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Another Brick In The Wall

I’ve tried hard to demolish the wall I hide behind when my mind isn’t right. But whenever I think I’ve made progress, shit happens and I find it’s taller and thicker than ever.

Mood music:

My latest mood swing has me thinking hard about how I allow this to happen. Far as I can tell, I do make progress, but then I take my eye off the wrecking ball and the wall rebuilds itself when I’m busy internalizing everything.

For all the sharing I do in this blog, sometimes it’s still ridiculously hard to open up to those closest to me.  One reason is that I’m still a selfish bastard sometimes. I get so wrapped up in my work and feelings that it becomes almost impossible to see someone else’s side of things.

I also don’t like to be in a situation where there’s yelling. There was plenty of that growing up, and I tend to avoid arguments with loved ones at all costs. Putting up a wall can be a bitch for any relationship, because sooner or later bad feelings will race at that wall like a drunk behind the wheel of a Porsche and slam right into it. Some bricks in the wall crack and come loose, but by then it can be too late. Relationships are totaled.

I’m starting to believe this is a chronic condition hardened by my early history. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to sit here and accept it.

When I stop talking, it hurts my wife, my kids and my larger family. But how do I calm the restlessness so that I’ll stay buckled into the bulldozer with my hands firmly on the controls, pounding the wrecking ball through the wall until only dust remains?

Therapy helps, and I have that regularly. But somewhere between the therapist’s office and the rest of my life, the action plan goes missing.

Maybe the problem is that I dance around it in therapy and I’m really not leaving with an action plan in hand.

Maybe the height and thickness of the wall increases and decreases on a set schedule and I just have to be more watchful. It definitely seems to grow more impenetrable at the start of winter, which is where we are now.

But maybe it’s always there, the same size and thickness, and I just happen to ignore it until someone forces me to remember its existence.

If all that sounds like bullshit, perhaps it is. I try to be as honest as possible in this blog, but let’s remember that I’m an addict and addicts are skilled at lying to themselves and others.

My mind is clear about one thing right now: I’ve slid backward and need to regain my footing. The best place to start is by making a real action plan, right here, right now:

–At my next therapy appointment, I need to make my communication troubles the focus of the appointment instead of letting the therapist run down the broader checklist.

–I need to be more disciplined about using the happy lamp I’m supposed to sit in front of during the winter. Truth be told, I’ve resisted it because in the end, I look at the florescent glow and grouse to myself that it’s just not the same as real sunlight.

–I need to reassess my diet. I’m pretty disciplined about following a strict, OA-approved food plan. But I’ve had trouble getting up the mood to eat the vegetables that are a staple of the program. So I fall back on my OA-approved breakfast at other meals. I tell myself the end goal is not to binge eat and that’s true. But messing with the food could also mean I’m messing with my mind.

–I need to get better at letting people yell at me sometimes. Yelling from anyone inevitably sends me back under my mother’s roof. Maybe Ma doesn’t yell anymore but she did back then, and a raised voice goes in my ears and hits the brain like gunshots. But avoiding arguments doesn’t make problems go away. They just sit patiently in the corner waiting for the next opportunity, which is always there.

–I need to get better at talking back. This might seem strange to those who think I’m pretty good at speaking up. But that’s just in writing form. Verbally I still suck at it. I don’t want to say things that might be hurtful and, at the least, uncomfortable. But sometimes others need a talking to for their own good. I need to be more helpful in that regard.

–I need to start walking again. I used to walk compulsively, then a few years ago I stopped. Perhaps I need to work 20 or 30 minutes two or three times a week back into the mix, so I can use the time to process my thoughts. I used to use walking time to do that and I was still a mental mess. But I’ve made a lot of progress since then and maybe the walks will be more useful for organizing thoughts now that it’s not a game of spinning worries and anxieties around in my skull.

Is any of this realistic? I don’t know. But it’s time to try more radical wall-demolishing activities.

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Prozac Winter Has Set In

I’ve had some sharp mood swings in recent days. Now that it seems to be leveling off, I can write about it.

Mood music:

I made it through the usual Christmas blues in one piece and even enjoyed the holiday once it arrived. A week of vacation followed, and we Brenners did something we rarely do: Sit around like slugs. We needed it. We must have needed it really bad, in fact, because God sent the whole family a stomach bug to force a couple days of inactivity. I escaped the bug myself, but pretty much stayed under the quilts anyway.

The mood swings started around Thursday. I’d feel happy and at peace for a couple hours, then miserable, angry and agitated for a few hours, then back and forth. I didn’t mention it to my family, though I’m sure it was obvious. New Year’s Eve was especially brutal. I walked around in a fog all day, even as we did stuff as a family. We enjoyed a trip to the Museum of Science but much of the time my head was someplace else — someplace darker.

I carried on that way into the evening, feeling deep sadness over things I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Then, as we got further into the evening, my spirits lifted. After Duncan and my niece went to bed, Erin, Sean and I watched TV and Sean and I played a game of Battleship. It felt good.

Yesterday was a good day overall. I had enough energy to go on a housecleaning spree before church. In the afternoon Duncan and I worked on a craft involving Plaster of Paris and, while the plaster dried, we watched some Harry Potter.

I ended the day dozing off in my favorite living room chair next to the Christmas tree lights, and was feeling content about it.

A couple items worth noting:

–The worst of my mood swings coincided with some dreary weather outside. No snow, but lots of clouds and a fair amount of rain. That kind of weather always tampers with my mood.

–Yesterday, New Years Day, the sun lit up the day brilliantly. I always do better when the sun shines.

The weather is always a factor for those who are prone to depression this time of year, when the days are short and the trees are bare.

I’m feeling good this morning. All in all, it was a good, restful vacation but I’m ready to get back to the work I love. I used to dread the end of vacation, so that’s a big plus.

I cherished the time I spent with family, even if my flawed side sometimes surfaced to make a mess of things.

I’ve learned to expect this stuff at the beginning of winter. That means I’m able to recover more quickly.

Thank God for that, because nothing sucks more than a slow, downward spiral you can’t pull yourself out of.

"Darkness and Light" -- check out the "Four Lease Ranch" blog where I found this. Good stuff.
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My Mother Unfriended Me

A bump on the path to reconciliation after five years of estrangement from my mother: Angered over posts about my childhood, she has unfriended me from Facebook.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/ZQlM59sDJVo

I wasn’t too surprised. I knew that recalling childhood as I remembered it wouldn’t sit well with her. But I was hoping — really hoping — that she would see the bigger picture I’ve been trying to present: One where I’ve turned out fine despite earlier struggles. I also hoped she would recognize my efforts to point out where I’ve been wrong and hurtful along the way.

Ah, well.

She did call to wish me a Merry Christmas, and told me she dropped me because she didn’t want certain friends and relatives to see the blog through her connection. Fair enough.

“I wish you thought about the consequences beforehand,” she said. “Or maybe you did and this is what you wanted.”

“Consequences” is one of those words that almost always means something bad — the putrid result of an ill-advised action. In this case, people seeing my mother as an abusive “Mommy Dearest” type is the consequence of writing my back story.

But in my opinion, it was necessary. Everyone struggles in life. Our history always shapes us. I had to show you all where I’ve been so you can understand where I’m going.

Someday, my mother might understand.

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A H5N1 Case Study In Fear

Sometimes my work writings crash head-on into this blog. Last week I wrote a post in CSO’s SaltedHash blog about how I thought scientists were reckless to mutate the H5N1 strain of bird flu.

While there’s the obvious security component, part of my feelings on the subject go back to my years living with fear and anxiety.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/-q-MorIES5I

This isn’t a post to say I’ve changed my mind about this strain of bird flu being tweaked into a human scourge that, if released, would kill many, many people. It IS about listening to other people’s opinions and opening the possibility that I could change my mind if educated further.

This comes up after someone from the scientific and security community sent me this tweet:

“Have you seen the NYT article on the A(H5N1) yet, and does it make you re-evaluate your hasty blog post?”

My response:

“It does not make me re-evaluate my opinion. I still believe this was reckless; some things in nature shouldn’t be messed with.”

To that, she replied:

“Ahh okay, understood. I’ll cross your name off the list of people interested in the vaccinations then.”

Later, I found that she posted my SaltedHash post in her Facebook timeline with this comment:

“I really wish Bill Brenner would stick to writing about subjects he is actually knowledgeable about – like eating too much god or whatever.”

When someone throws barbs at me for something I write, I don’t get upset about it. If you don’t want to be disagreed with, you have no business writing opinion pieces. Also, when it looks like someone smart and sensible is flipping me off, I take notice, because whenever I express an opinion, I always understand that I could be wrong.

Some people change their minds about things out of political expediency or because they can’t bear the thought of someone calling them out in a public arena. But under the right circumstances, a person changes their mind because they remain open to other points of view and, after more research and soul searching, they come to believe their original, well-intentioned and honest view was wrong in hindsight.

I’m not at that point yet, because when it comes to H5N1 I simply don’t trust humans no matter how good their intentions.

I have no doubt scientists were as careful as possible and that security was paramount, as one article said. I also believe the scientists are acting with good intentions. They want to understand what makes this flu virus tick so we can be better at identifying mutations in the wild and developing vaccines that will save countless lives. I applaud those intentions.

But scientists are human like the rest of us, prone to make mistakes and fail to understand what they are toying with.

That’s the thing that makes me uneasy.

Is my view tainted by the raw fear I used to carry around? I’d be stupid if I failed to acknowledge the possibility.

As I’ve written before, fear and anxiety were byproducts of my particular brand of OCD, just like my addictions were a byproduct.

The fear meant a lot of things. Working myself into a stupor over the safety of my wife and children. An obsession with cleanliness, which was interesting since depression always meant my personal hygiene took a dive.

In 2005, I had a long panic streak over the bird flu in Asia, which was predicted to be the next great pandemic, deadlier than the one that killed off a significant segment of the population in 1918-19.

I would read every magazine and every website tracking all these world events as if my personal safety depended on it. If a hurricane was spinning in the Atlantic, I would watch with deepening worry as it edged closer to the U.S.

When did all this stop? It’s hard to pin an exact date or year on it.

I only know it stopped.

One day the anxiety attacks stopped. Then I started to crave all the experiences I once feared. Not the terror attacks, plane crashes and pandemics, mind you, but the traveling, the public speaking and more intensified writing. One day I started craving those things with the same vigor with which I craved all the junk I polluted myself with.

Therapy — years of it — and Prozac definitely played a role. So did my deepening Faith.

But while news that H5N1 was mutated in a lab didn’t send me into panic like it would have six years ago, I still remembered everything I read about what this thing could do as a human, airborn virus. The reaction resulted in that SaltedHash post I linked to at the beginning of this post.

The person who called it “hasty” and not the stuff of a knowledgeable writer is looking at this with all the potential good of the research in mind. I welcome the opportunity to be proven wrong.

If I am wrong about this, I’ll be the happiest idiot on the planet and I’ll say so publicly.

Time will tell.

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Strep Will Trigger OCD, And The Beatles White Album Will Make You Kill

An interesting news clip caught my eye this morning about how strep infections can trigger OCD. Thanks to my friend Traci Foust for sharing. Now for my skepticism.

Mood music:

As a clinical OCD case, I always have an eye out for articles on how OCD works and what the triggers are. I’m several years into managing my case, but you’re never past the point of learning new things.

First, the news that brings me to this post, courtesy of NBC affiliate WMGT-TV:

When Jason Dudinec suddenly started washing his hands and touching things ritually, his parents knew something wasn’t right.

The Obsessive Compulsive Disorder symptoms came on suddenly and seemed to worsen.

A neurologist diagnosed Jason with a condition called PANDAS, short for Pediatric Autoimmune Neuropsychiatric Disorders Associated with Streptococcal Infections.

Jason’s strep infection affected a part of his brain that “turned on” OCD and other behavioral issues.

His mother, Jennifer, says when her son received penicillin for a sinus infection shortly after, the symptoms subsided.

When he received a steroid boost for his asthma they stopped all together.

Now they only reappear when he’s exposed to strep.

According to Dr. Max Wiznitzer, a pediatric neurologist at Rainbow Babies and Children’s Hospital, PANDAS can cause behaviors such as:

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
Tourettes
Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder
Sensory Issues
Mood Swings
Separation Anxiety

The catch is the symptoms come on suddenly and must be associated with a strep infection.

It affects children between 3 and 10 years old and in some cases may fade once they reach adulthood.

Dr. Wiznitzer says PANDAS is extremely rare, and while most people have been exposed to strep, few have the biology to contract PANDAS.

He adds, that while the National Institutes of Mental Health recognize PANDAS, not all scientists agree that it’s an actual condition.

I don’t doubt the science and reality behind this. It’s good information to have. But for those who are inclined to freak out over the possibility that their loved will “catch” OCD, consider this: If you have any hint of mental disorder within you, just about anything can be the trigger. You need to be aware of that, but you shouldn’t panic over it, either.

The following is my opinion, based on a life of experience and observation. It is not built on any scientific research, just so you read on with the proper perspective:

One consistent takeaway I get from everything I read: If you have a disorder buried inside you, just about anything will trigger it. Just like anything can trigger you if you have it in you to commit murder.

I’ve heard that Chron’s Disease can trigger OCD. That got my attention because I’ve suffered from that disease, too. I’ve heard that the drug Prednisone, which I took for the Chron’s, is connected to mental illness.

I think there are shards of truth in all of this. But I think the reasons are more simple than the things you might find under a microscope in the lab.

I think the biggest and most brutal triggers for any mental disorder go back to personal history.

I’ve written much about my own history. Some relatives aren’t happy about that, but I’ve done it for good reason: Everything I remember — whether things played out exactly as I remember or whether the years distorted some memories — affected how my OCD manifested itself.

For me, the childhood disease, loss of a sibling to asthma and best friend to suicide, the nasty divorce of my parents, etc., filled me with a worldview and fears that eventually hardened into my own brand of OCD. 

I think it’s the same for someone who grows up to be a serial killer. Charles Manson‘s mother abandoned him repeatedly and was a bad seed herself, robbing banks and going through men like tissues. Ronald DeFeo was convicted of murdering his entire family in the case that inspired “The Amityville Horror,” and by many accounts his was a household of vicious abuse, particularly at the hands of his father.

History is the cause that triggers the effect. The action that triggers the reaction. And with the seeds planted, just about anything can bring it to the surface.

If you’re inclined to be an obsessive, paranoid person, catching strep will bring out all your germ-based fears and actions. The article that inspired this post is based on  more chemical and biological factors, but it all fits into the larger puzzle.

If you grow up to be like Charles Manson, just about anything — in his case, The Beatles White Album — will compel you to do murderous things. 

Music has often been blamed for inspiring murder. AC/DC and Ricardo “Richard” Muñoz Ramírez come to mind.

In the end, though, I don’t think you can blame the music. They had the evil in them and something was going to bring it out sooner or later.

I thank God that it was OCD embedded in me and not something more sinister. OCD makes me do things compulsively and causes worry that spins out of control. But it’s never compelled me to kill anyone. That’s never been in me.

The examples I’ve mentioned are extreme when stacked next to the article about strep and OCD. But these are the things the article made me think of all the same.

Call me crazy. But at least I’m harmless.

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Yes, Virginia, There Is A Grinch

Everything about Christmas is infuriating me today. It’s progress, because Christmas once brought out deep feelings of sadness, and I prefer self-righteous fury over sadness.

Still, this is supposed to be a joyful season and I’m trying to find that joy. After all, nobody wants a cranky bastard in the room ruining the party. So I’ve been seeking  THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT, and I must admit the results have been mixed.

One thing that makes me cranky is the music. Erin has this “Rock N Roll” Christmas album she loves to play, but I hate it. Billy Squier and Bon Jovi singing Christmas songs grates on my nerves. So I searched for alternatives. Twisted Sister made a Christmas album, which always amuses me since they are a band of Jewish guys from New York. Check this out:

[spotify:track:4ndDBQGMALpfVUxhz5Ytwj]

That cheers me up a bit. But I also wanted to find some Christmas music that was more serious yet in tune with my heavy metal tastes. Duh, says my friend Dave Marcus. Rob Halford has just such an album. That’s right, Rob Halford, lead vocalist of legendary metal band Judas Priest.

I found some Christmassy warmth in this rendition of “Oh Holy Night” —

In another effort, I turned on all the Christmas lights even though it was the middle of the day. It all looks pretty, but it’s also a lot like the happy lamp I’m supposed to use when the darkness of winter sets in: My brain knows it’s not real sunlight, and that sort of spoils the moment.

I figured going to the Christmas pageant at my kids’ school would put me in the spirit, and it did brighten the mood for me. The kids and their teachers did a wonderful job putting it on. But it was offset by my annoyance at all the parents who get pissy about where you sit at these events because they’re trying to save a bunch of seats for relatives who are running late, like it’s their God-given right to do so.

I finished all the Christmas shopping in record time, but I see all the packages in the garage and know it’s only a matter of time before I have to start wrapping. Boo hoo.

Yeah. I’m just not feeling it. Not the warm and fuzzy stuff, anyway.

But that’s OK.

There are upsides to the downside.

One is that once Christmas Eve and Day arrive, I usually have a pleasant day with family. Maybe it’s a reward for enduring the rest of the season.

Unlike the Christmas seasons of several years ago, I’m not binge-eating my way through December. That’s huge progress, because I was always a pile of toxic waste this time of year. No binges means that while I’m still cranky, I’m healthier.

I also feel more grounded in knowing that in the end, when you strip away all the bullshit, the holiday is about Christ entering the world to save sinners like me. The annoying stuff will come and go, but that truth is always there.

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When You’re A Kid, Little Incidents Are A Big Deal

A point my mother made regarding some of what I’ve written about the past: “I remember differently than you on most entries. Not because I am blind but because children are little and see things big.”

Mood music:

I don’t disagree with that. When you’re little you do see things big.

In this case, my mother was referring to the stuff I’ve written about my childhood and whether things really happened as I remember it. “I love you but cannot understand how you can go online and write these awful Mommy Dearest entries,” she wrote to me (full comment — and my response — at the bottom of this post).

For those who aren’t aware, “Mommie Dearest” is a memoir written by Christina Crawford, the adopted daughter of actress Joan Crawford. The book, which depicts Christina’s childhood and her relationship with her mother, was published in 1978 and released as a movie in the early 1980s.

Christina’s version of her childhood is brutal. By her account, her mother beat her with a wire hanger, made her scrub the bathroom floor in the middle of the night and cut her son and daughter from her will.

As kids we joked about the movie and often suggested our mom was “Mommie Dearest.” To this day, truth be told, the scene in the movie where Joan freaks out about the wire hanger sends me into a fit of laughter.

My mother always hated when we made the comparisons, which is understandable. The thing is, I don’t really remember her as a “Mommie Dearest.” Not even close. Ugly things did happen back then, but we suffered as a family. My mother reacted back then in ways that didn’t make sense to me, but I don’t see her as the symbol of a bad childhood. Not for one second. Her love for us kids was unmistakable, even when she struggled to cling to sanity in our presence.

Why do I write about it here, for all to see? There are several reasons.

To understand my adulthood with OCD and addictive behavior, it’s important to see how I got that way. History plays an important role in how our adult demons manifest themselves. If I don’t share this stuff, the reader won’t connect with all the points I make about how I was able to overcome a lot of demons. To that statement some will cry bullshit. That’s fine by me. The memories must be shared because that’s how the reader is able to relate what I tell them to their own experiences.

Those who have written me about how this blog has helped them gain perspective about their own lives and allowed them to start dealing with their problems always point to the back story. They relate to it first, and then they are able to put my end points into perspective. Without the raw recollections to chew on, you can’t start building a foundation of strong recovery.

Also, since this blog is part memoir, the author’s recollections will inevitably leave some people stung and pissed off.

This exchange with my mom has been useful in that it makes me look at my own behavior as a parent.

I’d love to tell you that I learned from my parents’ mistakes and have been a better dad as a result, but is that really how my kids see it?

After all, as my mother noted, when you’re little you see things big.

When they’re in their 40s, will they remember my smaller quirks as explosive outbursts that cut them to the core?

I guess I’ll find out in a few years.

But for now, it gives me extra incentive to conduct myself in a way that they will look back on with respect and happiness.

If I succeed, everything I went through will have been worth it.

Mommie_Dearest

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To The Child Who Thinks Obsessively

A few months back I wrote a letter to a girl named Addie, who has struggled with OCD. This is a similar letter for the child of a friend who is struggling with OCD and other mental disorders.

Some of what follows was in Addie’s letter. But I’ve added to the previous thoughts because I’ve learned even more about myself and how to manage my own OCD since that was written.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/QGEeNLXAWyg

Hey, there.

My name’s Bill, and I know a thing or two about what you are going through. I’m a friend of your Dad’s and he told me that you get stuck on one particular thought and can’t let go.

I’ve been there. That used to happen to me all the time. I usually compare it to the brain being like a scratched CD. The song gets caught in a skip and won’t move on to the next track. That’s what happens to us, isn’t it? We get stuck on a thought and can’t move on to the next thing no matter how hard we try.

The resulting pain is like a deep cut in the skin.

I bring it up for a couple reasons.

1.) To let you know that you are not alone. A lot of people suffer from this as we have.

2.) To let you know that you will be fine — better than fine. But you’re going to have to do some hard work to get there.

I’ve told those who ask that living with obsessive thinking is like being stuck behind a wall. Everyone worries about things, but the so-called normal people can still go on with life and even enjoy it, despite their cares.

Not us. We get stuck. Everything else stops and we get left in the dust while everyone else is moving on.

It causes anxiety, which is a nasty thing to live with. I spent the better part of my 20s and early 30s hunkered down in my bedroom because of it. I saw guys looking for a fight around every corner.

Whenever I had to get on a plane, I’d have visions of the plane going down in flames. If I had to make a stand or take a test in school or turn in a big project at work, my mind would spin violently with every negative thought one could have. I would fear for the worst, but never hold out hope for the best.

I worked myself into a stupor over the safety of my wife and children. I had an obsession with cleanliness, which was interesting since depression always meant my personal hygiene took a dive. I was terrified of world events.

Yet I got through each one of those moments.

One day I woke up and realized the fear and anxiety had to go. It took a long time, but through good therapy, medication and a deepening faith in God, those things did go away.

The first thing to remember is that you have a mom and dad who love you and will do anything for you. They will be your biggest allies. There will be others who will help you through it. Many, many others. Their support is much, much bigger than the things your anxiety has made you fear.

When my children were younger, they watched a show called “Veggie Tales.” One episode focused on a boy afraid of the boogie man. He learned a song called “God is Bigger Than the Boogie Man” and that made his fear much smaller. In time, it went away. God is bigger than anxiety, too. The fears you get from the anxiety are over things that aren’t real. The only thing that is real is the here and now, and what you do with it.

You ever watch Mister Roger’s Neighborhood on PBS? After the Sept. 11, 2001 terrorist attacks, he did a wonderful show about getting through bad times. He said:

When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers–so many caring people in this world.

Mr. Rogers learned a powerful lesson from his mother. I wish I had it in my head to focus on the helpers growing up. In hindsight, they were always there:

–The doctors and nurses who saved me from brutal bouts of Crohn’s Disease, which shaped how my OCD would manifest itself later on.

–The therapists who guided me through a diagnosis of OCD and showed me how to manage it.

–My family, especially my wife, and also my father and mother.

–My friends, who have always helped me make sense of things, made me laugh and done all the other things a person needs to get through the day.

–Many of the people in my faith community, who showed me how to accept God’s Grace, even if I still suck at returning the favor.

So that’s one of the big lessons: Always look for the helpers. You will always find them.

The other piece of advice is to never, ever let yourself believe that you can’t live life to the fullest because you have OCD.

Have you ever heard of Winston Churchill? He was Prime Minister of Britain during the darkest days of World War II. He often suffered from depression — he called it his Black Dog — and yet he led his country to victory over evil. He had a saying that I think of every day when the going gets tough: “Some people see a calamity in every opportunity. Others see an opportunity in every calamity.”

Do you like music? I find that music — rock and roll, specifically — soothes my soul in times of difficulty and gives me the strength to press on. There’s a band called Def Leppard that has an inspiring story of success despite bad things that could have stopped them cold. The drummer, Rick Allen, had an arm ripped off in a car wreck. A lot of people thought his career was over. Twenty-six years later, he’s still drumming. The example applies to people like us. OCD can only defeat us if we let it.

I’m not about to let that happen. I’ll bet you feel the same way.

I have a final and important piece of advice for you:

Even if you are able to free yourself of the obsessive mind freeze — and I know you will — you will still have plenty of OCD moments. I still check my laptop bag several times to make sure I didn’t forget my computer. I still go on a cleaning tear through my house if too many things are out of order.

That’s perfectly OK. As long as you learn to beat down the part where your mind spins with worry about things beyond your control, the other habits are fine. Since I’m open about my OCD, people don’t look at me funny when I have those “OCD moments.” They’ve learned to see beyond the habits and see me for who I am.

And sometimes, the OCD moment can be put to good use. If you have a big project, the OCD can push you to get it done and done right. It may seem strange, but if you learn to manage it, it can be very useful.

Some of our repetitive motions do look silly at times. Don’t worry about it. Learn to laugh at it instead.

Life is tough. But it’s supposed to be. It’s how we discover who we are and what we are capable of. I bet you are capable of a lot.

Take care of yourself, and keep the faith. You’ll get through this.

Yours truly,

Bill Brenner

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Seeds Of Rage At The Paul Revere School

My friend Marc Serra posted an eighth-grade class picture from the Paul Revere School, circa 1984-85. The scowl on my face says a lot about the time.

Here I am, first from left in the back, looking like I want to stab someone in the eye:

Paul Revere

The photo was snapped maybe a year or so after my brother died. I was gaining weight by the boatload and couldn’t seem to stop. Some of the kids picked on me as a result, though I gave as good (or badly) as I got. Things at home were less than harmonious for the obvious reasons.

This is around the time I was starting to rebel. I grew my hair long and started staying out late, especially when I was with my father, who didn’t keep tabs on me as closely as my mother did. I learned to escape not just in food, but in alcohol and weed. 

The school district knew I was an emotional, troubled kid. I started getting extra help in elementary school because of  the toll Crohn’s Disease had taken on my young body. It worked at first, but when I went to the Paul Revere School for seventh and eighth grade, the safety was off the gun.

There, kids were divided into three groups: The A group, the B group and the C group. The first was for the kids who consistently got As on their report cards. To the lower groups, they were sort of an elite class. The B group is where most kids were. Then there was my group, the C group, where the kids with bad grades were sent to rot. I think the school was trying to do what was best for students. But the stigma of being on the low end of the student body was damaging all the same.

Call it the unintended consequence.

The C kids were never really encouraged to study their way to the B or A groups. We just got teachers that gave us the bare minimum for work and treated us like troublemakers to be kept in line.

Indeed, the C group was where all the troublemakers were. I was a quieter version of trouble. I mostly hurt myself by dabbling in addictive substances and ignoring the academics. Other kids in my class were always getting into fights and some were already getting arrested. There were some so-called normal kids in the mix who did study their way into the higher groups.

Some of the C kids got picked on a lot, including me, though I also met a lot of great kids along the way.

I remained a slacker in high school and it took a couple years of community college before I found my ability to study hard and advance.

It all worked out for me, and I have no regrets. Those days were what they were, and as I look at this picture, I see kids I remember fondly.

Marc Serra and I bonded over music, including the AC/DC song at the start of this post. All the girls in the row in front of me were kind to me. One of them, Lena Cerundolo (third from left) lost a sibling, too. Several kids were originally from the Roosevelt School in the Point of Pines, and we had essentially grown up together. I hope everyone in the picture is doing well today. I know many of them are, as I’m in touch with them on Facebook.

This picture is like the fourth-grade report card I wrote about recently. It’s a snapshot in time, something I can look at and suddenly remember everything I was going through at that point.

Staring at it in the rear-view mirror, I have no regrets or grudges. History played out as it was meant to, and here we all are.

Thanks for sharing, Marc.

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My Mother Found The Blog

In my slow effort to reconcile with my mother, I made it easier for her to find this blog. Given the raw emotion to be found here, I was pretty sure it would be rough.

Mood music:

I suspect it hasn’t been easy for her to read through this thing. Not at all. But her initial comments suggest she’s really trying to get it and put it in the proper perspective.

Some of my memories are not as she remembered the sequence of events, but I knew that would be the case. As I try to point out regularly, this blog is based on my recollection of things. But my recollection is never going to be the same as how others saw it.

One of my favorite rock autobiographies is “The Dirt” from all four members of Motley Crue. What I love about it is that each member writes about the same events, and while they remember many details the same way, there are other events each band member remembers differently, especially when it comes to what they think was going on in their bandmates’ heads. By seeing the four different perspectives, events become a lot more real and ironclad.

That’s why I always encourage family members to chime in via the comments section. If they remember an event differently, the reader should know about it. Then we get closer to the truth.

I suspect my mother will focus more on the bad stuff in here than the good. It would be hard not to when you’re essentially reliving family history as remembered by the youngest child.

That has to be a mind-bender.

She commented this morning that while she doesn’t remember everything the same way, she understands (or at least accepts) my need to write it all down and share. She suggested that she just wants me to be well and focus on my family.

She also noted that the post I wrote about my brother’s death had a couple facts wrong. He didn’t walk to the ambulance as I remembered, and he died earlier than I thought. She said it as an FYI, not in an accusatory, bitter tone.

I don’t think she would have been able to see things this way even a couple years ago.

I’m still not sure how far I want to go with this. I’m still somewhat gun shy about getting too close again. That’s not her fault. It’s just that I have my OCD triggers, and I have to be mindful of them. I have to set clear boundaries. I’m still going to keep my distance. But I’m at least ready to talk.

I started to feel this way at my Cousin Andrew’s wedding in August. I saw a lot of family members I hadn’t seen for a very long time, and I was admittedly feeling somewhat lost.

I give my mother a lot of credit. Despite all the trouble between us, she gave me and Erin hugs and was very friendly. That couldn’t have been easy. My stepfather kept his distance, but given the tension in the air, who could really blame him?

My Aunt Robin didn’t say more than three words to me, but that’s ok. She hadn’t seen us in a very long time and that has to create some awkwardness. I watched her being a good, nurturing and loving aunt to several cousins, and that made me happy. It was really good talking to my Aunt Dee. The two of them look great. Aunt Robin has such a close resemblance to my late grandmother that I was taken aback at first. It goes to show that the dead live on in others. Also very comforting to see.

One of my cousins was there and it was the first time I had seen her in over 20 years. She’s not on speaking terms with much of the family. She didn’t remember me on sight, but last time we saw each other I was a skinny, long-haired metal head. Now I’m a husky, bald-headed metal head.

Since she’s a black sheep too, it’s rather ironic and funny that she didn’t recognize me. Or maybe it made perfect sense.

This family has been through the meat grinder. There has been a lot of mistrust and misunderstanding along the way. There’s been way too much sickness and death. We’re not special in that regard. Every family has a deep reservoir of drama.

I don’t think the wedding did much to change the family dynamics. The people who are not on speaking terms need a lot more than a family wedding to resolve the overwhelming tangle of misfiring wires.

But everyone getting along in the same space showed that despite everything, despite the divisions, everyone still fundamentally loves each other. That’s important, because as one of the refrains in the second reading of the wedding ceremony made plain, you can have everything in the world. But if you don’t have love, you have nothing.

I’ve had a lot of love and blessings in my life in the last few years. I’ve come far in overcoming addictions and mental illness. Even the family discord has served a purpose.

My Uncle Bobby, the last of the siblings that included my grandmother, took me aside at one point and said life is too short to hate.

He is absolutely right.

But hate has nothing to do with it.

Mistrust, hurt feelings and deep disagreements over right and wrong? Absolutely. But not hate.

I still love everyone, and I forgave my mother a long time ago.

So why, you’re probably wondering, can’t we just let the past lie in its grave and move on? Because relationships are deeply complex things, and it is never that simple or easy.

But I let Ma find this blog, and believe me: That was a big fucking step.

I hope it leads to something better.

Michael, left, me and Wendi, sometime in the early 1970s. The family has been through the wringer over the years.