Posted on

The Pedophile, Part 2

A childhood-friend-turned-convicted-pedophile was kicked off Facebook a few days ago, much to my relief. But his case makes it uncomfortably clear just how dangerous social networking can be in the hands of an addict — including me.

Mood music: 

Before I go further, here’s the original blog post I wrote about this guy about a week ago. That’ll give you all the background you need for what follows.

After talking to him on the phone, I had a decision to make: Unfriend him on Facebook or stay connected to keep an eye on him? I chose the latter.

Sure enough, despite what he told me about cleaning up his act, he was “friending” scores of teenage girls from such far-flung places as Indonesia and Thailand. I was able to follow the conversation threads he was having with these girls:

“You’re pretty.”

“Can you IM (instant message) me?”

And so on.

My friend, Kevin Littlefield, started to quietly notify our Facebook friends. I alerted the authorities that they should keep an eye on him and reported the activity to Facebook. Since then, I’ve learned that several other friends were on to him and alerted Facebook as well. One of us got through, because by the start of this week, he was gone from Facebook.

It’s been sobering to watch this guy. I consider myself very lucky that my addiction was binge eating and, to a lesser extent, alcohol.

At least with those addictions, you have a fighting chance to redeem yourself and fit into society. For someone addicted to sex — especially pedophilia — you’re all done once you’ve been caught and convicted. You have to register as a sex offender and tell all your neighbors.

That’s as it should be.

It’s one thing to have an addiction in which you slowly destroy yourself. It’s quite another to prey on another human being and damage them for life because your addiction makes you do something to them instead of yourself.

He doesn’t belong in society. Pure and simple. We all have a chance to redeem ourselves to God, but justice means the punishment for some crimes has to be permanent for as long as you remain on this Earth.

That old friend of mine is getting exactly what he deserves.

That doesn’t mean I feel good about it all. As an addict, I know how powerful things like Facebook can be. I’m not on there trying to pick up women. But I do find myself on there for long periods of time, simply curious about how other people’s lives are going. You can find a page for everything — favorite bands, favorite topics like history and politics, in my case. It’s very easy for me to put the blinders on and just stare at it for an unhealthy amount of time. I’m working on that one.

I’m not a special case here.

But in the spirit of this blog it is noteworthy.

Posted on

A Lesson in Anger Management

As I’ve told readers before, I used to have a vicious anger streak. A big trigger used to be getting stuck in traffic. So I was surprised by my reaction yesterday when a sinkhole on I-93 North turned a 45-minute ride into a nearly 3-hour ordeal.

I left the SANS Boston conference at 1:30 p.m., planning to finish up some work projects from home for the rest of the afternoon. I hit the traffic jam and heard about the sinkhole on the radio. It was at Roosevelt Circle and the two right lanes were shut down.

Photo by Jim Davis, Boston Globe

Let’s rewind to about 21 years ago. It was registration day at North Shore Community College, where I was enrolled for the fall semester. I was just out of high school and angry at the world for a variety of reasons. I had been working long hours in my father’s warehouse in Saugus and was rubbed raw. I was frustrated because a girl I liked was getting cold feet about the idea of hooking up with a loose cannon like me. It didn’t take much to trigger a temper tantrum.

That day I was rattled hard by the long lines of college registration. I wasn’t expecting it and was full of fear that I wouldn’t get the classes I needed. Not that it really mattered, since my major was liberal arts.

Two hours in, I realized I had to give them a check for the courses I was taking. I had no money and panicked. They allowed me to drive to Saugus to get a check from my father. I was in full road rage mode on the drive there and back.

By day’s end, I was in supernova mode and breathing into a bag between the chain of cigarettes I was smoking.

There are many more colorful examples of my temper back then:

– Hurling a fork or steak knife at my brother in a restaurant on New Years Eve 1979 because he made a joke I didn’t like. The more dramatic among my family members say it was a steak knife, though I’m pretty sure it was a fork.

– Lighting things on fire out of anger, including a collection of Star Wars action figures that would probably be worth a fortune today. I would pretend they were kids in school who were bullying me. Never mind that I bullied as much as I got bullied.

–Throwing rocks through windows, especially the condominium building that was built behind my house in the late 1980s.

–Yelling “mood swing!” before throwing things around the room at parties in my basement. It came off as comical, as I intended, and nobody got hurt. But there was definitely an underlying anger to it. I was acting out.

– Road rage. Tons of it. I was a very angry driver. I would tailgate. I would speed. In the winters I would intentionally spin out my putrid-green 1983 Ford LTD station wagon in parking lots during snowstorms. While in college, I nearly hit another car and flipped off the other driver while my future in-laws sat in the back. Traffic jams would infuriate me. Getting lost would fill me with fear and, in turn, more anger.

There were a lot of legitimate causes of rage for me. The drug I took for Chron’s Disease had a lot of nasty side effects, including violent mood swings. A brother and two close friends dying — one by suicide — gave me a lot of anger. Being stuck in the middle of turf wars and working late nights while at The Eagle-Tribune certainly made me a a walking ball of fire.

I’m also sure the fear and anxiety that came with my OCD contributed to more anger.

So it was an absolute blessing for me that after three hours in traffic, my sanity was in check. Not once did I punch the steering wheel in anger or flip off someone in the car next to me or in front of me.

I don’t even think I dropped an F-bomb. I don’t remember doing so, anyway.

I got home, went upstairs and was just happy to see the kids. I emptied the dishwasher, folded some laundry and set the table for dinner. I was in OCD mode for sure. But sometimes it’s best to just let the OCD run hot. It always passes.

Just another example of how I’m not the same person I used to be.

Posted on

AA vs. OA: 12-Step Dysfunction

The folks you find in Overeater’s Anonymous and Alcoholics Anonymous often mix well. But when they don’t, well…

Mood music: “Dead End Justice” by The Runaways:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j8jhAzSZYfg&hl=en_US&fs=1]

I’ve noticed lately that there are more folks coming into OA that have also been in AA. Some of them have been sober for more than two decades. Now they need OA because in the process of putting down the booze, they developed a food addiction.

I know how it is. I’ve gone in reverse. I stopped the compulsive binge eating and at first started to use wine as a crutch. When I realized how much I was starting to need a drink every day, I stopped that, too. But I still like my cigars and can’t exist without caffeine. The cigars will have to go at some point. I know it in my heart. But not today. Caffeine I won’t be giving up anytime soon.

Anyway, I’m mixing with the AA crowd a lot more these days, perhaps because one of my sponsees has been in AA for decades. We have the big things in common. We developed addictions that made our lives unmanageable. Having found recovery, we latch onto each other pretty tight.

But something’s different.

In OA, there’s a tight fellowship in meetings and on the telephone. But the AA crowd really sticks together. It’s more like a gang. Recovering addicts often live together, several in a house. Not a halfway house. They just live together, watching out for each other.

It’s cool to see. But I’ve also found that there are some real animosities among the AA crowd. One of my sponsees, an OA drop-out for now, spent a lot of time telling me about how I shouldn’t trust this person or that person because one likes to tell lies and the other likes to steal money. The lying part didn’t shock me. All addicts lie. wine_bottle_face.jpg

There seems to be an extra level of paranoia that comes with being a recovering drug addict and alcoholic. I understand. Those addictions tend to go hand in hand with getting arrested and spending time in jail.

If anyone has ever gotten arrested for getting junked up on food, I’d love to meet them.

I don’t write this stuff down to complain, or to act high minded. There’s plenty of dysfunction to be found in OA as well. If we weren’t dysfunctional, we wouldn’t need a 12-Step program in the first place. There are control issues and grating personalities aplenty.

But the AA crowd? There’s more of an edge.

I’m not complaining. I learn a lot from them.

There’s a lot of love to be found among the AA crowd. Those who have recovered are among the strongest people I know.

So to hell with it. I’m going to accept it — just as other people have accepted my own brand of dysfunction.

I’m going to start doing a 12-Step Big Book study soon, so I’m going to be spending a lot more time with these people.

I’d better get used to it.

Posted on

Riding The Blue Pill

Today an experiment begins. Though it’s still summer, I’m going back up an extra 20 MG on the Prozac. The goal: Avoid the deep slide into depression that usually comes just in time for the Christmas season.

Mood music: “She Rides” by Danzig:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FnizbRoqv84&hl=en_US&fs=1]

I was at 60 MG for the winter and most of the spring, but dialed it back to 40 in May. The reason I’m going back up, though I feel fine, is because August is when the days start to get noticeably shorter.The therapist believes upping the dose now will prevent a repeat of the usual blue moods that hit me when the sunlight becomes more scarce.

It’s interesting that this experiment would begin on Aug. 2. Twenty years ago today, Iraq invaded Kuwait, and all the talk about Saddam Hussein being a new Hitler threw me into a deep, fear-induced depression that August. Back then my OCD always manifested itself in a fear of current events. In fact, it was only about four years ago when that brand of fear eased off.

That summer was actually the closest I came to suicidal thoughts. Ironically, it was Sean Marley — a man who would take his own life six years later — who talked me back to a certain level of sanity.

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.

Though those fears are gone now, I still have the blue-to-black moods to contend with from time to time, so it’ll be interesting to see how this experiment works.

If it goes well, I may actually have a Christmas season I can enjoy, instead of walking around alternating between haze and craze.

The trick, meantime, is to avoid the short-term mood swings that go with a dosage change.

We’ll see.

Posted on

Marley’s Ghost

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

Mood music: “Hollywood” by The Runaways:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He suffered in the wrong place at the wrong time.

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

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

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

Posted on

Friends Who Help You Heal, Part 2

For a lot of years, I didn’t have many friends. It’s not that people didn’t like me. It’s just that I chose to isolate from the rest of the world for a long time. People with mental illness and addiction do that sort of thing.

Mood music: “Damn Good” by David Lee Roth:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-mIP7ySBXBg&hl=en_US&fs=1]

I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately, because these days I seem to be spreading myself thin making plans with a lot of people. It’s a problem that’s well worth having. A blessing, for sure.

I’ve gotten some good quality time in this week with my friends,  the Littlefields. They’re staying in a beach house on Salisbury Beach and invited me over.

I spent all Wednesday morning there and some of last night. I’ve learned a few things about this family: Kevin’s oldest daughter, Courtney, has a razor-sharp wit. She keeps her old man on his toes, much to my entertainment. I’ve also learned that Matty, the 5-year-old, likes to run around outside in his underwear and that seagulls are terrified of him. He also kicks serious ass on the Xbox.

I’ve gotten the chance to catch up with many more friends this summer. Some of this is the Facebook effect, reconnecting with a lot of people from the past. But for me, there’s a lot more to it.

For a long time I preferred to hole up in my room or in my car. It was easier to go on a binge that way. People always get in the way when you’re obsessed with getting junked up.

It was also too painful to talk to people. I was way too self-conscious to pay attention to anyone else. I was 280 pounds at one point, and didn’t want to be seen that way. I also had little in common with people in general. I was so isolated that all I did was watch science fiction shows on TV. Life can be limiting when all you have to talk about is Star Trek or Star Wars.

I filled up the rest of my time with work, trying hard to please the masters and working 80-hour weeks. That too is a great way to isolate. You don’t have to talk to too many people when you’re holed up in an office all the time.

Why Erin stayed with me through that period is beyond me. But she did.

When did the isolation break? Probably a few years into my recovery. Once I reached a point in therapy where I could start to manage the OCD and shed the fear and anxiety that always hung over me, I suddenly found myself hungry to see new places and meet new people. I’d say that turning point came sometime in 2007. I haven’t looked back.

I travel frequently for work, and when I do I always make time to see friends who live in whatever area I’m visiting — San Francisco, Chicago, Toronto, Washington DC, New York, etc.

As time goes on, the list of people to visit is getting a lot longer.

I didn’t see that coming.

But I’m not complaining.

Posted on

When to Let the OCD Run Hot

Sometimes the best way to deal with OCD when it runs hot is to simply let it run its course. That’s one of the things I’m learning about myself.

Mood music for this post: “Check My Brain” by Alice in Chains:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1OK1HRqP-fg&hl=en_US&fs=1]

I’ve gotten pretty good at managing the disorder most of the time. Medication certainly helps, as do the therapy appointments and various coping tools I’ve developed over time. But even with those things, the OCD will kick in from time to time.

It’s mostly the little things these days: Obsessively picking toys off the living room floor even while the kids are still playing, re-checking and re-checking again the various project lists I have at work. Stuff like that.

When I first embarked on my effort to bring the OCD under control, I had the faulty notion that I could beat the disorder and drive it from me completely.

Six years on, I know that was a stupid notion, though I don’t beat myself over it. It was still a worthy goal.

But the lesson I’ve learned is that you never get rid of a mental disorder completely. You just learn to manage it and make sure the bad days are the exception to the rule. I’ve definitely won that battle.

I don’t spend every moment from sunrise to sunset spinning a web of mental chaos over every big and little thing that’s bothering me. I’m able to live in the precious present most of the time, and that’s a blessing.

Reigning in my addiction to compulsive overeating has been an enormous help on that score, because the brain works a lot more efficiently when it’s not all gummed up with processed flour and sugar.

But I now know and accept that there will be days where the mind spin is tougher to control, especially when I run into a big stress factor like family finances. There’s a little OCD in all of us, and I think it’s perfectly normal for people to get fixated on their troubles when they are particularly vexing.

In learning to accept that I’m going to have my occasional depressed or angry days, I’m able to get on with life and have a good time doing it.

Nothing is ever perfect. Some people are still more irritating than others. Worry still comes and goes.

I’m OK with that. And that’s progress.

Posted on

Was Abe Lincoln Really Honest?

Readers of this blog may have seen one of my earliest posts on Abraham Lincoln and how he suffered with serious mental illness and depression.

I revere him because he developed his own coping mechanisms to rise above it in a time when there were no anti-depressant medicines and medical understanding of the problem was all but non-existent. It’s been written that his depression and the coping tools he developed actually fueled his greatness.

The other day I was watching TV when a GEICO Insurance commercial came on. These guys have always done a great job with their commercials, but this latest is the best of all time.

The actor who plays Lincoln really nails the tortured expression of a man who is not exactly easygoing. The clip pokes fun at the “Honest Abe” legend, but knowing what we now know about Lincoln, this is all the more priceless:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cdy3orO6tQA&hl=en_US&fs=1]

Posted on

A Good Day

These are the ingredients of a good day:

–Getting up at 4 and writing in this blog with a strong cup of coffee on the table beside me and Korn in the headphones.

–Seeing the sun rise from my living room chair at 5:30.

–Talking to my OA sponsor at 6:15.

–Talking to one of fellows I sponsor in OA at 7:30.

–Having an abstinent breakfast with the family and helping Erin get the kids ready for camp.

–Banging out this column and this podcast for CSOonline before 11 a.m.

–Helping unload a truck full of donated food at the church food pantry from 11:15ish to noon.

–Having an abstinent lunch with Erin and the kids.

–Nailing a couple interviews I’ve been trying to get done for the past week for a special report I’m working on.

–Having an abstinent dinner with Erin and the boys.

–Roughhousing with the kids on the living room floor after dinner.

–Reading Duncan a chapter of “Charlotte’s Web.”

–Finalizing plans for my day off on the beach tomorrow.

–Crawling into bed early with Erin and a good book.

–Not feeling the urge to binge all day.

–Getting through another day WITHOUT my brain spinning out of control.

–Having the next day to look forward to.

Goodnight, folks.

Posted on

The Breaking Point

Even when you learn to manage OCD it’s still there, biding its time in the background, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Most of the time, it only gets the chance to pounce if you let it.

Mood music: “Coming Undone” by Korn

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ioJ9ZHqzMT0&hl=en_US&fs=1]

Lately, I’ve been giving the demon all the rope it needs to hang me.

I’ve been pushing myself hard with work, looking for more events to travel to and setting up more phone interviews per day than one can handle while still writing at least one article a day. My bosses aren’t demanding I keep this pace. I am. I know that when I slow down, I get restless. Restlessness turns to boredom. Once I’m bored, the safety is off the firearm — just in time for me to shoot myself in the foot.

I’m not just pushing myself with work, though. I’m demanding a lot of my recovery. I’m working the 12 Steps hard but somewhat recklessly, which means the risk of my tripping over a step or three is higher than it should be. That can lead to bad things.

I’m doing a lot of service these days and it feels good. But it’s filling up a lot of time, too. I have to be careful with that. There’s a saying in OA: Service is slimming. Very true. But without discipline, it can be throat-cutting as well. Somewhere in there is the right balance.

I used to have a lot of help when it came to slowing down. Pills appeared to do the trick at one point. But it was never real rest, and I paid for it by pissing away a lot of opportunities to live.

Binge eating used to seem like rest, for the first few seconds. But the result was worse than pills and alcohol.

So, you see, I’m trying to get the hang of real rest, the productive kind that helps you get back into balance.

In an effort to figure it out, I’m taking a vacation day tomorrow. It’s in the middle of a work week, which really cuts against the grain of my work habits. But I need a morning to walk along the beach and put things in perspective.

My friend Kevin is staying at Salisbury Beach for the week, so in the morning I’m going to take him up on the invitation to come hang out. In the afternoon, I’ll go pick up the family and return to the beach to spend some more time with family.

Kevin, a photographer, took this shot from the beach yesterday, convincing me that I need to make the time to go there:

I have a column to write, a podcast to produce and plenty of chores before I break away.

But I WILL break away.

Not for long, though.

That’s just not my style.