The OCD Diaries

April 1, 2010

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.

March 29, 2010

Peace at the Scene of the Crime

About the time I visited my old hiding spot behind a boat yard in the old neighborhood and found something I had lost.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/Phez1FvzGbY

During my sometimes-turbulent youth growing up in the Point of Pines, Revere, there was a place I used to go where I could be alone, smoke, drink and escape the world.

It was behind the Fowler Marine boat yard, just past a field of 10-foot-high weeds. From the walkway of Gibson Park, passers-by couldn’t see a thing. It was perfect, especially since I pretty much hated everyone at the time.

I had a lot to run from, at least in my 15-year-old mind. My home on the Lynnway, across from Carey Circle, was a turbulent place. Nothing was quite right there after my older brother died. And, a few years after my parents divorced, I had a new stepmom living there. I fought with her all the time. I guess I hated her, because she was a new authority figure in a time when I didn’t want anyone telling me what to do.

In hindsight, she was at a real disadvantage. My brother died only a few months after she appeared on the scene, and she was home the night he had that final asthma attack. She plunged the adrenaline needle in him while waiting for the ambulance because that’s what you were supposed to do in the event of these attacks. But his number was up, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

She was also there a couple months before, in October 1983, when Michael had a similar attack that almost killed him that night. The doctors didn’t think he was going to make it that night, but he bounced back from the brink just in time, just like I bounced back from the brink more than once when the Croh’s Disease was attacking me so bad that the doctors were ready to tear out my colon and throw it in the trash.

I thought she married my Dad for his business success. I fought constantly with the step-sister she gave me. I was jealous of the step-brother she gave me because he was suddenly the cute youngest kid. Before my parents divorced it was Michael, Wendi and me, the youngest. Being sick, I was also spoiled rotten. Then the step-siblings came along and Michael died, making me the oldest son, a title that carried a lot of pressure.

She also gave me a beautiful half sister in late 1985 who came along at just the right time, bringing joy to the family I never thought we’d see again.

Looking back, I was just an angry little fuck and she’s the one I took it out on. I was fat, unpopular and had watched a brother die and parents divorce with all the rancor you could expect.

I’ve learned a lot over the years.

My stepmom is a good person who has stuck by my father through all kinds of ugliness, including a series of strokes three years ago. She’s an excellent grandmother to Sean, Duncan and my nieces and nephews. We have a good relationship today.

I recently revisited my old neighborhood, including the hiding spot.

This time, it was different, because I was standing there in a state of peace rather than trouble.

On the way back to Haverhill we passed the new Paul Revere School that was built on the site of the old Paul Revere School. I went to junior high there. Those were among the unhappiest times of my life, so there’s a certain satisfaction in seeing a new building rise from the rubble of the old.

Yet another symbol of how time heals all wounds if you’re willing to take the steps to make it happen.

March 20, 2010

An OCD Diaries Primer

A collection of posts that form the back story of this blog.

Mood music:

[spotify:track:19n9s9SfnLtwPEODqk8KCT]

The Long History of OCD

An OCD Christmas. The first entry, where I give an overview of how I got to crazy and found my way to sane.

The Bad Pill Kept Me from the Good Pill. How the drug Prednisone brought me to the brink, and how Prozac was part of my salvation.

The Crazy-Ass Guy in the Newsroom. Think you have troubles at work? You should see what people who worked with me went through.

The Freak and the Redhead: A Love Story. About the wife who saved my life in many ways.

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

The Ego OCD Built. The author admits to having an ego that sometimes swells beyond acceptable levels and that OCD is fuel for the fire. Go ahead. Laugh at him.

Fear Factor. The author describes years of living in a cell built by fear, how he broke free and why there’s no turning back.

Prozac Winter. The author discovers that winter makes his depression worse and that there’s a purely scientific explanation — and solution.

Have Fun with Your Therapist. Mental-illness sufferers often avoid therapists because the stigma around these “shrinks” is as thick as that of the disease. The author is here to explain why you shouldn’t fear them.

The Engine. To really understand how mental illness happens, let’s compare the brain to a machine.

Rest Redefined. The author finds that he gets the most relaxation from the things he once feared the most.

Outing Myself. The author on why he chose to “out” himself despite what other people might think.

Why Being a People Pleaser is Dumb. The author used to try very hard to please everybody and was hurt badly in the process. Here’s how he broke free and kept his soul intact.

The Addiction and the Damage Done

The Most Uncool Addiction. In this installment, the author opens up about the binge-eating disorder he tried to hide for years — and how he managed to bring it under control.

Edge of a Relapse. The author comes dangerously close to a relapse, but lives to fight another day.

The 12 Steps of Christmas. The author reviews the 12 Steps of Recovery and takes a personal inventory.

How to Play Your Addictions Like a Piano. The author admits that when an obsessive-compulsive person puts down the addiction that’s most self-destructive, a few smaller addictions rise up to fill the void. But what happens when the money runs out?

Regulating Addictive Food: A Lesson in Futility. As an obsessive-compulsive binge eater, the author feels it’s only proper that he weigh in on the notion that regulating junk food might help. Here’s why the answer is probably not.

The Liar’s Disease. The author reveals an uncomfortable truth about addicts like himself: We tend to have trouble telling the truth.

Portable Recovery. Though addiction will follow the junkie anywhere in the world, the author has discovered that recovery is just as portable.

Revere (Experiences with Addiction, Depression and Loss During The Younger Years)

Bridge Rats and Schoolyard Bullies. The author reviews the imperfections of childhood relationships in search of all his OCD triggers. Along the way, old bullies become friends and he realizes he was pretty damn stupid back then.

Lost Brothers. How the death of an older brother shaped the Hell that arrived later.

Marley and Me. The author describes the second older brother whose death hit harder than that of the first.

The Third Brother. Remembering Peter Sugarman, another adopted brother who died too early — but not before teaching the author some important lessons about life.

Revere Revisited.

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

The Basement. A photo from the old days in Revere spark some vivid flashbacks.

Addicted to Feeling Good. To kick off Lent, the author reflects on some of his dumber quests to feel good.

The lasting Impact of Crohn’s Disease. The author has lived most of his life with Crohn’s Disease and has developed a few quirks as a result.

The Tire and the Footlocker. The author opens up an old footlocker under the stairs and finds himself back in that old Revere basement.

Child of Metal

How Metal Saved Me. Why Heavy Metal music became a critical OCD coping tool.

Insanity to Recovery in 8 Songs or Less. The author shares some videos that together make a bitchin’ soundtrack for those who wrestle with mental illness and addiction. The first four cover the darkness. The next four cover the light.

Rockit Records Revisited. The author has mentioned Metal music as one of his most important coping tools for OCD and related disorders. Here’s a look at the year he got one of the best therapy sessions ever, simply by working in a cramped little record store.

Metal to Stick in Your Mental Microwave.

Man of God

The Better Angels of My Nature. Why I let Christ in my life.

The Rat in the Church Pew. The author has written much about his Faith as a key to overcoming mental illness. But as this post illustrates, he still has a long way to go in his spiritual development.

Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely. The author goes to Church and comes away with a strange feeling.

Running from Sin, Running With Scissors. The author writes an open letter to the RCIA Class of 2010 about Faith as a journey, not a destination. He warns that addiction, rage and other bad behavior won’t disappear the second water is dropped over their heads.

Forgiveness is a Bitch. Seeking and giving forgiveness is essential for someone in recovery. But it’s often seen as a green light for more abuse.

Pain in the Lent. The author gives a progress report on the Lenten sacrifices. It aint pretty.

March 7, 2010

The Tire and the Footlocker

The author opens up an old footlocker under the stairs and finds himself back in that old Revere basement.

As I dumped some trash into the garage bucket this morning, my eye caught a couple memories under the stairs.

An old tire Peter Sugarman gave me a week before he died because he was worried that a tire on my car had worn down to the treads, and a green footlocker my grandfather used when he was in the military.

I didn’t forget they were there. But for some reason, I decided to pull all the junk off the footlocker and open it up.

Next thing I knew, my brain was back in the old basement of the house I grew up in on the Lynnway in Revere.

So let’s see what I found in there, shall we?

Mostly, the box was full of comic books. Not one of them newer than 20 years old, several dating back to the 1960s. I read a lot of comics when I was a kid. The real world was not an ideal place at the time, so comic books were where I did my hiding.

Superman. Spider-Man. Lobo. X-Men. Just a few of the flavors I found.

There were the Time and Newsweek magazines I collected in the late 1980s and early 1990s, when I was obsessed with current events. I followed the lead-up to the first Gulf War closely, terrified that I was going to be drafted.

In hindsight, I was an idiot for worrying about that. Not because a draft was never really in the cards, but because it was another example of me worrying about me. Ironic, since the magazines were in a box once owned by a man who parachuted into danger despite whatever fears he had, in the early-morning hours leading up to the D-Day invasion of Nazi-occupied France.

Then there were the odder finds, including a “High Times” encyclopedia of recreational drugs.

Next to it was a cigarette butt that had to be more than 20 years old. I have no idea if it was one of mine or if it belonged to someone else.

Since I used to smoke in the concrete bunker beneath the patio, it was probably mine.

Now for the weirdest find. A poem written by Joy Affannato, before she married my best friend, Sean Marley:

“Blessed and Black Clad, Dedicated to Bill Brenner”

Clad in black

with a black-lined heart

like the charred edges

of our burnt society

Gathering the ash

to sift through and find

some satiating solution.

…A poet

with a doctrite of humanity

But, no one really has the answers:

Every question is relevant

And using words of metaphor

he transforms the WRITTEN WORD

My first reaction was a feeling of loss.

Joy dropped out of my world after Sean died. I think she was angry, along with Sean’s mother and sister, because I wrote a column about his suicide that revealed too much detail. I don’t blame them one bit for blackballing me.

In hindsight, I think my need to help her cope with the grief made me a particularly suffocating presence. Possibly, she also disappeared because she didn’t want to be around anyone who reminded her too much of Sean.

There’s also the inescapable fact that I was wrapped up in my own little world, worried about me and me alone, at a time when Sean was sinking into depression and needed the love of ALL his friends.

I could be wrong about these things. But it’s my best guess. Either way, I felt a wave of sadness that this person dropped out of my life.

Once I got over that, I started to examine the poem for some sense of meaning.

I did wear a lot of black back then. Still do. You could say I wore my dark side on my sleeve.

My poems at the time were full of bleakness, so I can see where the ash description comes from. I was definitely a seeker. Still am. Fortunately, in the years since, I’ve found my Faith.

The funny thing is, the poem reminds me more of Sean than of me. But it makes sense, because back in the day Sean was the man I most tried to be like.

At the bottom of the page was something that made me smile: The logo for my old band, Skeptic Slang, and a cartoon with the caption: “The mind is mightier when you’ve scored.”

I’m back from the basement now, and, to be honest, I’m a lot happier where I am now.

But it’s nice to know someone was thinking about me back when I was only just beginning to descend into madness.

February 25, 2010

The Lasting Impact of Crohn’s Disease

The author has lived most of his life with Crohn’s Disease and has developed a few quirks as a result.

Mood music for this post: “Bleeding Me” from Metallica:

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

As the reader knows by now, I’ve spent most of my life with Crohn’s Disease, an affliction that in the long run has been more damaging to my mental health than my physical health.

It screwed up my brain and pushed me toward an adulthood of addictions and other hangups. I’m not going to give you a detailed scientific rundown of how the disease works. It’s enough to tell you that it attacks every part of the digestive system, ripping holes into the colon wall that can cause a person to bleed to death if left untreated.

I lost a lot of blood along the way and had a couple transfusions in the late 1970s. This left me scared to death in the 1980s and 1990s about AIDS, because many people got it from tainted blood transfusions. Fortunately, I’ve been tested many times for it and that didn’t happen. I was lucky.

A couple times, I’ve been told, the doctor’s came close to removing the colon. Too much of it was under siege and they didn’t know where to start in terms of targeting it. But it never came to that.

The pain was pretty intense. I really don’t know how my parents were able to get through it. I think it would cause me more anguish to see one of my kids suffer than to go through it myself. That had to hurt. Especially since they lost another child along the way. It also couldn’t have helped that I would be in the hospital for six-week stretches in 1978, 1979, 1980 and 1981.

The most popular drug to treat it is Prednisone, which comes with a wide list of side effects. In fact, the drug screwed with me much more than anything else. More on that in “The Bad Pill Kept Me from the Good Pill.”

All things considered, I’m probably one of the luckiest Crohn’s patients on Earth. The last bad flare up was in 1986 and I haven’t had once since. I still go through frequent periods of inflammation, but nothing that requires drugs or hospital stays. The colon is checked out every other year to make sure the layers of scar tissue don’t run wild and morph into cancer. The risk of colon cancer for me is pretty high at this point, but since it’s being checked so often I’m not worried about it. If it grows, we’ll catch it early and deal with it.

Instead, I entered adulthood with a binge-eating disorder that stemmed partly from not being allowed to eat anything for weeks during flare-ups and frequent bouts of depression.

But now that all those things are under control, I can have a little fun and share three of the more unusual byproducts of the disease:

–I look strangely on people with the name Colin. No offense to the former secretary of state or anyone else with the name. It’s just that when I hear the name, I think of bleeding intestines. Sorry, man.

–I can swallow pretty much anything without getting seriously hurt because of the thick walls of scar tissue. This pisses me off sometimes, because a loss of appetite would have come in handy back when I was binge-eating my brains out. On the plus side, I can suck down the coffee without consequences.

–Needles don’t scare me. As a kid I had to have weekly blood tests to monitor for anemia. This went on for years. And they always had trouble finding a good vein because they collapsed from all the IVs during hospital stays. No matter. I don’t have to look away when the needle goes in. It just doesn’t bother me. Good thing I never tried heroin. That’s something I never would have had the guts to do anyway, especially after reading “The Heroin Diaries.”

Sometimes having guts isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. Especially when the guts are cracked and bleeding.

This post has a happy ending — not just because the worst of the flare ups ended in 1986.

The medical establishment knows a hell of a lot more about Crohn’s Disease than they did back then. Today most people know what Crohn’s Disease is. That wasn’t the case in the 1980s.

And Prednisone, while still popular, is no longer the only pharmaceutical option.

Even the embarrassment factor is smaller. People are more open about discussing these things.

In my experience, openness leads to more solutions.

February 17, 2010March 16, 2015

Addicted to Feeling Good: A Love-Hate Story

Every now and then, it’s useful to look back at who I used to be so I can appreciate who I am today.

I do it partly to laugh at how — in many ways, despite the progress I’ve made — I can still be as stupid in adulthood as I was 20-plus years ago.

As I write this we’re halfway through Lent — a time to sacrifice habits you love — or, in my case, habits you’re addicted to.

Giving something up always brings back acute memories of some of the dumber things I’ve done in the compulsive-obsessive drive to feel good.

Indulge me as I take inventory.

Mood music:

Age 18: I’m living off 8 cups of black coffee and a mug of Raisin Bran a day in an attempt to be rock-star thin. I discovered an after dinner drink — Haffenreffer Lager Beer. There were little puzzles on the underside of the bottle caps, and your ability to solve them would steadily decline — or increase — depending on how drunk you were. Being addicted to instant gratification, I’d suck down three bottles in quick succession so I could immediately enjoy feeling like I had just absorbed half a keg of lighter beer.

Age 21: I’m pacing up and down the driveway of the old Revere house in a blue-green polka-dotted bathrobe I used to own. I’m freaking out because I’ve just consumed two beers and an entire stick of marijuana by myself in the concrete storage room beneath the front patio.

The fellow who gave it to me was about 500 pounds and wore a black trenchcoat, even during the summer. He died Valentine’s Day 2009 of a heart attack. I lost touch with him as I became focused on career and learned after his death that he had led an admirable life of aiding the mentally disabled. Anyway, I was freaking out because, in the midst of lying on my bed enjoying the high, I suddenly got the idea that I just might have a heart attack. That’s one of my earlier memories of an anxiety attack.

We partied a lot in that basement. It was the scene of many impressive and entertaining mood swings.

I called my friend Danny Waters and asked him to come over. He did, and found me pacing up and down the driveway in my bathrobe. He took me down the street to Kelly’s Roast Beef and got me an order of chicken fingers to munch away the anxiety. Kelly’s was always a favorite place for me to binge eat away my troubles. It was as good as any drug or liquor store.

Age 29: I drop 100 pounds of fat I packed on while binge-eating my way through the middle 1990s. I’m inspired by the quadruple bypass surgery my father has recently had. I lose the weight by pigging out Thursday through Saturday and starving myself Sunday through Wednesday. The binge eating continues through the next few years but I manage to keep the weight down, fooling most people.

Age 33: Around this time, the binge eating gets a new playmate in the form of red wine, which I decide I can’t live without.

Age 39: No more binge eating — not today, anyway. No wine. I work the 12-step program of recovery.

Age 44: I’ve had my slips along the way, but I continue working to give up my bad habits for good.

February 1, 2010

The Basement

A photo from the old days in Revere spark some vivid flashbacks.

The guy on the left is me. Dan Waters is in the middle. The guy dressed as a vampire on the right is Sean Marley. [Read about him in Lost Brothers and Marley and Me]

It’s November 1991 and we’re in the basement of the old house I grew up in at 22 Lynnway, Revere, Mass.

We partied a lot in that basement. It was the scene of many impressive and entertaining mood swings.

I could be mistaken, but I believe we were having a belated Halloween party, which is why Sean is dressed as a vampire.

On Halloween 1991, the no-name hurricane-nor’easter immortalized in “The Perfect Storm” had blown through, badly flooding out the neighborhood.

My basement, Sean’s basement and that of the house in between ours were among the handful of homes that escaped the damage.

I was gearing up for one last semester at North Shore Community College, before transferring to Salem State College.

A lot of good metal blared from that basement.

It’s also the place where I would literally run in circles, for one to two hours, to keep thin after going on binge-eating jags.

I moved out of there in late 1992, so that was in the last year in that basement.

Sometimes I miss it. But not much.

January 30, 2010

Selfish Bastard

The author has found that service is an excellent tool for OCD management. Simply put, it forces him to stop being a selfish bastard.

In OA, those of us in recovery from our compulsive eating disorders rely on a set of tools that go hand in hand with the 12 Steps. There’s the plan of eating, writing, sponsorship, the telephone and literature. There’s anonymity. And there’s service to others.

The plan of eating is what’s most necessary for me, but I think my favorite tool is service.

I’ve been doing a lot of service of late. Last month and then this morning, I qualified at an OA meeting, which means I led the meeting and, as part of that, stood in front of people and shared the story of what I used to be like, what happened to make me seek help for my addiction, and what I’m like now.

Tonight, I’ll take the kids to a dinner in the basement of our church to celebrate the start of Catholic Schools Week, where I’ll help with the cleanup afterward.

I thrive on these things for one simple reason: It forces me to step out of that selfish little world where addicts live.

Here’s a fact about addicts: We are among the most selfish people on the planet. Or, as Nikki Sixx says in the final track on Sixx A.M.’s soundtrack for The Heroin Diaries: “You know addicts. It’s all about us, right?” That selfishness usually leads us to do stupid things that make us feel shame. In the midst of that shame, we lie.

That sort of behavior can overwhelm us, no matter how much we want to be better people. That’s why the tools of recovery are so important. They force us out of the hole. In the process, the people around us play an active role.

When I do service, the people I may be trying to help are helping me as well. If it’s through OA, everyone is supporting each other. It’s the same at church, be it through school activities or actively participating in Mass. That’s why I do lectoring. Actively participating in Mass helps me to pay attention to what’s going on instead of sitting there locked inside my head.

The battle with selfishness is an ongoing, brutal thing. But through service, I’m getting a little better each day — bit by bit.

I hope.

January 21, 2010

Lessons From Dad

I wrote this in 2010, not long after starting this blog. Since then, Dad has had a series of strokes and has trouble walking, seeing and swallowing. His refusal to let it break his spirit reinforces my appreciation for him all the more.

Thanks for the inspiration, Dad.

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

My father is on my mind this morning. I’m meeting up with him at a meeting of business owners who hope to learn more about a subject I’ve written about extensively for CSO Magazine: The Massachusetts data protection law. I find it odd that my father is reaching out to me for understanding on such a complex subject. I’m used to him giving me advice instead of asking for it.

Back when I was deep under the spell of OCD, his advice was the last thing on Earth I wanted. A little background on Dad: He was always the easy parent. If we kids asked him for something and he said “we’ll see,” it usually meant yes. He would fall asleep watching TV by early evening, while my mother was out with friends, giving us the run of the house. I could always count on him to take me to the Osco Drug store in Lynn to buy a new Star Wars action figure every Sunday, followed by a trip to Friendly’s for some black raspberry ice cream.

He knew that sometimes, when he was still asleep, I’d go in his wallet and grab myself some cash. But he never called me on it. Well, once he did, when I was in sixth grade. He called school looking for me because $100 was missing from his wallet. That time I wasn’t the culprit.

He runs a business in Saugus, Mass. that sells ladies shoes, gloves and all the other things girls go looking for when they need to dress for their prom or wedding.

As a kid, I always felt like the business was his favorite child. He worked hard and expected me to work hard.

He didn’t like to see me resting. If he caught me doing so, he’d give me something to do. Rake the leaves. Take out the trash.

As a teenager with a chip on the shoulder the size of a baseball, I grew to resent this. I especially hated it when he’d make me do deliveries with him on the truck. I sucked at the manual labor thing, and he’d always be on me to lift boxes “with my legs, not my back.” Good advice, it turns out. But I didn’t want to hear it.

My friends and some ex-girlfriends remember him walking around the house in his saggy underwear, hairy belly and other things hanging out for all to see. He didn’t care. It was his house. But he was always nice to the friends, and they all in turn got a kick out of his lack of modesty.

He also keeps his emotions largely to himself. The only time I ever saw him cry was when my brother died.

As my mental health really started to come unhinged, he started to grate on me. If I got a promotion at work, he’d ask how much of a raise I got. I’d tell him. He’d reply with a “That’s it?”

I think my habit of indulging in OCD behavior through my work was a result of that.

He also has terrible eating habits that have led to a variety of health problems. Much of my binge eating is inherited from him. He’ll down a large tray of stuffed cabbage or a box of frozen Devil Dogs as naturally and as easily as most of us take a breath. I’m pretty sure he’s part shark.

But as I approach my 40th birthday, I’m really starting to appreciate the guy and everything he taught me. I started to feel this way a long time ago, actually, but now that I’m keeping this blog, the memories are more vivid and the appreciation is in better focus. I used to see his stiff upper lip as a weakness; the result of cold emotions.

But I’ve learned the value of keeping a stiff upper lip when times are tough. And I’ve realized that it’s not the result of something cold. I think it’s more a case of him trying to be strong when people around him are falling apart.

He’s also far more giving than he might admit. If one of his employees is in a jam, he usually helps them out of it. I remember when one employee, his wife pregnant, needed a little extra financial help. My father gave it, but was quick to say something to the effect of, “I’m paying for this kid and I didn’t even get to have any fun.” I laughed hard when that employee told me about it. He laughed hard, too.

Some of my humor comes from him, no doubt.

I’ve also come to appreciate his work ethic instead of being insulted by it.

As I’ve gotten over my fear and anxiety in recent years, I’ve come to see work as one of the most honorable responsibilities one can have. Your providing for family and, if you’re lucky like me, you get to do something you love that just happens to be important as well.

He certainly provided for his family. He still does. Without his prodding, I’m not sure I would have had the career success I’ve had. I also love to watch him with my kids. They are always at ease around him, and Duncan will grab his security blanket and sit with him.

The kids have always been good judges of character.

People ask me if he was upset when I converted from the Jewish Faith to Catholicism. He wasn’t upset at all. In fact, he likes to tell people that those of different religious stripes are really going to be surprised when they die and discover that it’s the same God for everyone.

The old man has been through a lot. He watched one of his children die and watched two more go through all kinds of mental and physical hurt. His marriage to my mother collapsed and was probably doomed from the start. He’s suffered a lot of illness himself.

Yet he still stands tall, even with the bad back and the bad knees. He’s taught me a lot about pressing forward despite life’s demons.

Thanks, Dad.

January 17, 2010

Strong Arm Of The Log

The author admits he stole the title for this entry from an old North Shore Sunday article because, well, he thought it was cool.

See the bald guy at the front of the picture above? That’s Mike Strong, an old friend of mine from the college days. I look up to him today. But there was a time when I hated his guts.

I met Mike back in 1993 at Salem State College. We were both writing for the college paper, “The Log.” We got along swimmingly at the start, as we had things in common. I was from Revere. He was from neighboring Lynn. We both spoke the same salty language.

But something strange happened that first year.

The editor-in-chief position at the paper was filled by election. Mike was running. So was a guy named Mike Murphy, a young-Republican type who was a member of the Student Government Association.

At the time, I was making friends in both camps. But the two camps were distrustful of each other. The path to disaster was paved.

On election day, I voted for Murphy. Truth be told, I did it because I was chummy with him and my brain was conflicted. I regretted the choice from the moment I put the vote in the ballot box. No disrespect for Murphy. I just realized I voted based on friendship and not who was best qualified.

My vote put Murphy ahead. The then-editor-in-chief had the brilliant idea of opening the ballot box mid-day to see how the vote was going. Murphy was ahead. The editor-in-chief decided Murphy would be a disaster and decided to rig the election in Strong’s favor.

He got caught, of course. Another election was held, and this time Strong came out on top. I voted for him this time. But by then, most of the staff were suspicious of my first vote, especially Strong. I guess that meant my being elected managing editor was a laughable thing. There was no way Strong was going to trust me as his managing editor. I didn’t blame him.

The next semester started out as rocky as I expected it would. Truth be told, I was slacking. I was enjoying that I held the position. But I was doing nothing to earn it. Mike eventually called me on it. I resigned and decided to focus full-throttle on writing and reporting.

At that moment, the relationship changed. Over the course of the year, our friendship deepened.

He was a harsh editor. He would toss stories back at you and tell you it needed work. That’s where the North Shore Sunday reporter who wrote about The Log came up with the “Strong Arm of the Law” headline. I don’t thing Strong liked the headline very much. I thought it was excellent.

The article described a revolving door of students who would come in wanting to write, only to flee in frustration soon after because they couldn’t handle the Strong treatment.

I thought it was funny, in part because I knew it was exaggerated. Sure, a lot of students couldn’t handle it, but a lot of students could and did. And they became attached to the Log office and Strong himself.

It’s funny we would be so attached to that office. The place was filthy and constantly smelled horrific because of a leaking grease pipe in the ceiling above that ran from the campus cafeteria.

As a reporter, I dug deep into Student Government affairs in search of corruption. I poured over financial records and made much of a couple junkets members had gone on. Strong kept on me during that story, settling for nothing but ironclad reporting. In the space of 2 weeks, I gained 15 pounds and was waking up in the middle of the night with flop sweat.

You might say that was an early sign of one of my OCD quirks — making myself rabid in the effort to be a people pleaser. I’m glad I got over that habit.

After graduation, Strong and I were in and out of touch. In the last couple years we have been in constant contact, thanks to the miracle of Facebook.

Mike has gone on to do wonderful things. He’s the director of Par Fore the Cure, an organization that, according to its website, does the following:

We honor the lives of those who have succumbed to brain tumors (and, by extension, all cancers) and offer hope to those still affected by cancer. We raise awareness and fund research through contributions to the Jimmy Fund. We run our events efficiently, ensuring our annual donations increase while our guest costs remain affordable. To date we have donated more than $265,000 for brain tumor research at the Dana-Farber Cancer Research in Boston.

Strong’s tireless drive keeps this machine humming smoothly along, and in the process lives are being made better.

We also have Faith in common. Both of us have become devout Catholics, and share stories of our Faith frequently.

I’m not sure I have a point for this tale. I guess he was on my mind because we’ve been talking a lot in recent days about the special Senate election to fill Ted Kennedy’s seat. He’s pushing hard for Scott Brown.

Friends like him give me the inspiration to press on when I’m feeling down. As a result, I’m feeling Up much more often.