The OCD Diaries

July 21, 2015March 17, 2021

A 6-Step Grief Survival Guide

Written in 2015, at the death of my father and aunt a week apart. The hard lessons started when I lost my brother in 1984 and my best friend in 1996.

Having lost more friends and family than I care to count, I’ve tried writing posts over the years that make sense of grief. Or, at least, how I’ve worked through mine.

Mood music:

With the loss of my aunt and my father in the past month, I find myself thinking about those older writings. So I assembled this list. Its first purpose is to help me keep my perspective and regain my equilibrium. The second purpose, I hope, is to help others work through their own stages of grief.

Let it suck. Don’t be a hero. If you’re feeling pain, let it out. You don’t have to do it in front of people. Go in a room by yourself and let the waterworks flow if you have to. Don’t worry about trying to keep a manly face around people. You don’t have to pretend you’re A-OK for the sake of others in the room. In my case, when people ask how I’m doing, I just tell them I’m working through it. It’s more honest than saying I’m doing great, and I avoid language that takes me into pity-party territory.
Don’t forget the gratitude. When someone dies, it’s easy to get lost in your own grief. There’s even a self-pity reflex that kicks in. Try to take the time to remember how awesome your loved one was. Share the most amusing memories and have some laughs. The deceased would love that. And you’ll feel more at peace when you remember a life that was lived well.
Take a moment to appreciate what’s still around you. Your girlfriend. Your friends. If the death you just suffered should teach you anything, it’s that you never know how long the other loves of your life will be around. Don’t waste the time you have with them.
Don’t sit around looking at people you love and worrying yourself into an anxiety attack over the fact that God could take them from you at any moment. God holds all the cards, so it’s pointless to even think about it. Just be there for people, and let them be there for you.
Take care of yourself. You can comfort yourself with all the drugs, alcohol, sex, and food there are to have. But take it from me, giving in to addictions is nothing but slow suicide. You can’t move past grief and see the beauty of what’s left if you’re too busy trying to kill yourself. True, I learned a ton about the beauty of life from being an addict, but that doesn’t mean I’d ever wish that experience on others. If there’s a better way to cope, do it.
Embrace things that are bigger than you. Nothing has helped me get past grief more than doing service to others. It sounds like so much bullshit, but it’s not. Whether I’m helping out friends in need or doing last month’s Out of Darkness walk to raise money for suicide-prevention programs, I’m reminded that my own life could be much worse. Or, to put it another way, I’m reminded of how blessed I am.

This isn’t a science. It’s just what I’ve learned from my own walk through the valley of darkness. I’ve learned that life is a gift to be cherished and used wisely. I’ve also learned that it hurts sometimes. That’s OK.

June 29, 2015

Dad Was a Survivor

Note: This is not Dad’s official obituary — just my tribute to him.

Thursday we gathered by Dad’s bedside to say goodbye. He lived for three more days. That was Dad. He was a survivor, tougher than leather and stubborn to the last. Around 3 this afternoon, his journey finally ended.

Mood music:

https://youtu.be/bT7bbgsyzKc

The last two months with him were a gift. By the end, nothing was left unsaid. He knew how I felt about him and I knew how he felt about me. We got to spend a lot of time trading wits and laughing about all the trouble I got into as a kid. He seemed satisfied with how I turned out.

His mind was sharp to the end, rattling off how he wanted his various business interests wrapped up, how he wanted money invested, how he wanted me to do things that were cheaper than other things.

Dad never had it easy. He faced crushing difficulties. He ran the family business from the time he was a teenager, when his own father fell ill. After the business burned in the Great Chelsea Fire of 1973, he rebuilt in Saugus, Mass. He and my stepmom expanded the business into a global enterprise and thrived.

He endured a tough divorce, lost his oldest child to an asthma attack, and helped my sister through long periods of crippling depression.

He had a lot on his plate with me, for sure. I was sick and hospitalized a lot with Crohn’s Disease as a kid. I was an outcast who rebelled constantly. I saw his efforts to make me work and earn my money as tyranny and gave him a lot of grief. But as I grew older, my work ethic kicked in and I think he thought that his efforts with me had paid off.

He was a man without a filter. He’d tell people exactly what he thought. If he thought you were getting fat, he’d say so. If you came to our house to find him walking around in his underwear, he didn’t care. He was a human honey badger.

Under the tough exterior was a heart of gold. He took care of his family no matter what. He took care of his employees, too. One time, when an employee needed some extra financial assistance with a newborn baby, Dad quipped, “I’m paying for this kid and I didn’t even get to have any fun.”

He loved the little kids. He loved to push their buttons and be a tease. He lived life on his terms right to the end. It was a sight to behold.

I inherited the habit of loving and teasing the kids. I’d like to think I inherited his toughness, too, but I’ll let others be the judge.

Thanks, Dad.

Brenner Paper Co. after the 1973 Chelsea Fire
Dad and an employee stand over the rubble of Brenner Paper Company after the 1973 Chelsea fire. Within a year, he had the business back up and running from a new building in Saugus.

November 20, 2014

5 Years Later: Magic and Loss

This week marks a sad anniversary: the tragic death of a beautiful young woman named Penney Richards. Penney was killed in a motorcycle accident on a sunny day in 2009.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/X0jHPRO98lM

To be honest, I didn’t really know her. But I had once worked with her mother, who has the same name but spells it Penny.

I usually slip into depression in November, but I sunk much deeper into it that year because I couldn’t stop thinking about a vibrant young life cut short and the parents left to find a way forward.

That was the obsessive side of my OCD at work — the part that couldn’t help but latch on to other people’s grief. I’m lucky because I don’t do that often, but I know people who do it all the time. I call them professional mourners and agents of doom, folks who only call you when there’s a terminal illness or death to report.

Though I don’t go there often, I sure as hell did that November. I felt terrible for Penney and her family. I also felt like an asshole for inserting myself into a situation where I didn’t have much business. I worked with Penny, but we weren’t close friends. I felt like a grief parasite.

Penny blogged about her terrible experience. Her ability to face the grief and share it with the world inspired me. And in my depressed state, I decided to try writing about my feelings.

And so, on Pearl Harbor Day, Dec. 7, 2009, The OCD Diaries was born.

Penny continues to write about her life experiences.

Though Penny and I weren’t exactly friends back then, we certainly are now. I’d like to think we appreciate each other for sharing the deep shit. For my part, I’ve been inspired by her along the way.

This is someone who beat breast cancer and, though a parent never truly recovers from their child’s death, she has found a way to keep living and has shared it with all of us.

She became a justice of the peace, and many of her posts on Facebook these days are about that.

Hers is a journey of love, with all the grace, beauty, joy and sadness that goes with it.

My thoughts and prayers are with her on the fifth anniversary of her daughter’s death.

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Penny’s daughter, Penney Richards.

April 3, 2014

Knowing You’re a Punk is the First Step in the Cure

I was an absolute punk this morning. I was incensed over tech problems, dropping F-bombs and punching the desk with my fist.

Mood music:

It’s a typical problem for someone with clinical OCD. You want to control everything, though you know it’s impossible.

In mid-rage, I learned a friend had just lost a sibling.

Rage turned to guilt.

I’m no special case. We all lose our patience from time to time and act like spoiled brats. More often than not, it’s over little things, like missing a favorite TV show or getting stuck in traffic. It’s much easier to blow up than to be stoic when things don’t go our way.

The news I received this morning in the middle of my tantrum just goes to show that someone else always has it worse. I know what it’s like to lose a sibling, and I truly feel for my friend and pray for his family. I needed a hard slap of perspective this morning, but I wish the lesson came from someplace else.

Appreciate what you have. Hug those around you, and don’t sweat the little things. If you fail at any of these, just try again.

I’ll work at following my own advice.

October 17, 2013

Depression Takes Another Friend

Thomas John “TJ” Leduc was a constant companion during my childhood in Revere. I swam in his pool and slept over his house. The first time I was weirded out by the sight and sound of Boy George, it was during one of those sleepovers, when we were eating popcorn and watching Solid Gold, puzzling over the girl on the screen who sounded like a man.

Mood music:

TJ had a sunny personality that was often tested by those who made jokes about his weight. TJ was a big guy. I was fat myself but still joked about his weight. Sometimes, I really earned my outcast status. More often than not, we were close buddies.

As we got older, I came to value TJ’s sense of humor. That dude could make people laugh. It was always small things, like referring to steroids as “roids.”

Over the years we lost touch, but I’d occasionally attempt to find him. I checked Facebook regularly, to no avail. It turns out he had moved to Groveton, NH, and was running a market with his father, who I knew well. Based on a news article from their local paper, the market was a popular hangout. TJ is described as a great storyteller with a bright personality and sharp sense of humor that kept customers coming back.

But somewhere along the way, things went horribly wrong. TJ’s dad was diagnosed with leukemia and was quickly slipping away. As the senior Leduc lay in a hospital bed, TJ apparently learned that his father had accumulated a mounting pile of overdue bills. Maybe discovering that debt made him snap. Maybe it was the trauma of losing a father and business partner. It was probably a combination of both.

TJ died on October 1 at the still-young age of 40. His father died the next day, apparently unaware of his son’s death hours earlier. The newspaper article quotes police officers who labeled the death as a probable suicide.

If true, that’s the third friend from the old neighborhood to die that way. Before him were Sean Marley and Zane Mead.

Sad as I feel right now, I don’t feel the gaping hole in the heart that was there after Sean and Zane died. Part of that is because I’ve gained a lot of perspective about depression and suicide over the years, especially in light of my own battles with the disease.

I wrote a list of things I always try to keep in mind when someone dies this way. If you need some guidance, I direct you to “Death of a Second Sibling.”

Sean and Zane died young, with dreams and potential unfulfilled. It looks like TJ lived a good life and made many in his community happy. That article describes him as someone who cared for his customers and always had a free ear for teenagers who needed someone to talk to.

It kills me to hear that his life ended in despair. I pray that he’ll find peace in the afterlife. But I’m very happy to see that he made a difference before he left.

1117264_profile_pic
TJ, with his dad.

November 28, 2012

An Inconvenient Death

It happens whenever someone dies. After the initial shock passes, you start thinking about when the wake and funeral will take place, including whether it will get in the way of your work, family, or entertainment plans. We feel selfish and petty when we get this way, but it’s human nature.

[spotify:track:4zbJWmA6NqIPSyNsLddZnO]

Some of the youngsters in my life went through this as we prepared for the wake and funeral of Nana Ruth. There was the quest for perfect attendance at school that wasn’t realized because of the funeral. There was the grumbling over fun and games getting put on ice. We’re getting similar discontent as we prepare for the wake and funeral of Grammie Arline.

It drives us adults crazy, and we try to teach the kids that life’s unfair and we’re called to put our wants aside in times like these. But we grown-ups aren’t much better.

I don’t have to look far to find an example.

My great-grandmother died hours before my 25th birthday. Her daughter, my nana, died on Columbus Day weekend in 2003. Papa died the day before a major relaunch of the newspaper I was working for at the time. Sometimes, I grin as I think of how my grandparents were probably getting back at me for not visiting them often enough. They could be deliciously devious that way.

My brother died days into a diet and exercise program I was obsessed with at the time. In my 13-year-old mind, that program was vital to my future as one of the cool kids who got all the girls in junior high. As a 26 year old, I was again on the path to fitness when my best friend died. From there, the binge eating and escape into work was off the rails.

Inconvenient deaths, mucking up all my best-made plans.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve gained a lot more perspective on these things. I’ve slowly learned that life can be disrupted without being derailed completely. In the old days, when my life lost control following death, it was usually my own doing.

Today, I’m better at temporarily putting things on hold, honoring the dead and then moving on.

The youngsters in my life will learn that lesson in time.

Hopefully, they won’t have to get their hearts broken too much along the way. But in the end, that’s in God’s hands.

Bill & Ted and Death

June 7, 2012

Grief Management Put to Music

Weeks after a loved one dies and we’ve allowed ourselves to fall apart, we have to make a choice: Stay in a fetal position, hidden from the world, or stand up and move forward. This is a little tribute to someone who made the latter choice.

Mood music:

[soundcloud url=”http://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/48842027″ iframe=”true” /]

I don’t know Ian Clark very well. We’re connected on Facebook, and I’m very fond of his mom’s band, The 360s (he plays drums in that band and is guitarist/vocalist in a band called Razors in the Night). But I sure as hell know what he’s going through.

A few weeks ago, he lost his best friend and cousin, James Morrill. I’ve watched his family grieve in their Facebook posts, and I can’t help but remember when my brother died unexpectedly in 1984 and my best friend followed suit nearly 13 years later. My friend’s death had a particularly damaging effect on me because that was a suicide. After he passed, I spent the next two years viciously binge-eating my way to 280 pounds of uselessness. Badly depressed, I hid from the world, staying indoors watching Star Trek reruns instead of staying connected with other friends.

You could say I chose to stay in the fetal position.

Since his moment of heartbreak, Ian has plowed ahead with his music and has honored his cousin by writing a song — the one featured as today’s mood music.

So far, I’d say he’s decided to move forward. It inspires me.

I hope he keeps doing what he’s doing — channeling his feelings into the music. Music is one of the best therapies in times of grief. And when you’re writing it, you have the chance to help others make it through their own trials.