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This is Your Brain on Restlessness

The author has hit a wall with his recovery. But it’s not what you think.

Mood music for this post: “Don’t Cry” by Guns N Roses:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zRIbf6JqkNc&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

I’ve moved past yesterday’s tiredness to a state of restlessness.

By brain is at war with itself. One side wants to buckle down and tackle the editing and administrative tasks on the table. The other side wants to write a few more articles first. I have leftover material from last week.

I’m also thinking a lot about my recovery. I’ve been abstinent from binge eating since October 1, 2008 and sober from alcohol since Christmas 2009. But I still can’t seem to survive without coffee and Red Bull or the occasional cigar.

The natural conclusion is that my recovery has hit a plateau.

I’m doing well for the most part. The eating habits are in check. I can now function at events without a glass of wine in my hand at all times. But I feel restless about something. I think it’s the need to take my recovery to the next level.

That means a couple things. One, I need to start sponsoring other people in the 12-Step program. I’ve been dipping my toe in the water on that one, but I’ve mostly held back, believing that it’s hard enough to take care of my own recovery without worrying about someone else’s. Two: It’s time for me to start doing what’s called a “Big-book Study.” That’s a gathering where people do the really deep study of the 12 Steps. I’ve read the steps over and over again and I try my best to live them every day. But until you’ve done the deeper study, you’re just scraping the surface.

Or so I’ve been told.

So it looks like I have two new goals for the summer.

This self-control thing is a bitch. But it beats the hell out of the alternative.

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Somewhat Damaged

Sometimes the author lives in overdrive. The result is pain.

Mood music for this post: “Somewhat Damaged” by Nine Inch Nails:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WY0NEQd3_co&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Some of you might have read my post from yesterday about enjoying life in the parental and professional fast lane. Well, this morning I’m paying for it.

My back aches. My head is numb and coffee isn’t doing much about that. I got a dull knifing sensation in the gut. And I’m ready to fall asleep in my desk chair.

I want a cigar and more coffee. The coffee is fine, but I’m trying to put down the cigars.

Fortunately, I don’t want to binge and I’m not feeling depressed.

This is just physical pain, brought on by several weeks of clean but heavy living.

I have no regrets. I got a lot of work done last week AND got a lot of busy but quality time with the family.

And it used to be that depression made me feel like this. Black moods always seem to come with the back pain, migraines and gut ache.

This was especially true when I was a kid. The hidden mental illness I had at the time, with family strife and physical illness tossed in, made for some incapacitating moments.

I know a kid who’s going through something similar right now. He has some of the same mood troubles I had when I was around 10 and sometimes he goes so far off the handle that he has to be restrained. I identify with the kid.

I think he’s going to go through plenty of physical pain from his condition just like I did. But I know there’s a better, happier way, where a person can get past mental disorder and learn to function in society.

Not just function normally, but function exceptionally well.

And when the aches and pains you get start to come from living well instead of living low, you’ll know you’ve achieved something precious.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must find some Tylenol and more coffee.

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Newsroom Nightmare: A Sequel

Another Facebook flashback strikes the author on his dirty newsroom side of the brain.

Mood music for this post: “Mean Street” from Van Halen:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U2R2KXNQR1M&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

I thought I was done writing about my newsroom experiences with “The Crazy-Ass Guy in the Newsroom.” But Facebook has put me back in touch with another blast from my past, so here I go again.

Meet Steve Lambert, editor of The Eagle-Tribune a decade ago. He hired me as night editor and promoted me to assistant editor for New Hampshire.

When he left for California in 2002, I was put back on the night desk. Good thing, too. I was within inches of smashing my direct supervisor in the side of the head with a bat after his management style drove me within inches of a nervous breakdown. I would have been fired and brought up on charges for doing such a thing, but I would have been a hero among some of my newsroom colleagues.

Still, I’m glad it didn’t come to that because it would have been wrong. And the reality is that my insanity back then made me as evil a newsroom presence as the supervisor was heavy-handed and ruthless.

I always liked Steve, though. We shared a love of The Beatles and I respected his efforts to make the paper more of a voice for New Hampshire and, later, Lawrence Massachusetts’ Latino community. He took a lot of criticism for the latter, which ended in spectacular failure. It really got under the skin of a lot of bitter Hispanic haters, which is why I think I loved it.

He also did a lot to bring more humanity to the newsroom. He gave low-level people like me a shot at bigger things, and always let us put family before work. It’s hard to find that in a newsroom, though The Eagle-Tribune does deserve credit for nurturing a deep family streak. The current managing editor, Gretchen Putnam, balances a demanding job with being one of the best Moms around in a way that would make a lot of journalists envious. It’s very easy for reporters and editors to put every egg of their existence into the career basket, and that never, ever ends well.

Back to Lambert. He may not realize it — or maybe he did — but I was Grade-A nuts during the time I was in his employ.

I was all about pleasing my masters back then, before I realized being a people-pleaser is dumb. When Lambert wasn’t happy about something the NH edition had done, I kept it with me for weeks at a time. I brooded. I gave in to my addictive behavior in the nastiest fashion I could. I felt picked on.

Let me be honest: Most of my troubles back then were nobody’s fault but mine. I had a brain chemistry imbalance and bottled-up traumas that I wouldn’t become fully aware of for another couple years.

I was a major control freak, which is an OCD trademark. I had an ego much bigger than I deserved to have. That combination slammed into the wall at The Eagle-Tribune, because criticism and toughness are trademarks of the culture. That’s not always a bad thing. But in the hands of someone who takes things deeply personal, it becomes toxic.

The stress level was already high when I realized I wasn’t clicking with the New Hampshire editor. It felt like disaster was just around the corner. And it was.

I remember the newsroom on 9-11-01 like it were yesterday. The first World Trade Center tower had just collapsed on the TV screen mounted above 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. And I stayed that way until I finally left the paper in early 2004.

I thought all my emotional trouble was solved when I left that place. I so badly wanted the job to be that one thing I could point to as the root cause of my pain; the thing I could hate for life.

But my mental nightmare was only beginning.

Looking back, that period was probably the beginning of the end, a time of madness where I was close to rock-bottom and had to change, but wasn’t yet in tune to reality.

It was not a happy time. But I’m glad I worked with Lambert. He’s a good man.

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Happy and Productive in the Debris Field

The author used to come unglued around chaos. Now it floats past him.

Mood music for this post: “Sons and Daughters” by The Decemberists:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E5H8DwJI0uA&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Looking at the week ahead, it’s amazing I’m not hiding in a foxhole right now.

I’m working from home the first part of the week while the kids are on vacation. Call it half a vacation, though I’m tackling a full plate of work each day.

Sean’s birthday is this week, so the house needs a scrubbing before party guests arrive Thursday.

I have a conference in Boston to cover the latter half of the week into the weekend.

And oh yeah — with two vacationing kids comes a lot of clutter.

I’ve always hated clutter. It’s one of the biggest OCD triggers I have. And you can’t have kids around without accepting a certain degree of clutter. There’s no eating without dumping stuff on the floor. There’s no Lego activities without getting Legos everywhere.

But something strange has happened in more recent years. I’ve found that these things don’t rattle me the way they used to.

I chalk it up to all the progress I’ve made managing my OCD and putting down the worst of my addictions.

Now I can peacefully co-exist among the chaos and clutter. If I have work, I can do it  and do it well sitting among the debris, like I did yesterday when Duncan decided to make a blanket/pillow fort right where I was writing a couple CSO articles:

Hell, I even helped him build the thing.

Then I sat in my half-covered chair and got working. And guess what? I got plenty done.

I feel better about zigzagging from the conference to Haverhill for birthday activities because I’ve already written and posted four stories and two podcasts about things that will be going on at the event.

It’s all good.

One more thing about the clutter, though: If you know someone with OCD that’s not under control, keep them as far away from chaos as possible.

For the chaotic mind, clutter is the worst.

It amplifies the crazy in your head.

That I can now exist in the clutter is pretty wild when I stop to think about it.

Oddly enough, I’ve probably swung a bit too far to the other side of the spectrum.

My wife pointed out to be recently that I’m more of a slob since cleaning up my act.

Sounds weird, doesn’t it?


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Windmill Hands

Ever wondered what that weird thing is the author does with his hands? Wonder no more.

Those who know me well have seen it at one time or another, usually when I’m sitting at a desk engaged in a project. My face gets slightly contorted and I start shaking my hands around like they’re on fire.

I call it my Windmill Hand Syndrome.

When I’m doing it, I don’t realize it, though I just noticed myself doing it just now.

It tends to happen when I’m sketching or writing. Sometimes it happens when I’m editing.

Is it a byproduct of OCD? Don’t know.

I’ve been doing it for most of my life, though, so probably not.

It’s a mystery. But no one ever gets hurt, so I’m not fretting over it.

Sure I look like a jack-ass when I do it. But it can’t be any worse than what I already looked like. Hehheh.

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Skeptic Slang and Charles Manson: Six Degrees of Separation

Skeptic Slang and a glimpse at mental illness in the making.

Mood music for this post: “My Monkey” by Marylin Manson:

A note about the music: Marilyn Manson put this on his “Portrait of an American Family” album, which was recorded in the Sharon Tate murder house. The title and chorus were taken from a Charles Manson song called “Mechanical Man.” Bits of Manson interviews are sprinkled throughout.

It just seemed appropriate for some reason…

Today was a good day with some strange memories thrown into the mix. Call it Skeptic Slang day.

I put the kids in the car (Erin was at a writing and editing conference) and drove to the Salem, Mass. home of my former Skeptic Slang guitarist, Chris Casey, his wife Nancy and their two sweet kids, Melissa and Mark.

I was there for a few reasons: to help Nancy set up a blog for her own writings, which I suggest you follow, and to look at photos she had of our old band. Most of all, I just wanted to see a couple old friends. I’ve known Nancy for 20 years and their marriage is a point of pride for me because I introduced them way back in the day.

So I looked at the Skeptic Slang pictures and noticed something I initially found funny. But later, back in the car, it occurred to me that the images were a bit jarring. They reminded me of something I had forgotten about myself back then.

I’m wearing a Charles Manson shirt. And with the long hair and beard, I sort of resemble the creep:

But looking back, it was an awful shirt to be wearing.
The other thing I noticed in the pictures was that I had angry eyes.
In another picture I have my hand over my face. I remember now that I was agitated as hell during that photo shoot because it was taking a long time and the thought of me being photographed made me sick.
Indeed, that was a very angry time for me. A family member was suffering from severe depression and suicidal thoughts. I was in full rage against my mother and step-mother. More than one Skeptic Slang song was about wishing my mother dead. In fact, one song was called “You’re Dead,” as in dead in my mind.
I was still pissed as all hell about my brother’s death eight years before.
The mess in my skull that would ultimately blossom into full-blown mental disorder was starting to swirl. The bitter roots had taken hold.
Fortunately, the band itself was an excellent release valve at the time. I couldn’t really sing, but it didn’t matter. We played aggressively, and that allowed the rage in me to pour out like sweat that I could then wash off.
God has always had a funny way of giving me the things I needed to lurch forward.
And while the band is long gone, I got some lifelong friends out of it.
The fact that we can now hang out and watch our kids hang out with each other is just freakin’ awesome.
http://youtu.be/pA2ktUcWX7Q
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Meet My Demon

Why the author treats his demon like an imaginary friend, and how it helps.

It won’t give up

It wants me dead

God damn that noise inside my head

From today’s mood music, “The Becoming,” by Trent Reznor, Nine Inch Nails:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cDfyR22u_gI&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

At last night’s OA meeting, I saw quite a few people with heavy weights pressing on their minds. I won’t share details, because these meetings are all about anonymity. But it got me thinking…

You see, for all our awful behavior, there’s one thing we addicts do exceptionally well: self-criticize. If you want to meet people who are good at focusing on their own vulnerabilities and venting shame, we are the best there is.

It doesn’t really help us, mind you. It just makes us feel worse and, in response, lose ourselves in our chosen addiction. In OA, the addiction is compulsive overeating. But it’s the same with booze and narcotics.

We often describe it as our inner demon. The demon comes to you when you are feeling low and taps on your shoulder. Then he suggests you sooth your anxieties with a pile of junk.

Many of those who suffer from mental illnesses — mine is OCD, which fuels my addictive behavior — tend to give their demon a persona.

Winston Churchill called it his Black Dog.

I call my demon The Asshole. That’s what he is, after all. He’s my dysfunctional imaginary friend.

I got the idea of making my demon an imaginary friend from my kids, both of whom have imaginary friends. I believe Sean used to call his “Rexally.” Rexally was a sperm whale, by the way.

So let me tell you about The Asshole.

He’s like one of those overbearing relatives who will constantly push food on you when you drop by for dinner.

The Asshole: “Try that slice of pizza. It’s wonderful.”

Me: “No thanks. I’m full.”

The Asshole: “Come on, try it. It’s really good.”

If I’m not in recovery, I shove the slice of pizza down my throat, followed by another 10 slices. When it comes to binge eating, I can’t have just five of something, whether it’s pizza or potato chips. I have to have them all, and when they’re gone I’ll keep pushing other things in my mouth, no matter how vile and shameful I feel two hours later.

When I am in recovery, which, thank God, I am now, I tell The Asshole: “Piss off. I’m full and got things to do.”

Facing The Asshole used to fill me with fear and anxiety. I was the weakest person in the room when he was around.

But in the years since I entered therapy for the OCD, found my Faith and started taking medication, the relationship has changed.

Now The Asshole is more like an annoying cousin; someone I keep at arm’s length. I don’t shut him out of my life completely — I can’t, really — but one day I stopped fearing him, and that made a world of difference.

He still taps my shoulder just about every day. But with the fear gone, I’m able to go about my business.

Another thing that’s changed: What he has to offer just can’t compare with the other parts of my life: My wife and kids. My writing. A good book.

But I’m not stupid. I know he’s never going to go away. He’ll always be there, lying in wait. He’s like a terrorist, that old Asshole. He may lose most days, but he keeps trying, knowing that one of these days he might just pull off the attack.

And, truth be told, I’m never more than a few minutes away from the relapse. It’s that way with anyone in recovery.

And so I must be careful.

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SLOB

Erin pointed something out to me earlier: Ever since I got a handle on my OCD, I’ve been a slob.

Sure, I shower daily and clean my clothes, but when my mind was off the rails, I was a cleanliness freak. Everything had to be put away just so. Coming home to find a couch pillow on the floor would send me into a tizzy.

Now I’m apparently leaving a lot of things lying around: Books, kids’ backpacks, my shoes and laptop bag, and so on.

http://www.perfectescapes.com/TheSuiteLife/wp-content/uploads/2008/08/destroyed-room.jpg

On the one hand, I feel much better not getting so wound up about these things. On the other hand, it makes for a messy house. Call it the other side of the extreme.

I guess I should get to work on that one.

Funny thing, though. Back in Revere I was usually a slob, letting that basement bedroom fill up with dirty clothes and used towels. It wasn’t until Erin and I married and got our own place that I started becoming a neat freak.

Feast or famine.

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Things Don’t Go As Planned

A day that doesn’t meet expectations can take you to a pretty dark place when your head isn’t screwed on just right.

Mood music for this post: “Psycho Therapy” by The Ramones:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=34wASuHRuRo&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

This day hasn’t gone as planned. That can be frustrating when your brain works the way it’s supposed to.

When the traffic in your skull doesn’t flow properly — which is usually the case when you have OCD — a day that suddenly changes shape will spark a serious case of crazy.

In my case, that means high anxiety, followed by multiple temper tantrums, followed by addictive behavior — binge eating in my case — and then a migraine with the urge to throw up. Not necessarily in that order, but usually in that order.

A flight gets delayed or canceled? Bad reaction. Car breaks down? Bad reaction. A carefully constructed schedule ripped apart by shifting winds? Catasrophic reaction.

Back during the ice storm that paralyzed New England in December 2008, we woke up to no electricity. I didn’t have a particularly heavy schedule that Friday, but I still had plans that involved Internet access. I could focus on nothing else until we found a place in Methuen that had power and Internet access. All so I could look at e-mails and check Facebook.

Pretty damn stupid.

Of course, this was a month before I got my BlackBerry, which has enabled me to stay connected in more recent power outages.

But still, pretty stupid.

All I really had to do that day was spend time with the kids. I did later that day, but I was too wound to enjoy it. That’s what the disease does: rob you of precious moments.

This was only a couple months after I started my 12-Step Program, so my psyche was still pretty raw. It was also at the start of the Christmas season, which always seems to throw me into depression and general craziness.

So about today: It didn’t go at all as planned. I started work at 4:30 a.m., and at 6 a.m. the power went out. No bad weather outside to cause it and no answers from the power company.

I had a full day planned: Record a podcast, post some articles I wrote this week, take a phone call for the book project, and so on.

Then 10 minutes passed and the power remained off. It turned out that most of Haverhill and parts of Methuen and North Andover went dark, so school was called off. Both kids home for the day. A day where I had a packed agenda. We wound up at a friend’s house in Hampstead, N.H., which did have power, and I set about doing the podcast. An hour-long process stretched to three hours, as the podcasting software decided this would be the perfect day to crash repeatedly.

On it went.

The good news is that I managed to hold on to my sanity, although I was fairly crabby. I still am, in fact.

But things worked out, The work got done. Nobody got hurt.

I didn’t binge. I didn’t yell at anyone. I didn’t get any panic attacks.

That’s real progress.

And yet I’m still pissed at myself, because I could have handled today’s twists and turns so much better than I did.

But I’m not going to sit here and dwell on it. Why bother?

Besides, things are looking up.

The sun is finally shining and the pavement is drying.

I’m going to visit the chiropractor in Newburyport shortly, so I’ll be able to get out there and enjoy it. Newburyport is one of my favorite places, and even a drive in for an appointment is a treat.

And Lent is technically over, which means a nice cigar is in my future.

http://jthechub.files.wordpress.com/2009/11/cigar_pic.jpg