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Marley’s Ghost

I’ve written a lot in this blog about Sean Marley, my friend and brother, who took his life in 1996. It’s been unavoidable. He left a huge mark on my life in ways dark and wonderful. Yesterday was all about the latter.

Mood music: “Hollywood” by The Runaways:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mWSoOnSfk_8&hl=en_US&fs=1]

With Erin working and the kids camping with their grandparents, I found myself in the rare situation where I had a lot of time on my hands. I used it wisely, visiting a couple dear friends who wouldn’t be in my life had it not been for Sean.

First, I drove to Lynnfield and visited Stacey Scutellaro Cotter, Sean’s cousin. I met her when I was 15 at one of the Marley family gatherings at their house on the Lynnway in Revere, which was two doors down from me. She spent her junior and senior years at Northeast Metro Tech, where I was going, and senior year I would drive to Winthrop to pick her up and drive her to and from school in my battered green Ford LTD.

We had a lot in common, most notably a love for metal music. Most importantly, we had Sean in common.

We fell out of touch after Sean died, but reconnected a couple years ago on Facebook. She got married the same year as me and Erin, and, like me, has two sons.

It was great to see the beautiful family she’s built with her husband, Tim.

From there, I went down to Revere to see Mary, another friend I met through Sean. I used to have a Thanksgiving Eve tradition where I’d go to her house and shoot the breeze with her mom. Her mom had a heavy Irish accent and all the word color you would expect with that. One of my favorite lines from her was that Mary “could use a good blow” — Irish-speak for a slap in the face. I can’t remember what Mary did to get that response, but we laughed hard, and I still do. Now Mary lives in Revere with a great husband and son. Her husband, Vinny, is a biker type, exactly the kind of guy I expected her to marry. I say that as a compliment.

We had a great visit. I love talking to her 5-year-old son, Johnny, who is currently having the obsession with Thomas the Tank Engine that Sean (my son Sean, not Marley) and Duncan had a couple years ago, before they decided Legos and Indiana Jones were way cooler. Johnny is a sweet kid. He gets it from his parents.

The ghost of Marley inevitably came up during both visits. We always revisit the same questions: Did we do enough to help him? Would he still be alive today if there wasn’t so much secrecy surrounding his illness back then?

Had you asked me those questions a decade ago, you’d have gotten different opinions than what I’d tell you today.

I spent the better part of 13-plus years convinced that I didn’t do enough to help him; that I was too wrapped up in my own little world to notice what was happening. I was also angry with his family, because I felt that they were far too secretive about what was happening, feeding the stigma and making it impossible for Sean to get the help he needed.

My opinion on these things has evolved in the last couple years.

I’m no longer angry about the secrecy. Was more openness and honesty required to deal with the unfolding tragedy? Absolutely. But Sean’s parents are a product of the world they grew up in. Back then, if you had a mental illness you were usually locked away. It wasn’t understood back then that this is a legitimate illness that can be treated.

I think the treatment Sean got was the best treatment available in the 1990s. Unfortunately, treatment wasn’t as good and effective as it became a decade later.

He suffered in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But he lived a good life and I wouldn’t have survived without his guidance. Before he fell ill, he lived life at 1,000 miles per hour. He left no stone unturned in his quest to understand the meaning of life.

And while his death cut me to the core, he left me many gifts as well.

I’m glad I got to appreciate two of those gifts yesterday.

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Learning to Fight Well

In every marriage there are arguments. They can be good for you, but only if you learn to do it with skill. I’m working on it, but I’m not there yet.

Mood music for this post: “Hysteria” by Def Leppard:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3SluRyO4EA4&hl=en_US&fs=1]

I’ve always steered clear of this topic because nobody likes to talk about arguments with a husband or wife. But there’s a lesson to be learned, so in I go. And since I’m one of those people who are still trying to get it right, this is good therapy for me, too.

Erin and I have a  strong marriage. I’d say it’s getting stronger by the day. But like every married couple, we argue sometimes about all the typical things: Money, how to parent the kids, etc.

Yesterday was one of those days. The trigger for this one, I think, is the stress Erin’s feeling about our tight finances. Money is tight because we decided to take a chance on her quitting her job late last year to focus full-throttle on starting an editing business.

She’s still trying to find the right balance in all this, and it can be a real test of her self confidence. Meanwhile, I’m in charge of the family budget and paying the bills right now (we alternate on that chore every three months and I took it over a couple weeks ago). She has good reason to feel stressed about that one, because I really suck at saving money and processing numbers.

I even had to ask my father for financial assistance a few weeks ago, and that was a killer for me.

In my view, she has nothing to be ashamed of and everything to be proud of. Sure, money is a problem. But there’s a lot of love in this house. We love each other madly, and Sean and Duncan raise the happiness level a hundred-fold. We have a roof over our heads, food on the table and I have a job that I love. And, most importantly, we have God.

As a sponsor in Overeater’s Anonymous and as a longtime journalist, I’ve seen many people who don’t have these things. I also see a lot of people who have it far, far worse when I volunteer in the church food pantry. And, finding out that a childhood friend is on the streets and jobless because he’s a sex offender really puts things in perspective.

Still, life can be no less difficult in one’s own little world. So yesterday we argued.

I used to avoid arguments at all costs. There was a lot of yelling in my house growing up, and my instinct is always to avoid situations where there is yelling. A lot of earlier spats usually started as a result of all the stupid things I was doing as a result of my OCD and addictive behavior.

So, I really sucked at marital spats early on. I don’t want to say things that will be taken the wrong way, so I throw up a wall and sit there in a tight-lipped rage. It’s especially easy to do that when the thing that started the fight is usually something that was my fault.

This would be especially frustrating to Erin, because she would literally be talking to a wall.

I still have a habit of doing this sort of thing. But I’m trying to change that.

I’m trying to open up more about what I’m really feeling. I still try too hard to put it into the perfect words, though. That can cause problems. I’m trying hard to not make an argument about all the things I think I’m doing right and she’s doing wrong because that never ends well. I know she’s working hard on that, too.

There’s one thing we’ve always been pretty good at, though, and that’s making sure we resolve an argument before going to bed.

That’s something we learned in Pre-Cana before we got married: Never go to bed angry with each other.

Have we ever let that happen? Sure. But we’ve followed that Pre-Cana advice most of the time.

We’re also a lot better at talking through things and finding some sort of resolution. Erin’s still a lot better at it than me, but I’d like to think I’m better at it than I used to be.

This much I’ve learned: When spouses don’t communicate and let their frustrations build, it almost never ends well. We’ve seen this happen to several couples in recent years. One or both sides deny any fault on their own part and make no effort to resolve things.

That’s what happened to my parents. Happily, both parents have had more success in their second marriages, both of which are going on 30 years.

As a kid I always thought happy families never fought. The truth is closer to this: Happy families fight frequently, but they do it well and always walk away from an argument stronger than before.

In Ted Kennedy’s memoir, “True Compass,” he recalled a conversation his niece, Caroline, had with Rose, the Kennedy family matriarch. Rose noted that she never fought with her husband, Joseph P. Kennedy.

“Then how did you work out your differences?” Caroline asked her grandmother.

“I would just say ‘yes, dear’ and then go to Paris,” Rose responded.

My Nana and Papa fought all the time. But their fights were more the stuff of family comedy. Papa would make a crack he knew would set Nana off. She’d yell some profanity-laced sentences back at him, and he’d look at me with a wicked grin and wink. The truth is that they loved each other deeply, and though I couldn’t see it at the time, they knew how to fight well. It was a double-edged sword, though, because others in the family have tried to argue the same way and the results have often been a lot less successful.

Anyway, I have a lot to learn about the skills of a good argument. But I’m working on it.

As for yesterday’s argument, we didn’t go to bed angry at each other.

And, as is always the case, fight or no fight, I woke up this morning loving her more than I did the day before, or the day before that.

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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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Real Men (and Women) Ask for Help

The author learns that sometimes he has to put his pride aside to do the right thing.

Mood music for this post: “Ride On” by AC/DC:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CZo12LIWqYw&hl=en_US&fs=1]

One of the more unfortunate byproducts of my OCD is that I don’t like to ask for help when I need it. This flaw has taken me to the brink of a nervous breakdown many times.

When you struggle with addiction and mental disorder, you cling hard to an ego that’s always bigger than what the reality of the situation justifies.

In my warped world view, to as for help has always been to admit weakness. It’s a huge contradiction for me, because the biggest lesson I’ve learned in my 12-Step program is that nobody breaks free of addiction without help. That’s why we have sponsors to kick us in the ass.

One of the reasons James Frey was so easily exposed as a fraud over the fabrications in his book “A Million Little Pieces” was that he claimed to have overcome his demon on his own. Anyone who has been down this road knows it’s impossible to kick your most self-destructive demon without help. A Million Little Pieces.jpg

I don’t fault Frey all that much, though, because as I’ve noted before, addicts are among the best liars on the planet.

I’m no exception.

I’m a lot like the character Quint in “JAWS” in that I suffer from working-class hero syndrome. (One of the many excellent lines in that movie was when Hooper told Quint to knock of the working-class hero crap, after Quint kept picking on Hooper for not getting his hands dirty enough.)

In my case, I like to believe that adults should be able to make a living without any help from family and friends. In a financial rut? You figure it out and avoid asking your parents for help at all costs. I’ve looked down on people who have done that in the past. I described one case as someone using their father like a piggy bank.

To me, asking Dad for help means failure. I think some of that attitude comes from the fact that I leaned on my father‘s financial assistance a lot in my 20s. When my 1981 Mercury Marquis finally died a painful death at the hands of its abusive driver, I went to Dad and nagged for a new car. I got one — a 1985 Chevy Monte Carlo.

Being a cash-strapped parent on the edge of his 40th birthday, I look back on that sort of thing and realize what a burden that was on my father. When I got married and settled into my 30s, I vowed never to bother my father for money again. I would manage on my own at all costs.

For the most part, I have. In fact, until this year, Erin and I have rarely paid a bill late. Erin deserves most of the credit for this, because spending money on stupid things has always been a weak spot for me, and most of the time she has handled the bills and made it work despite her husband’s $40 fast-food binges and early-morning spending sprees on Amazon.com.

We’ve managed quite well on our own, even managing to send the kids to a Catholic school to the tune of $600 a month.

But as I’ve been noting in this diary in recent days, we’re finding ourselves in a real financial bind this year. Our story isn’t unique. The economy is in a shambles right now and most everyone we know is in a financial hole. But in our case, we finally ran out of clever ideas to keep the boat afloat.

So this week, I did something painful: I asked my father for financial help.

I spent yesterday in a real funk over it, because to me it felt like a big admission of failure. My father, God Bless him, was pretty nonchalant about it and told me not to worry. But I worried anyway. I care quite a bit about what he thinks of me, and the ability for someone to work hard, earn a living and be independent is one of the ways he measures a person. Remember that post I wrote on how being a people pleaser is dumb? Well, sometimes I’m still guilty of trying.

I’ve expressed my dismay to some friends this week, and all have told me I shouldn’t feel the way I do. One friend, who doesn’t speak to his parents, said I should feel lucky to have the kind of relationship where I can get the kind of support my father can give me.

Another friend said that I shouldn’t feel bad because when you have a family to take care of, you do what you must do for them. If borrowing money is what it takes to keep Sean and Duncan in school, that’s what I need to do, one person pointed out.

Someone else put it simply, “Family is family. You help each other out.”

As this crappy week limps to its conclusion, I am starting to absorb the lesson God had in store for me. It’s a lesson I’ve had to relearn time and time again, most recently during my road to recovery from addiction and mental disorder:

We all need help in some form.

Life is about ups and downs, and when you’re down you usually need someone to throw you a rope so you can get out of your hole.

And in the end, this isn’t failure. Erin and I made a choice over a year ago: She would leave a job she was unhappy in, and try to build a freelance editing business. She has worked her ass off, and in many ways we’ve done well. She has gotten clients and earned their respect. Until recently, we were keeping the bills paid, albeit late in some cases. We have to refine the business plan. And we need an exit strategy in the event this thing doesn’t succeed.

But we’ll get there. And we knew full well that we’d hit ruts like this.

In the end, I wouldn’t change the path we embarked on last year. Despite all this turmoil, Erin is still much happier than she was in that job. And I’m much happier than I was a couple years ago, when our money supply was a lot healthier. Back then I still had a lot of recovery ahead of me, and that led to some pretty dark periods. I’ll take this over that any day.

In the present situation, I just need to get over myself and get out of my own way. And let family help.

There are ways I can immediately pay my father back. I can keep being the best parent I can possibly be. I can continue to swing for the fences at work. And I can hold my recovery together.

Further out, I’ll have to make sure I repay in other, still to be determined ways.

For now, I did something I had to do. It sucked for me. It truly did.

But as my father used to say to me when one of my unreasonable kid requests couldn’t be met and I’d start to tantrum over it:

“Too bad.”

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The Love Story Continues (Happy Birthday, Erin)

Today is my wife’s 39th birthday. Without her, I would be nowhere. My recovery from mental illness and addiction was only possible because of her. So in honor of this day, I’ve dug up THE POST on the two of us:

Mood music for this post: “An Easterly View” by Bear McCreary, because nothing says love like a sweeping piece of music from Battlestar Gallactica:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NmvNJiylUa0&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

The Freak and the Redhead: A Love Story

I wasn’t looking for a soul mate when I met her. It was the summer of 1993 and I was doing just fine on my own. I was in a band and we were busy pretending we were really something. This was long before I woke up one day, realized I really don’t know how to sing, and decided to spare the masses the agony of me trying to play vocalist.

I was driving around in a beat-up Chevy Monte Carlo. I had recently crashed it into the side of a van and the door was held shut with a bungee chord. I had recently tired of my long black hair and shaved my head for the first time. For some reason, that attracted her.

I was still a few months away from finding my calling as a journalist, and I was busy hiding from any real work. I pretended to work in my father’s warehouse but was really hiding behind boxes most of the time chain-smoking cigarettes.

I was starting to write for the college newspaper at Salem State College. She was editing the college literary journal, “Soundings East.” I joined the staff to get closer to her so I could make my move.

My first memory of her was on the drive home from classes one afternoon. Stuck in the vile traffic that often snarls the road from Salem to Route 114, I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw a red-headed (strawberry blond, to be more accurate) bobbing her head back and forth to music. I later learned she was listening to The Ramones, and I’m pretty sure she was bobbing her head way off key and off beat from the music. That’s one of the things that attracted me.

On our first date, I took her to meet my mother. The first time she took me home to meet her family, I had forgotten my glasses and was wearing prescription sunglasses and a Henry Rollins T-shirt.  It was my first trip to Haverhill and getting home that night in the dark with sunglasses was an experience in mild insanity. But it was worth it. Her dad, by the way, was worried because he’d heard I was Jewish and pork chops were on the menu. I also met her whacky 12-year-old baby sister, who would eventually grow into the woman I would brand for life with the nickname “Blondie.” I taught Blondie the important things in life, like how to carefully put a string of tape on the back of a cat, to show how it would trick the cat into thinking it was under a piece of furniture and would, as a result, crawl as low to the ground as possible.

That wasn’t even enough to scare away my future wife.

In the years since, she has stayed with me through my bouts of depression following the deaths of many friends and relatives, obsessive-compulsive behavior, fear and anxiety and the binge-eating disorder that at one time pushed my weight to the upper 280s.

She was well within her rights to run for her life. But she stayed, gave me two precious children and helped me to overcome my demons and become the man I am today. She also gave me an extended family that I cherish, even the father-in-law who is to the right of Attila The Hun. I make the latter comment with complete affection, by the way.

My demons weren’t easy for her to understand, to be sure. My path was not the same she had been on. Yet she stayed.

She listens to folk music and puts up with my Heavy Metal. She puts up with the off-color language I picked up during my Revere, Mass. upbringing, which still surfaces in times of anger or intoxication.

She’s dedicated to her Church, sings in the choir and is a Eucharistic minister. Her parenting is the reason my sons are smart and caring beyond their years. She had the courage to leave a relatively safe full-time job to try and build her own business, something that’s not for the faint of heart.

I would never have gotten on top of my OCD without her. My birthday  gift to her is the relative sanity I carry around today. I hope she likes it. :-)

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Turning the Tables on Those Who Whine

The author has a low tolerance for those who bitch. But he’s about to do it anyway.

Mood music for this post: “Thorn in My Pride” by The Black Crows:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5d-xq6q72cA&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

This post is about whining and hypocrisy.

For much of my adult life, I’ve had a low tolerance for people who whine about every little thing. I say adult life, because as a teenager all I did was whine.

Facebook has become a favorite hangout for people with lives packed with drama, and they whine on their profile pages with complete abandon.

I see those messages and I get all high and mighty, telling whoever will listen that these folks should keep their crying to themselves.

In the world outside of Facebook, not even my kids are safe from my low tolerance. Here’s an example:

Sean, 3 at the time, whines about something.

Me: “How about some cheese to go with that whine.”

Sean, being pretty sharp for a 3-year-old: “But it’s not lunchtime.”

The other night a friend from work marveled at how LITTLE I whine about things. He said something about how I’m one of the most optimistic people he’s ever met.

I am an optimist. After all I’ve been through, I’ve found the ability to see the silver lining around every cloud.

But I’ll be honest: Sometimes it’s all just an act.

I try to keep the optimistic face and only show people the confident, been-there-done-that-no-big-deal side of me. Sure, I spend a lot of time in this blog pointing out my weaknesses and failures, but I do it for the sake of testifying as to who I used to be and how I became the guy I am today. That requires taking a rigorous moral inventory of one’s self. Otherwise, I try to keep the happy face bolted on tight.

When I write about how life is so much better now that I’ve learned to (mostly) manage the OCD and related addictions, I mean every word. I’m one of the luckiest guys on Earth.

But that doesn’t mean things go smoothly every day.

Sometimes I still let the worries get the better of me. And when that happens, I whine. Just like all those Facebook friends I mocked earlier.

There’s a lot I want to whine about right now.

It pisses me off that in order to keep my most self-destructive addictions under control, I have to let myself be controlled by other addictions: Coffee. Cigars. Internet.

It makes me angry when I can’t spend money on unimportant things, which is another addiction. We’re so broke right now that I simply can’t afford to do that. I still have done it on a couple occasions, typically in the form of music downloads from the iTunes store. Fortunately, as readers here know from the mood music I put with most posts, all the music I could ever want is available for free on YouTube.

The lack of money is probably my biggest bitching point right now. We have never needed much, Erin and I. We don’t have expensive tastes, unless it’s the occasional splurge during a vacation trip.

Even then, we stay in the cheap hotels, and we’re fine with that.

But lately the basics are getting hard to cover. Bills are getting paid late. We’re not used to paying bills late. Erin has always been very much on top of that.

The cause is a deliberate choice we made over a year ago: That Erin would quit a full-time job and attempt to get a freelance copy editing business off the ground.

She’s handled it like a champ. She works her ass off every day, and her clients are always happy with what she delivers. The trick is finding enough of those clients to stay afloat.

We sometimes find ourselves in the position where bills come due before the money she’s owed arrives in the bank account. But we usually manage to muddle through.

I also take comfort in the fact that money is tight for everyone these days. Hell, even my father is broke. And he’s the best there is when it comes to money management.

I’m also a firm believer that if you hold onto your Faith, God will always provide. And He always has, even when we don’t realize we’re getting what we need and not what we want.

But lately, the money problem is becoming a mountain we’re not sure we can climb. I think we’re going to figure it out and I have no doubt all will be well.

I just hope reality matches my optimism.

How’s that for a bitch fest?

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Addicted to Relationships: A Cautionary Tale

The author on relationship dependency and the damage done.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/2PD7K8Lmc_U

Calling relationships an addiction may sound ridiculous on the surface. We need relationships. This post is about people who need to have a mate for their lives to have meaning.

They’re so desperate to be part of a union that they get intense about it very quickly, squeeze too tight and become a dysfunctional mess when the inevitable implosion happens.

Oh, yes. I’ve been there.

When I was in my late teens/early 20s I was absolutely obsessed with finding a girlfriend. Coveted relationships failed to take for a variety of reasons, one being that I’d be way too intense about it.

I thought I would surely rope in one girl with all my dark, brooding poetry. I think I scared her off, instead.

My friend Aaron — God Bless him because he was always by my side despite my being an absolute prick — was always trying to find me a girlfriend. He thought one girl would surely take to me because she had made a passing comment about me being “cute” the night of our high school graduation. I hounded her from that point on. She’s the one I pushed my dark and not-all-that-great poetry on.

Funny how some people think they are master poets because they can write a lot about how much they hate their parents. That was me. Of course, I was a teenager and most teenagers hate their parents for a little while.

There was another girl I thought would surely take to me because we were both avid Def Leppard fans. She spurned me — likes to joke about how she broke my little heart — but never went away, either. She went on to marry the guy she constantly complained about and had four kids. To this day, they are close friends and we always laugh about the old days.

A couple of the girls Aaron introduced me to did take to me, but THEY were the ones who squeezed too tight and scared me away.

One was borderline crazy but she had red hair, so I gave it a shot. I fled from her as if she were the house from The Amityville Horror. Not sure whatever became of her.

Another was 10 years older than me. We had an intense relationship that lasted two weeks before I decided to run for my life. The day I broke up with her, she threatened suicide and threw things at me, including a bunch of small, thin light bulbs she kept unscrewing from this lamp I called the middle-finger lamp, because all the small bulbs attached looked like they were giving the finger to all who walked by.

The second I was done with that relationship, I went off in search of another one. Because I felt like I was somehow less of a human being unless I had a mate.

Eventually I smartened up and realized this was a ridiculous hunt. I stopped looking and in the summer of 1993 was actually starting to enjoy being single.

That’s when I met Erin. The rest is history, and it just goes to show that you often find your soul-mate when you’re not looking for one.

I mention all this because I wanted to point out my own sordid history before turning to the real catalyst for this post.

I know someone who just experienced a break-up. I’ll keep the person’s name out of here to protect privacy. This person has NEEDED a relationship for as long as I can remember.

Without one this person starts to lose that sense of self worth you need to get out of bed every morning.

Past break-ups have coincided with massive episodes of depression.

Then a new relationship comes along and this person is the happiest soul on Earth. Then comes the split, followed by more depression.

It can be as vicious an addiction as drugs, alcohol and compulsive binge eating.

I really feel for those caught in its grip.

Relationships are like food. You can’t live without ’em. So when you start to approach them in an addictive fashion, it’s all the more difficult to kick.

I have no real point to make this morning. This is just something I was thinking about when I woke up.

I do pray for the person I just mentioned and hopes he/she can find some equilibrium soon. This person is pretty tough and has been though a lot of adversity, making it through stronger each time.

I’m hoping for a similar result here.

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Notes on Being a Dad, a Son and Grandson

The author shares some writings on his father, grandfather and kids for Father’s Day.

Mood music for this post: “Holiday in the Sun” by the Sex Pistols. Has nothing to do with the topic, but tomorrow is Father’s Day and I felt like hearing some Sex Pistols.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XWF9MMxnekQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Since it’s Father’s Day weekend, I thought the appropriate thing to post would be these items on my father, grandfather and my children…

Snowpocalypse and the Fear of Loss. The author remembers a time when fear of loss would cripple his mental capacities, and explains how he got over it — mostly. This is where the author introduces his kids.

Lessons From Dad. The author has learned some surprising lessons from Dad on how to control one’s mental demons.

Courage in the Crosshairs. The author has been thinking a lot about his grandfather and the meaning of courage lately. Some have told him it takes courage to write about his OCD battles. He thinks it’s more about being tired of running.

Like Father, Like Son. The author finds that OCD behavior runs strong among the men in his family.

Peace at the Scene of the Crime. The author, his dad and children visit the Point of Pines and find something that had been lost.

Too Young for the Truth? Sean learns more about the man he’s named for than the author intended at this young age. All things considered, he took it well.

Parental Overload: No Big Deal. Nothing like a week of screaming kids to realize OCD aint what it used to be.

Happy Birthday, My Sweet Boy. Sean turns 9.

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Just a Little Patience

I recently stumbled upon this live version of GnR’s “Patience” and wanted to post it here because it’s always been an inspirational song to me.

Being an OCD-wired control freak with a knack for impatience and  endless attempts at recovery before I finally pulled it off, patience was a virtue I simply did not possess. It would be a stretch to say I’ve mastered it at this point in my life, but I at least appreciate it more than I used to.

I used to drop F-bombs to myself while driving every time I saw those bumper stickers that say things like “Easy Does It,” “One Day at a Time” and “Let Go and Let God.” Already seething in whatever traffic jam I happened to be sitting in at the time, those sayings would raise my anger level into orbit.

Years later, I understand those sayings and appreciate them in a way I never thought possible. My favorite is “Let Go and Let God,” just as the Serenity Prayer is one of my favorite prayers.

Anyway, I hope you get as much out of this song as I do:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gjto02iDNZA&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

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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)!