The OCD Diaries

May 22, 2010

Prozac or Potatoes: Which is Better?

The author votes for some of each. Though only 2 ounces of potato at a time.

Mood music for this post: “We’re All Gonna Die” by Iggy Pop and Slash:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XJ5Rmt7jYhQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

At the suggestion of my friend Christy Hubbard, I decided to check out Kathleen Des Maisons’ book “Potatoes Not Prozac.” She suggested I take a look after reading a couple of my previous posts about being a Prozac taker. [More on that in The Engine, Prozac Winter and The Bad Pill Kept Me From The Good Pill.]

I haven’t read it from cover to cover, but I’ve digested enough of it to get the point.

Google Books gives a pretty good overview:

You’re not lazy, self-indulgent, or undisciplined. Many people who suffer from sugar sensitivity don’t even know it — and they continue to consume large quantities of sweets, breads, pasta, or alcohol. These foods can trigger exhaustion or low self-esteem, yet their biochemical impact makes those who are sugar sensitive crave them even more. This vicious cycle can continue for years, leaving sufferers overweight, fatigued, depressed, and sometimes alcoholic.

Dr. Kathleen DesMaisons came up with the solution and published it in her revolutionary book Potatoes Not Prozac. It gave you the tools needed to overcome sugar dependency, including self-tests and a step-by-step, drug-free program with a customizable diet designed to change your brain chemistry…

All in all, this is a very good self-help book. The author is deadly accurate in her assessment of sugar as a drug that’s as bad as cocaine. I know it’s true, because my own addictive behavior was fueled by large quantities of sugar and flour. And my recovery program includes a diet that shuns all foods with flour and sugar in the ingredients. I do eat potato, but only 2 ounces per meal.

Here’s my problem with the book. Well, not really a problem, but…

I admire any plan designed to bring a person to sanity without medication. Nobody WANTS to take anti-depressants. But sometimes you have to. I certainly had to. So when someone pitches a plan designed to avoid it, I grow skeptical.

I have no doubt there are people who have successfully recovered from mental illness on diet alone. But I tried that and it didn’t work. After several years of therapy, learning various coping tools and dietary tweaks, I still needed Prozac to balance out the chemicals in my brain.

I also got burned pretty badly a few years ago when I tried to do another drug-free program. You might have heard of Lucinda Bassett, star of the “Attacking Anxiety” infomercials and president of Midwest Center for Stress & Anxiety.

I watched her infomercials over and over again at the deepest depths of my anxiety and depression and, desperate to try anything, I got on the phone and bought the tapes, books and DVDs that encompass the program.

More than $500 later, I found that while useful, the program wasn’t nearly enough to help me.

And I felt burned because I got hit with extra costs that weren’t as advertised. One day a packet of vitamins came in the mail. I didn’t ask for them, and they were expensive as hell. I called the Midwest Center and told them I didn’t want the vitamins and I wanted a refund for the money they sucked out of my bank account. They essentially told me no refunds and that I should have read the fine print.

The problem with that is that when a person is messed up mentally and seeks out a program in desperation, it’s easy to take advantage of them. A desperate person is easily roped into extra costs that weren’t made clear to them during the purchasing process.

So in my mind, the center took advantage of me and suckered me out of extra money, then refused accountability. It didn’t matter in the end that the program included some useful tools — some of which I eventually adopted through the 12 Steps. I was burned, and that ruined the whole thing.

I still have the tapes and books. I’m going to gather ’em up and donate them to the local library someday so people can use it for free. I can’t think of a better way to say “fuck you” to the Midwest Center.

For me, the ultimate lesson is that there is no cookie-cutter path to mental wellness. Some tools work perfectly for one person but prove inadequate for the next guy.

In my case, it took a combination of therapy, diet change and, in the end, Prozac to make everything click.

When people suggest to me that such medication is a sham, I want to tell them they have no idea what they are talking about. Usually I just nod my head and move on, though.

Prozac worked for me, though I know drugs do nothing for other people. In some cases, the medicine can make things worse. I was lucky because I found a therapist who was up front from the beginning and took me through a very gradual process of dosage tweaks.

The big point here is that no two head cases are the same, nor are the solutions that work for each individual.

When taking the fight to mental illness and addiction, an open mind is essential.

May 19, 2010

My Personal Ground Zero

A walk past Ground Zero takes the author from the darkness to the light.

Mood music for this post: “The Engine Driver” by The Decemberists:

If ever there was a day when I could relapse my way into McDonald’s to down $40 bags of junk and wash it down with four glasses of wine, this was it.

My mood took a deep dive this afternoon. And the source was the last thing I would have expected.

In New York City to give a security presentation, I walked past the World Trade Center site on my way to the my destination nearby. Gone are the rows of lit candles and personal notes that used to line the sidewalks around this place. To the naked eye it’s just another construction site people pass by in a hurry on their way to wherever.

I was pissed off at first. It wasn’t the thought of what happened here. My emotion there is one of sadness.

No, this was anger. I was pissed that people seemed to be walking by without any thought of all the people who met their death here at the hands of terrorists on Sept. 11, 2001. It was almost as if the pictures of twisted metal, smoke and crushed bodies never existed.

I wasn’t here on that day. I was in the newsroom at The Eagle-Tribune and remember being scared to death. Not so much at the scene unfolding on the newsroom TV, but at the scene in the newsroom itself. Chaos was not unusual at The Eagle-Tribune, but this was a whole new level of madness. I can’t remember if my fear was that terrorists might fly a plane into the building we were in as their next act or if it was a fear of not being able to function amidst the chaos. It was probably some of each.

This was a huge story everywhere, but The Eagle-Tribune had a bigger stake in the coverage than most local dailies around the country because many of the victims on the planes that hit the towers were from the Merrimack Valley. There was someone from Methuen, Plaistow, N.H., Haverhill, Amesbury, Andover — all over our coverage area.

When the first World Trade Center tower collapsed on the TV screen mounted above Editor Steve Lambert’s office, he came out, stood on a desk and told everyone to collect themselves a minute, because this would be the most important story we ever covered.

Up to that point, it was. But I was so full of fear and anxiety that my ability to function was gone. I spent most of the next few days in the newsroom, but did nothing of importance. I was a shell. I stayed that way until I left the paper in early 2004. In fact, I stayed that way for some time after that. I should note that the rest of the newsroom staff at the time did a hell of a job under very tough pressure that day. My friend Gretchen Putnam was still editor of features back then, but she and her staff helped gather the news with the same grit she would display later as metro editor.

The bigger point though is that I was in that newsroom, not in lower Manhattan. Many of the people walking by today were, and their scars are deeper.

As I started to process that fact, my mood shifted again.

I realized these people were doing something special. No matter where they were going or what they were thinking, they were moving — living — horrific memories be damned.

They were doing what we all should be doing, living each day to the full instead of cowering in fear in the corner.

Doing so honors the dead and says F-U to those who destroyed those towers and wish we would stay scared.

It reminded me of who I am and what I’ve been through. I didn’t run from the falling towers or get shot at in the mountains of Afghanistan or the streets of Baghdad. But the struggles with OCD and addiction burned scars into my insides all the same.

I was terrified when I was living my lowest lows. But somewhere along the way, I got better, healed and walked away. I exchanged my self hatred and fear for love of life I never thought possible.

It’s similar to what the survivors of Sept. 11 have gone through.

They reminded me of something important today, and while some sadness lingers, I am grateful.

May 18, 2010

The Mental Illness Stigma That Won’t Die

The author came clean about his own battles with mental illness and addiction exactly because of stupidity like this…

Mood music for this post: “Push Comes to Shove” by Van Halen, from the “Fair Warning” album:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g3aW7oofNgs&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Kay Lazar from The Boston Globe wrote a story this week that sent my blood boiling. My problem wasn’t with the reporting or writing. She does a fine job. It’s the topic that burns.

The story, available here, is about firms putting limits on coverage for mental health care. It’s the same sorry song that ratchets up the fear level for those suffering from depression, OCD, bipolar disorder and the like.

It proves to the sufferer that mental illness is still viewed as a less-than-legitimate illness, something that’s more a figment of the sufferer’s imagination.

In the eyes of many health insurers, it appears this sort of thing doesn’t justify the same kind of coverage it offers for those with heart problems or asthma.

The industry can be just as daft when it comes to fair coverage of those things, too, but I look at mental health issues differently than most, given my own experiences. [Summed up in OCD Christmas, The Bad Pill Kept Me From The Good Pill and The Most Uncool Addiction]

Here’s the intro to Kay’s report:

Spiraling medical costs have driven many employers to place new limits on coverage for mental health care, raising concerns that the rules may violate federal regulations intended to make it as easy for patients to see therapists as other doctors.

At issue is the growing practice of requiring therapists to undergo lengthy and repeated phone interviews about their patients’ progress before the insurance company will approve further treatment. According to patients and therapists interviewed by the Globe, the reviews have established tougher criteria for additional visits and have been burdensome and intimidating. That has sometimes led to curtailed treatment and protracted appeals.

Among those feeling the squeeze are state and municipal employees who get their insurance through the Group Insurance Commission, a quasi-state agency that provides mental health coverage for more than 100,000 workers and their families.

The commission, facing double-digit increases in its mental health insurance costs, changed its rules last year and now requires therapists who are not in the commission’s roster of approved specialists to justify, usually through lengthy telephone reviews, a patient’s need for continued treatment after every 10 sessions. Previously, the commission simply required the therapists to regularly fax the insurer a progress report.

I would be simple to point the finger at one party and say they’re evil. Truth is, this is a mess that’s splattered all over the place. I think most employers want to do the right thing and offer the best coverage possible, but when costs spiral out of control they sometimes make decisions that prevent the mentally ill from getting the right treatment.

It’s especially easy to say the health insurance industry is the devil in this tale. After all, it’s the one making this outrageous demand for lengthy phone interviews before approving further treatment.

But I’m biased. My view of the health insurance industry is that decisions are based exclusively on the bottom line than on what’s right. I see it all the time. I also take the simple and probably naive view that if a sizable chunk of one’s salary is being used to pay for healthcare and all the extra expenses that come with medication, the insurer has no business putting the squeeze on patients.

I’m not an expert. I can only base my opinion on personal experience. But I’ve heard enough horror stories from other people to know this crap is for real.

That’s exactly why I started this blog.

I chose to out myself and share my experiences so other sufferers might realize they are not freaks and that they have a legitimate, very easily explained medical problem that’s very treatable. It takes that kind of understanding for someone to get up and get help.

I try not to engage in political debate because this is such a personal issue, though sometimes I have to make a point on current events like I did when Health care Reform passed in March.

I do know this, though: Many good people have died because of mental illness. They were ashamed and afraid to get help because of the stupid notion that they are somehow crazy and either need their ass kicked or be institutionalized. So they try to go it alone and either end up committing suicide because their brains are knocked so far off their axis or they die from other diseases that develop when the depression forces the sufferer into excessive eating, drinking, starvation, drug taking or a combination of these things.

There’s also the ridiculous idea that a person’s workmanship becomes valueless when they’re in a depression. If someone misses work because they have cancer, they are off fighting a brave battle. They are fighting a brave battle, of course. No doubt about it.

But depression? That person is slacking off and no longer performing.

I’ve been able to debunk that idea in my own work circle. It helps that I’ve been blessed to work with exceptional, amazing and enlightened people.

Luckily for me, I got rid of my fear and anxiety long ago, so I’m going to keep sharing my experiences. It probably won’t force change or tear down the stigma single-handedly.

But if a few more people get just a little more fight in them after reading these diaries, it will have been well worth the risks.

May 17, 2010

The Brenners Invade The White House

The author on returning from a journey that would have been impossible a few years ago.

It’s 5:30 a.m. and I’m running on less than four hours of sleep, so excuse any typos that follow…

I’m back in my “sunrise chair” the morning after returning from one hell of a road trip that included a private tour of the White House West Wing, a stay at buddy Alex Howard’s place and a stay with our wonderful Maryland relatives, Charron, Steve, Stevie and Maggie.

There’s a lot about the trip I’m still stunned about. I’m still in awe of the fact that I got to poke my head in the Oval Office and Cabinet Room and that I got a quick peek inside the Situation Room when a staffer was leaving the main room (the Situation Room is actually made up of several rooms).

I’m very thankful for Howard Schmidt for giving us the tour and for Alex for letting the whole family stay in his cramped but very cool townhouse on Capitol Hill.

I’m also thankful for the level of recovery I’ve achieved, because without it I never could have done the trip, especially with the whole family on an 8-hour drive down and a longer, 12-hour drive home Sunday (lots of traffic).

I’ll be honest and tell you I wasn’t perfect this trip. Friday morning we got a late start to the day and I found myself in an OCD-enhanced mood dive. It was a classic control freak out: I wanted to show Erin and the boys EVERYTHING. But with two small kids with shorter legs than their Dad, you can’t do that. And for a few hours Friday afternoon, as we walked from the Lincoln monument to the Museum of Natural History, I was in that brain-clouding mood I used to live with 24 hours a day.

But it was still a good day, and an even better night. Being in the West Wing of The White House, where every president of the last century has toiled away (some for the good, others for the not-so-good), was just magical for a history nerd like me. And I’m grateful my wife and children got to see it all.

It was a joy the next day to spend time with our Corthell cousins on the Maryland coast: Charron, Maggie, Steve and Stevie. Such a wonderful family. Charron took us to a maritime habitat that included time out on the water and inside a really cool lighthouse.

I especially enjoyed watching Maggie and Duncan bond during the boat ride.

So why wouldn’t this trip have been possible a few years ago? For starters, driving ANYWHERE outside the comfortable confines of the north-of-Boston area used to send me into panic. My fear and anxiety extended to a terror over getting lost. Even getting lost in Boston was cause for fear.

This trip, I did the whole drive down and back with none of that. I even enjoyed the journey.

I also wouldn’t have had the guts a few years ago to inquire about a White House tour. Too much work and I’d have to actually talk to someone with a big title. That would have been too intimidating.

I also would have been afraid to take the time off from work, since being a people pleaser was more important than living back then.

My 12-Step recovery program helped a lot. It kept me from wasting time and energy on binge eating and so I got to experience more from the journey. My Faith also helped, because I know now that the key to everything is to Let Go and Let God. I worked my tools, and everything was fine.

Not perfect. I feel like an idiot for taking that mood swing Friday afternoon. I also realize now more than ever that I’m addicted to computer screens. Erin decreed that we leave the laptops behind and I’m glad we did. But man was it hard to not run to a computer and upload those White House pics right after taking them. That’s something I still have to work on.

But then I knew I was still a work in progress. I always will be.

But I’m a grateful, lucky work in progress.

May 12, 2010

Road Kill (a Family Adventure)

The author on why he’s taking the family on a 10-hour car ride.

Mood music for this post: “Heading Out to the Highway” by Judas Priest:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MoDbAd4fYBA&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

A few years ago, this would have been impossible.

I never would have put the whole family in the car and driven 10 hours south to Washington D.C. Too scary. Too much planning. Someone might break into the house while we’re gone.

Well, the house part is a valid concern. So before anyone gets any bright ideas, I should note that I have someone staying here to look over the place while we’re gone. My neighbors are keeping an eye on things as well, and you don’t want to piss them off. Trust me. I write about security for a living, so I always plan these things out.

So we’re going to the nation’s capital because a friend works in the White House and we’re getting the tour. It’s also high time we took the kids to the Smithsonian museums. Meanwhile, Duncan thinks the Lincoln Monument is part of the White House and doesn’t believe me when I tell him that’s not the case. So I have to show him the evidence.

Living on a tight budget, we’re driving down and staying at a friend’s house and then a cousin’s house. We’re packing lunches to take along instead of buying restaurant food.

I’m grateful to the folks who are making this trip possible, because this will be something that the kids remember forever. Pictures will follow.

I should also point out that I won’t be posting anything new here until after the trip. My laptop is staying behind.

So here’s another reason this trip will be so special:

Back when I was tight in the grip of fear, anxiety and depression, the mere thought of embarking on something like this would have been too frightening. The work involved. The planning. Leaving the house. All notions that were too terrible to contemplate.

Now I realize how Blessed I am that I can do something like this for my family.

And I’m looking forward to the ride down almost as much as being at our destination. I used to hate long drives. Today I love a good road trip. The planning is a lot of work, but it doesn’t take the wind out of my sails like it used to.

I’ve done this run a couple times now on the RV to the ShmooCon security conference, though I wasn’t driving.

This is what you can do in Recovery.

Seize it.

May 11, 2010

The Fear of Current Events

Digging through storage boxes the other day, I found old, 20-plus-year-old copies of Time Magazine, Newsweek, Mother Jones and a host of others. There had to be four years of them, well over 200 volumes.

And so I was reminded — again — of all the fear I used to carry around.

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.

It also meant a fear of world events. When that Nostradamus movie “The Man Who Saw Tomorrow” came out on HBO in the early 1980s, I was terrified by the “future” scenes, especially the one where New York and Paris are destroyed in nuclear attacks.

Later, when Iraq invaded Kuwait, I thought the scene from above was playing out and it left me in a huge depression, one where I stayed in my basement with the lights off.

Similar emotions took hold on Sept. 11, 2001. Of course, those emotions took hold on everyone that day.

Most recently, in 2005, I had a long panic streak over the bird flu in Asia, which was predicted to be the next great pandemic, as deadly as the one 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.

Whatever it was, I’m glad it happened.

May 9, 2010

Granny

The author introduces his Granny, a funny gal with an edge.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/9mcloY9BlOU

During my storage dive yesterday, I found a bunch of photos of me and my late great-grandmother, Jesse Wiener. She was Granny to me.

My first memories of Granny are from the basement in the old house in Revere. I’ve written about that basement as my hiding place, but a decade before I took the space over Granny lived there.

We would sneak down there in search of doughnuts and cereal in the little boxes. I’d bring my friends downstairs and ask her to do the teeth trick, where she’d push her dentures out and back in again.

She had a couple different dogs during that period. One was a vicious little scamp named Gigi, who met an untimely death after swallowing a pill Granny had dropped on the floor. I forget the second dog’s name, but I do remember he was docile and ugly. In fact, the day he arrived Granny laughed so hard over his appearance that she went into a crying fit.

One night my mother had Laurie Cabot, the witch of Salem, over to read palms. She refused to read Granny’s palm because Granny wouldn’t stop laughing at her. That’s how the story has been told over the years, anyway. I believe it.

I do know Cabot was in my house, because I snooped a bit that night. I was supposed to be in bed but there was too much commotion and noise that evening.

That was the 1970s for ya.

Granny eventually moved to an elderly apartment building at the other end of Revere Beach. She was always sick with one ailment or another but her wit was still like a double-edged knife.

One Christmas, as she struggled up the stairs to my mother’s place, my mother yelled down “Merry Christmas!” Granny yelled back, “Oh, fuck you.”

Granny used to delight me with stories of her younger years. She ran a nightclub in Boston that a lot of drag queens and mobsters hung out in. There was the story of a large snake found in a bathroom toilet, and when the movie “Johnny Dangerously” came out she laughed herself to tears. The mobsters in the film were just like the characters she used to deal with. This part especially hit home for her:

Yes, she told me, the mobsters did do a lot of nodding.

I especially appreciated Granny’s humor because she had a hard life.

Her husband had a fatal heart attack in the 1930s and she never remarried. She brought up my Nana and two great-uncles on her own. In the 1950s, she was hit by a car on Revere Beach Boulevard and lost most of her money in the ensuing hospital stays.

She lost a lot of people in her life, including my brother. I’ll never forget, as long as I live, the night my brother died. Granny was driven to my mother’s house late at night and when she came in the house and demanded to know what was the matter, my mother told her. I’ll never forget how she collapsed into a pile of rubble right there.

But she was made of leather, and she bounced back. She always bounced back.

Though there was a lot of love from her to my grandmother and my mother, the relationships were also pretty volatile. A lot of abuse was passed down the family line. Saying so will piss off some of the people in my family. But it’s the truth, and those who might take offense are already pissed at me, anyway.

I’m pretty sure I inherited some of my addictive and obsessive-compulsive impulses from Granny.

But that’s not her fault. I’ve learned that in many ways, a person can’t avoid the addictions their genetic code comes embedded with. Nobody becomes an addict because they woke up one day and decided it would be a shitload of fun. We evolve into addicts because we’re trying to smother deep emotional pain.

I inherited something much more important from Granny: That biting sense of humor. It has gotten me through the roughest moments of my life. I can never thank her enough for that.

Granny spent most of the last year of her life in a rehab center after going through surgery. I can’t remember which limb was being rehabbed. While there, she discovered her long-lost brother was also a patient there. That reconnection was a gift of the wildest sort. It’s a drag that they would only have weeks to enjoy it.

I was very wrapped up in my own sordid world that year — 1994 — and I never got around to visiting her. I was a self-absorbed idiot knee deep in other, less important things that seemed pretty important at the time.

You might say it was revenge that she died a couple hours before my 24th birthday, on Aug. 25, 1994.

I don’t consider it revenge, though. Some would lament having their birthday ruined, but to me it wasn’t ruined at all.

In a strange sort of way, I’m honored that she picked the hours before my birthday to leave this world. She had suffered enough. It was time for her eternal reward.

Spending that day remembering her and all the wonderful stories was a pretty good way to spend a birthday. I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Thanks, Granny.

May 8, 2010

Digging Through Trash, Finding Treasure

I’ve slowly been digging through a bunch of old boxes I put in storage in my father’s Saugus warehouse, and while I have yet to find my old journals, I did strike some gold in today’s rummage fest.

The biggest find of all: my late brother’s high school yearbook, which he never lived to see. Near the end of the book they put a page in tribute to him.

Also in the pile: A very faded photo of my brother fishing on the Marley Family boat. At the wheel is Sean Marley. This is around 1980, half a decade before the friendship between me and Sean truly began taking root.

I also found pictures of my great-grandmother, Jessie Wiener. To me, she was always “Granny.”

Expect upcoming entries that focus on these finds.

May 7, 2010

Shakin’ the (Empty) Money Maker

The author on keeping sane when you gotta make do with less.

Mood music for this post:”What’s It Gonna Take” by Motley Crue:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wredTXeMS64&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

It’s easy to come undone when the money supply tightens up.

Just about everyone I know is feeling the financial hurt these days. In our case, we chose to take on the world of financial hurt. Erin has a cool editing business that deserves a chance to flourish and we had to take a chance for that to be possible. I don’t regret it for a second.

Success isn’t for those who play it safe.

But it can be a bitch when you have an addictive personality like I do. I put down the addictions that were going to be the death of me, but the trouble is that to keep the most destructive addictions at bay, people like me latch onto other vices. One is spending money. Not the crazy spending on fancy cars and clothes, mind you.

It’s the little things. The spending you do when it’s the path of least resistance and maximum comfort.

Buying dinner instead of cooking what’s in the fridge. Getting one of the high-octane coffee drinks at Starbucks when I should just stick to the coffee supply I have at home. Spending money on desk trinkets and books when I’m on vacation.

I do much better at keeping these habits in check now than I used to. I don’t really have a choice right now. But sometimes I do something stupid, like download new music from iTunes. When the Slash solo album came out, for example, I pressed the download button. Instant gratification. It didn’t even register in my head that the action mean Apple would be taking its money from one of the credit card numbers stored in the system.

Or when fueling up the car, I might grab a Red Bull without thinking. Red Bull is expensive, by the way.

Next week I’m taking the family to Washington DC, and we’re doing a lot of things to save money. Driving down instead of flying. Staying with a friend instead of paying for a hotel. Packing a lot of meals to have on the road instead of eating every meal in a restaurant. Given my most destructive addition, that would be a bad idea even if we were flush with cash.

But with two kids in tow, it’s going to make things a lot harder than it would be otherwise.

Though our financial burden is something I worry about, I’m not coming undone like I would have a few years ago. I would have stayed in bed or on the couch, binge eating on everything in site and drinking wine from the bottle. My brain would spin the problem around over and over and over again, with no solution at the end. I would punch walls and drive with all the road rage I could muster.

Those things aren’t happening, and for that I am grateful.

We have a roof over our heads and we’re in no danger of losing it. We still get the food on the table. Our clothing and medical needs are met. Most importantly, we have each other and God.

We’re very creative at finding things to do on the cheap or for free. We have a ton of wonderful friends and I’ve reconnected with some people who have been very important forces in my life. A friend who works at the White House is giving us a West Wing tour. That will be a huge experience for my kids, and it’s not costing a dime.

There are a lot of people out there who aren’t so lucky, and I really feel for them.

So I’m going to keep taking it a day at a time, and while it sucks being broke sometimes, I know things will work out.

They always do.

May 4, 2010

The Healers (Adventures in Step 9)

Tripped on Step 9 many times. But I got back up. Here’s what happened next.

Mood music for this post:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrUdulMG4Qg&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Of the 12 Steps of Recovery, three are the thorns of my existence:

8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.

9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.

Step 9 has been especially vexing. There are some folks I can’t make amends with yet, though Lord knows I’ve tried.

I feel especially pained about my inability to heal the rift with my mother and various people on that side of the family. But it’s complicated. Very complicated. I’ve forgiven her for many things, but our relationship is like a jigsaw puzzle with a lot of missing pieces. Those pieces have a lot to do with boundaries and OCD triggers. It’s as much my fault as it is hers. But right now this is how it must be.

I wish I could make amends with the Marley family, but I can’t until they’re willing to accept that from me. I stabbed them in the gut pretty hard, so I don’t blame them one bit.

Thanks to Facebook, I’ve been able to reconnect with people deep in my past and, while the need to make amends doesn’t always apply and the relationships can never be what they were, all have helped me heal.

I recently got back in touch with two of my brother’s friends — John Edwards and Scott Epler. They were my friends as well, but they were always the older kids. Scott and I both lost a brother in 1984, and he had a hard road to travel like I did. But I found him alive and well, doing great things with his life. Last time I saw Edwards was at Sean Marley’s funeral. I always assumed he was angry with me, too. He had good reason to be. When he went into the military and Sean and I were being anti-military (in my case because I was a chicken shit, afraid of service and the danger attached), I was a real asshole to him. He’s a minister now, and I’ve gotten a lot of wisdom from him already. I’m loving the reconnection.

Getting back in touch with Shannon Ross Lazzaro has been a gift as well. She’s one of those people who was always part of the Point of Pines circle I existed in. She was close to my brother and was still part of the family after he died. She’s now in Atlanta and has two precious kids of her own.

Mary Anastasio I met through Sean, and she never really went away. But in the past year we’ve had a lot more to talk about. She often reads this blog and tells me I’m too hard on myself, though I don’t try to be. 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.

Then there’s Joy, Sean’s widow. She’s remarried with kids and has done a remarkable job of pushing on with her life. She dropped out of my world for nearly 14 years — right after Sean’s death — until recently. The contents of our exchange are private, but this much I can tell you: I was wrong all these years when I assumed she hated my guts and wanted nothing more to do with me.

I have to be careful with this last reconnection. I still have a lot of questions about Sean’s final years and the OCD in me wants to know everything now. If I’m lucky, some answers will come in time. But I’m not going to push. I have no right to.

Besides, simply being reconnected is, as Joe Biden might say, “A big fucking deal.”

It is to me, anyway. And as remote as that connection may remain, it’s still gone far in helping me heal.