then, in his moment of glory, Sean, Jack and Lukas appear. The three have been searching the ship for Nazis to kill. They look at Duncan and decide he’s one of the evildoers they’ve been looking for.
Jack puts his thumb and finger into the shape of a pistol and executes his Nazi catch at point-blank range. Satisfied, the older boys run off in search of more bad guys.
Duncan, looking like someone just pooped on his birthday cake, lets out a mournful protest.
“Daaaaad! Those morons shot me again!” he bellows.
I decide to help him get over it by crawling down to the lower decks. Somewhere along the way, he sees a repairman crouched into an opening in the wall, hand reaching for tools.
“Dad, why is he making repairs to the ship?” Duncan asks, adding, “He’s wasting his time. The war’s over.”
Later we reunite with the older boys. Lukas has been on this adventure before, and knows where the bombs are hidden. He warns his friends:
“No one should sleep in one of the bunks above Jack’s dad.” Something about wind.
Later, just after lights out, Lukas warns that there are additional wind problems.
“Guys, Jack’s gonna fart and we’re all gonna die,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone. I understand his concern. It’s pretty tight quarters with nowhere to escape from the random clouds of gas.
Sean checks out the our bunks, where we will later be at the mercy of some ill wind
I don’t sleep a wink, but we all survive the night. Just after 6 on Sunday morning, we hurry back to Haverhill with the Dalton boys. Sean and Jack have to be at church by 8:30 because they’re both in the “Passion Play” at the children’s Mass.
We stop at Dunkin Donuts for coffee and breakfast. Jack asks for a coffee Coolata and is shot down. Sean says to me, “Dad, I’m going to need a lot of energy today. Can I have a Mountain Dew?”
Ten years old and he’s already relying on Mountain Dew. I shudder, then tell him no.
John Dalton, the other dad on this adventure, warns the kids not to get chocolate all over their faces, which would surely reveal the breakfast choice to Mrs. Dalton, who would be none too pleased.
I’m more stoic about the whole thing. Sean and Duncan never keep such things from their mom. They tell her they got doughnuts at the earliest opportunity, because they want her to know that they won.
The kids do a great job at Mass and we go home. A few hours later, the house is full of family for one of Sean’s two 10th birthday parties. Compared to the rest of the weekend, this is pretty tame.
At bedtime, I read Duncan a book about how to deal with your feelings when you’re angry. One page notes that it’s OK to get angry with God for life’s unfair twists, as long as you keep praying and get over the need to blame Him for everything.
Duncan says something stunningly insightful for a 7-year-old. Or, perhaps, he’s just proving again that kids have a clearer picture of the world than we grown-ups have:
“Dad, I don’t see how people could get mad at God,” he says.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because while we’re all busy getting upset down here, we have no idea what God is doing up there.”
That’s probably the best way I’ve ever heard someone explain that God has a plan and we have no idea why things happen the way they do.
But Duncan is pretty certain about one thing God’s not doing up there:
“I know this much,” he says. “God’s not picking his nose, because he doesn’t like that.”
I see a lot of moody people out there on Facebook and Twitter these days. Though I try not to put random complaints on my wall, my darker moods often come across in this blog. But in the big picture, I’ve found ways to be generally happy despite myself.
Mood music:
Allow me to share. But first, a couple acknowledgements:
1.) I stole this post’s title from somewhere.
2.) I readily admit that despite what I’m about to share, my reality doesn’t always match up with my words.
That said, no one who knows me can deny that I’m in a much happier place today than I was several years ago. I screw up plenty today, but I used to hate myself for screwing up. Today I may feel stupid when I fail, but I don’t hate myself. I’ve also learned that there are plenty of reasons to appreciate life even when things don’t seen to be going well in the moment.
–If I’m having a bad day at work, I remember that I’ve been in jobs I hated and that while the day may go south, I’m still lucky to have a job today that gives me the freedom to do work that makes me happy. I also know that I have a wife and children that I love coming home to.
–If I’m stuck in bed with a migraine or the flu, I can take comfort in knowing it could be — and has been — so much worse.
–If I’m feeling depressed — and my OCD ensures that I will from time to time — I can take comfort in knowing it doesn’t cripple me like it used to and I can still get through the day, live my life and see the mood for what it is — part of a chronic condition.
–If I’m feeling down about relationships that are on ice, I can take joy in knowing that there’s never a point of no return, especially when you’re willing to make amends and accept forgiveness.
–When I think I’m having the shittiest year ever, I stop and remember that most years are a mix of good and bad and that gives me the perspective to cool off my emotions.
–When I’m angry about something, I can always put on headphones and let some ferocious metal music squeeze the aggression out of me.
–If I’m frustrated with my program of recovery from addiction, I just remember how I felt when I was in the grip of the disease and the frustration becomes a lot smaller.
–If I feel like people around me are acting like idiots, I can recognize that they may just be having a bad day themselves and that it’s always better to watch an idiot than be one.
I’m in the long car line in front of the kids’ school this morning. Stuck in park, I put in The Pixies Greatest Hits. The intro to “The Bone Machine” fills the car and I start drumming on the steering wheel.
“Dad, how did you get so good?” Sean asks. I’m not very good, but to an almost 10-year-old it doesn’t take much to impress.
“I dunno. I guess it comes with listening to so much music all the time,” I tell him.
“Were you ever in a band?” Duncan asks. Yes I was, I tell him.
Both want to know what I did in said band. “I was the singer,” I tell them.
“Wooooow,” they say in unison.
“Can I tell my friends you were in a band?” Duncan asks. I tell him to knock himself out.
Sean notes that The Pixies’ Black Francis (or Frank Black, depending on what year it is) sounds “Mad.” Black Francis’s vocal style involves mainly screaming, which I personally find soothing.
“Were you mad when you were a singer?” Duncan asks.
Last night was one of those dinner experiences that tests someone in my type of addiction recovery program.
The scene: I’ve just checked into my hotel room in Washington D.C., where I’m attending the ShmooCon security conference. I venture downstairs in search of dinner.
I run into a group of friends from the security industry and they invite me out with them for dinner. I’m glad to see them and I’m hungry, so I accept.
We arrive at the location to see a CVS drug store. On second glance, the restaurant is literally a hole in the side of CVS’s wall. But we’ve eaten at odder places, so in we go.
They keep us waiting what seems like a long time for a table that looks like it’s been clean and ready for awhile now. OK, maybe they have their reasons. And I am enjoying the company I’m with.
But it’s been a long day and I’m really starting to fade. Dinner after 8 is risky when you’ve been up since 4 a.m. One friend notes that I’m quieter than usual.
We finally sit down and I look at the menu. There seems to be very little I can eat with my food program, but I chalk it up to not being well versed with sushi. I play it safe and go for a pork dish, because it seems like the best choice at the time. It’s waaay after 9 p.m. before they put a narrow plate in front of me with two tiny skewers of pork and a bowl of rice.
Meanwhile, I look at some of the sushi dishes my friends have ordered, and I realize some of those selections would have been a much better fit for my program. I fidget with my phone, because in a situation like that I get particularly fidgety.
I sit there feeling like the dope that I am at that moment. I’m also pissed because it got too late to call my wife, who I hadn’t seen since the night before. When I’m away, we almost never miss catch-up time on the phone.
I did what I needed to do: Paid for my part of the meal and got out of there as fast as I could.
The night ended with my program intact. But it was a reminder that when you can only eat certain things, you have to plan ahead.
A wise person once told me that if you fail to plan, you plan to fail.
I’ll add a new one for you: If you see a restaurant built into the side of a drug store, walk past it and choose someplace else.
The night still ended on a high note. Like I said, I enjoyed the company of my dinner companions. I got to run into some old friends later on in the hotel bar.
If you can’t laugh at your mental defects once in awhile, you’re never going to get better. I definitely laughed when I saw this sitting on my desk:
Repeated hand cleaning was never my biggest OCD quirk. Checking my laptop bag a dozen times before leaving work and checking the door nob before leaving the house were much bigger hangups for me. But I have used a lot of hand sanitizer in my day, so this may come in handy at some point.
OK, it won’t. Taking it out of the package would ruin the joke.
So I’ve hung it right beneath the “Happy Childhood Memories” breath spray someone gave me at Christmastime six years ago. When I’m sitting at the desk and I look to my left, I now have this to cheer me on days when I need the lift:
Some people find this stuff insulting. If you’re really sick from the disorder and you’re at a point where you haven’t gotten help yet, that’s understandable. So here’s a tip from someone who’s been down that road: Laughing at yourself makes the demon smaller and a lot less scary.
This was a tough weekend in the world of parenthood. Duncan was pretty manic. We expected this, because he suffers over the season’s lack of daylight just like his old man.
I’m constantly worried about the kids inheriting my genetic disposition toward mental disorder. I feel like Duncan’s mood swings are my fault, though I know it’s not that simple or even fair. All I know is that his mood swings rival my own. We’re getting him evaluated, and in the end things will be fine. He’s lucky because I’ve accumulated coping skills I can pass along to him when he’s old enough to grasp them.
For now I just have to be patient — something I suck at — and remember during his meltdowns that getting angry is hypocritical on my part.
Fortunately, Duncan helps me out, as does Sean, and, this weekend their cousin Madison. She slept over Saturday night and in between the various meltdowns, the three children let loose with a lot of witty words that lifted my spirits. In fact, they gave me enough material for a part 3 in my “kids say the darndest things” series.
You can read part 1 of the series here and part 2 here. I think you’ll walk away feeling that life isn’t so tough when you’ve seen it from a child’s perspective.
For part 3, my 2-year-old niece proves that she has the family comedy gene.
“You’re a stupid old shoe everyone steps on cause it’s ugly.” — Duncan’s attempted crusher on his dad (He was angry because I got Sean some gum and he was feeling left out. In hindsight, I can’t say I blame him.)
“Wow! It really does bounce off butt cheeks.” — Sean, after throwing a glowing eyeball he got at the Museum of Science at Duncan’s behind. Duncan didn’t notice a thing.
“Geez, Dad. Can’t you help a guy out and lighten the mood a little?” –Sean, enraged that I made him put on his winter coat on a morning where the outside temperature was 10 degrees.
“My PINK balloon deflated. My PINK balloon deflated. My PINK balloon deflated. My PINK balloon deflated. My PINK balloon deflated. My PINK balloon deflated. My PINK balloon deflated. My PINK balloon deflated. My PINK balloon deflated. My PINK balloon deflated….” Madison, the niece, lamenting that the pink balloon she got at a birthday party the day before had deflated.
“My pillow pet came undone. My pillow pet came undone. My pillow pet came undone. My pillow pet came undone. My pillow pet came undone. My pillow pet came undone. My pillow pet came undone. My pillow pet came undone. My pillow pet came undone…” The niece, once again pissed off because her pillow pet unfolded on her.
“Proof the niece is a Corthell girl: She hasn’t stopped talking since she woke up.” Me, marveling over the niece’s verbal command. She got up at 5:45 a.m. with the boys and I made this observation sometime around 8 a.m.
“The niece has decided she wants to watch Calliou. Shoot me.” Me, after the niece demands that I put that wretched PBS cartoon on the TV. Erin says I’m too hard on Calliou and that he’s perfectly fine for Madison’s age group. Perhaps she’s right. I just can’t get past the narration from the actress who played Nurse Ratched in “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.” That same actress played an evil Bajoran in “Star Trek: Deep Space Nine” so I guess I take offense that she has the gall to tell me what the bald little punk is thinking and feeling.
“Duncan, knock it off,” the niece, trying to buck up Cousin Duncan during one of his unhappier moments.
“And we’ll be eaten by a giant clam,” the chorus to a song Duncan keeps singing. I think he made the whole thing up.
I just got done watching a pretty warped video on YouTube that merges “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer” with “Full Metal Jacket.” It got me thinking about what that kid’s Christmas special says about society.
The wall hangings are as hit or miss as the T-shirts, but given my love of heavy metal music, I couldn’t help but like this one:
No, it doesn’t bother me.
