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Laughing off the Emotionally Scarring Back Stories

When I first opened up about events that scarred me for life, I worried about how it would be perceived. Would I be seen as a whiny, attention-seeking weakling? The reaction was almost entirely the opposite, which has helped me look at my own challenges with better humor.

In all the conversations with people that followed the launch of The OCD Diaries, it’s become plain that most of us have an emotionally scarring back story. Hearing your stories makes me feel a lot more normal. I’ve learned that because everyone has dark episodes in their lives, I’m really not unique. I don’t stick out like a bloody, wart-riddled thumb, after all.

Some of you have been scarred by war, some of you by years of drug and alcohol abuse. Some of you lost one or both parents at a young age, and some of you had stepparents you hated as teenagers. My scars were forged by childhood illness, my parent’s bitter divorce and the premature death of a sibling and two best friends (one by suicide). My addictions and mental illnesses were the byproducts, helped along by chemical imbalances in the brain.

It’s not what I’ve been through that defines me. It’s what I’ve learned from the experiences and how I’ve used the lessons to be a better person. It’s the same for everyone.

Some lose the game, committing suicide or crimes that lead to a life behind bars. Those of us who don’t end up that way aren’t better. We just had a better combination of luck, faith and support systems. And a better sense of humor.

I love when the humor part is done well on TV, in books and online. A favorite example is Dr. Heinz Doofenshmirtz from Phineas and Ferb, a favorite TV show of my kids.

Doofenshmirtz is an evil genius who can never get his act together. He hates just about everything and wants to take over the “tri-state area” to feel better about himself. He makes sinister devices with –inator as the suffix, and they fail every time. His nemesis is Perry the Platypus, a secret agent whose cover is being the pet of Phineas and Ferb.

Doofenshmirtz is always motivated by emotionally scarring back stories. His was a mentally abusive childhood in Gimmelshtump, Drusselstein. His parents overlook him in favor his brother, Roger, he’s shunned socially, and it’s hilarious. It helps a guy like me laugh off my own back stories — or at least put them in a better perspective.

I leave you with one of my favorite snippets:

Doof

 

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Depressed Minds, Not Beaten Souls

In 2011, I was sobered by a report in USA Today that said 1 in 100 adults had planned their suicide in the year leading up to the article —  a statistic that didn’t surprise me, knowing what I do about depression.

Mood music:

I’ve suffered a lot of depression in my day. I’m experiencing it right now. While I’ve never seriously considered ending it, I can easily see how someone in that state of mind could head in that direction.

From that 2011 report:

There’s a suicide every 15 minutes in the United States, and for every person who takes his or her own life there are many more who think about, plan or attempt suicide, according to a federal report released Thursday.

The analysis of 2008-09 data from the National Survey on Drug Use and Health found that … more than 2.2 million adults (1.0 percent) reported making suicide plans in the past year, and more than 1 million (0.5 percent) said they attempted suicide in the past year, according to the researchers at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration.

I think I just got lucky. Or, more likely, my religious beliefs made suicide a line I wouldn’t cross. Instead, I dove head-first into a self-destructive existence, where I lived for my addictions.

Perhaps subconsciously, as I binged my way to 280 pounds and ate painkillers for breakfast (I was prescribed them for chronic back pain), I was slowly trying to kill myself. A troubled mind can easily rationalize that it’s not suicide if you’re not jumping off a building, pointing a gun at your head or wrapping a noose around your neck. Fortunately, I came to my senses before I could finish the job.

But I’ve seen relatives get hospitalized for suicidal talk and my best friend became one of the tragic statistics on November 15, 1996. When depression takes hold of the vulnerable mind, you stop thinking clearly and, at some point, you lose full control of sane actions and thought. Some people think suicides were simply cowards who couldn’t cope with life’s everyday challenges. But they have no idea what they’re talking about.

Depression lurks like a vulture, waiting for you to get just tired enough to submit to the torture.

I’ve learned to see my own depression as just another chronic illness that comes and goes. I’ve learned, in a strange way, to still be happy when I’m depressed most of the time. That sounds fucked up, but it’s the best way I can describe it.

Being lucky enough to have reached that point, I’ve made it my mission to help break the stigma.

Sadness and suicidal thoughts need not be the end. For a lot of people I know, it turned out to be just the beginning of a life full of wisdom and beauty.

The report understates an important point:

1 in 100 adults plotted suicide; 99 did not.

That doesn’t mean the 99 weren’t troubled, depressed and going through difficult times. But whatever the difficulties, they soldiered on. Just as I do today.

Because a depressed mind rarely equals a beaten soul.

Left hand with writing: I am stronger than Depression

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The Beauty in the Wreck

Kelly Lum (a.k.a., @aloria) has been an acquaintance for nearly four years, though I wouldn’t say we’re close friends. We’re both part of the information security community and bump into each other at the occasional conference. When we do talk, we find one thing in common.

A life-long struggle with depression.

Mood music:

I’ve been open about it in this blog. She’s been open about it in her social media postings.

Last week, she published an article in which she gives the fullest account yet of her struggles. Specifically, she writes about how finding beauty in abandoned, decayed places helped her find an appreciation and even a love for her inner demons.

As one of our common connections said online, if this were the first chapter of a book, I wouldn’t put it down.

I long ago learned to find the best parts of myself from within the mental disorder. By accepting OCD and depression as part of what makes me tick instead of a contagion that needed to be destroyed, I found my way forward in the world. I’ve found beauty and grace in the struggle. It’s a blessing to reach that realization. I’m glad Kelly has reached that place, too.

It doesn’t end the pain, but it brings purpose to it.

Thanks for sharing, Kelly, and Godspeed.

She's A Wreck blog logo

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Dissecting EddieTheYeti

A few months ago I told you about an artist from the security community named Eddie Mize, a.k.a. EddieTheYeti. I identified with his use of artistic expression as a way to cope with inner demons. Since then, we’ve gotten to know each other better.

Mood music:

I’ve used his art to illustrate several posts in this blog. At DEF CON in August, his art exhibit was one of the more popular attractions, and he kindly personalized my DEF CON badge with some OCD Diaries art.

The more I review his work, the more it stirs up feelings that have been deep inside me.

That’s especially true in recent weeks, as I’ve started fighting back against some resurgent personal demons.

So I put the question to Eddie: What if I did a series of posts where I took specific pieces of his work and wrote a narrative for it based on the emotions the work stirred within me?

Eddie is a gracious guy, so I wasn’t surprised when he said it “sounds like a plan!”

The posts will be an ongoing series. You won’t see me focus on it for several days in a row. I’ll probably settle into a post a week. His gallery on the DeviantArt site is more than 2,000 entries deep, so there’s a lot to sift through.

I have two goals with this series:

  1. Help make EddieTheYeti a household name
  2. Continue the scouring of my soul that is key to my own survival

I don’t expect total victory in either case. But I have high hopes that together, Eddie and I will move some people who badly need it.

Stay tuned.

Pierced_by_EddieTheYeti

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Trying to Make Peace with Prednisone

I’ve been on Prednisone for five days now, and the side effects are kicking in. My appetite has gone from zero to 100, and my moodiness is considerable.

Mood music:

But the drug is doing its work, easing my back pain from shooting, piercing spasms to a more manageable dull ache. Now I remember why they used to put me on this shit for Crohn’s Disease.

When it comes to putting the freeze on inflamed muscles and bone, it gets the job done.

Still, I wonder if the inflammation could have been dealt with using a different medication — something that won’t inflame my mood and puff up my face.

When the doctor said he was prescribing Prednisone, I let out a groan.

“What?” he asked, annoyed that I might be questioning his almighty judgement.

“Prednisone and I have a history,” I told him. “During the Crohn’s attacks …”

“But this is a low dosage, and it’s only for 14 days,” he said, using a tone one uses when addressing idiots.

This doctor is an arrogant bastard. I hope he knows what he’s doing. He’s a new doctor, so I won’t give up on him yet.

This back injury has been hard. I have to lie down and watch the world pass by, which isn’t how I prefer to operate. It’s been so bad that I’m willing to take my chances with a drug I said I’d never take again.

For now, I’m focusing on the positives:

  • It’s not the maximum dosage I used to take — eight pills a day in all.
  • It is only for another week or so. It used to take weeks just to be weaned off of it.
  • I’m hungry, but I haven’t fallen into any titanic binges yet.
  • I can sit up, lie down and stand up again, which I couldn’t do a week ago.

But still I worry. I will until this prescription’s time is up.

Stay tuned.

Red skull and crossbones on a patch of white pills

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A (Small) Defense of Shepard Smith

A lot of people are incensed with Fox News anchor Shepard Smith, who suggested Robin Williams was a coward for killing himself this week.

My first instinct was to call him out for being an idiot, an enabler of insensitive motormouths uninterested in learning about how depression really ticks. But I’m going to take the road less expected.

I’m going to defend the guy a little bit.

Mood music:

First, let me clarify three things:

  • I hate  Fox News. It’s not a political thing. I hate CNN and MSNBC, too. These networks are more interested in infotainment than enlightenment. Most of the anchors say poorly thought-out things on a daily basis, and no one bats an eye.
  • I’m a fierce advocate for breaking the stigma and misunderstandings around depression. I’ve lived through it. I’ve watched friends die from it. If you think suicide is cowardly, you have absolutely no idea how the depressed mind works. It doesn’t make you an asshole. It just makes you uninformed. Unless you do know how the depressed mind works and you still think it’s a cowardly move. Then you’re an asshole.
  • I consider Robin Williams a hero. It saddens me that depression got the better of him, but his acting roles have done more to enhance understanding of the human condition than myriad research studies that have been done over the years. Tragic? Yes. Cowardly? No.

That said, Smith was stupid to call Williams a coward. But I don’t think he meant it that way in his heart. I watched a playback and read the transcript, and I think he fell into the trap many TV personalities fall into when speaking off the cuff. A lousy word choice dropped from his lips. If he weren’t live on air and had had the time to consider his words, I doubt coward is the word he would have chosen.

His actual words:

It’s hard to imagine, isn’t it? You could love three little things [Williams’ children] so much, watch them grow, and they’re in their mid-20s and they’re inspiring you and exciting you and they fill you up with a kind of joy you can never have known. Yet something inside you is so horrible, or you’re such a coward, or whatever the reason that you decide have you to end it. Robin Williams, at 63, did that today.

I’ve seen Smith’s work over the years, and while I think he has a tendency to be overly dramatic and excitable, I also think he’s one of the more balanced anchors on a network that is anything but “fair and balanced.” I also noticed the pain in his eyes when reporting Williams’ death. I think the pain was genuine, that he was honestly distressed by the end of such a bright star.

Now that I’ve said all that, maybe Shep will bring some real depression sufferers and survivors onto his show so they can educate us — and him — on what this shit is really about.

screen shot of Fox News anchor Shepard Smith

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Lower Your Expectations

Occasionally, my kids get all kinds of upset when their high hopes for something don’t go as expected.

A good example is the disappointment Duncan felt when it was too chilly to go in the campground pool Memorial Day weekend. He remembered one campout last year when he got to swim for hours, and to him, that was an important ingredient for an awesome weekend. He got over it and still had a good time. But the disappointment he expressed was dramatic.

I was thinking about his disappointment on the drive into work this morning and was reminded that I used to be equally dramatic when something failed to meet my expectations. My typical reactions were far worse, though. I’d give into my addictive impulses, mope for days and, perhaps worst of all, I’d let disappointment completely destroy the rest of the day, weekend, holiday, what have you.

Mood music:

When you have OCD and a brain that never stops thinking, you tend to expect certain things out of your day. When the expectation is a bad one and isn’t fulfilled, it’s a huge weight off the shoulders. Expect to be told that you have cancer and then learn it’s just a benign lump is freeing.

But when you expect something good and it doesn’t happen — a snow day, a night out, a promotion at work — the sudden change of events can be devastating to a guy like me.

I’ve gotten better, though, because I learned to keep my expectations low.

That same Memorial Day weekend experience is a good example. I remembered how it rained so much the year before and how disappointed I was. This time I went in assuming the weather would suck, and I prepared, bringing some good reading and the laptop in case the writing muse paid a visit, which it did. It turns out the weather, though chilly, was pretty decent. We got in a lot of time outdoors.

I went in with low expectations and got a far better weekend than I planned for.

I don’t pull this off every time. But I have certainly gotten good results more often from lowered expectations. I’ve also learned to look at plans that fall apart as plot twists, and that’s helped me roll with the punches better.

Cheers.

set low expectations and blow them away<

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I Don’t Dislike Mondays

I used to fit the “I hate Monday” stereotype perfectly. In fact, that first day of the work week used to fill me with terror. I’d start to get depressed Saturday night because it meant the weekend was halfway done. I’d get so worked up on Sundays that I’d short circuit and sleep most of the afternoon away.

Now I love Mondays. When someone complains about it, I laugh or roll my eyes, conveniently forgetting that I used to get that way.

Mood music:

So why the turnaround? It wasn’t immediate.

Learning to manage my depression certainly helped.

I used to get overwhelmed by all the work I usually had to do on Mondays and Tuesdays, which were the busiest, longest days of the week when I was a reporter and editor for weekly newspapers. Those were the days when you had all the municipal meetings to cover and all the writing to do. I used to write all five-seven stories a week in one day.

That kind of disorganization made life messy on its own. But my unchecked OCD and depression made it worse, and I wasted many weekends on worry as a result.

Finding the right medication and developing an arsenal of coping tools went far in changing how my brain processes things. Finding my career groove helped, too.

When I saw work as a massive pile of shit to be shoveled every week, the depression was inevitable. In more recent years, particularly the last eight, I’ve been blessed with work I love.

I’m happy to put it down on the weekends. But now I see Mondays as that time when I can dive back into creative mode.

There are things I do so I can start the week right:

  • I make lists of things to do for work and home. Writing a list means I don’t have to keep rehashing the agenda in my head over and over again.
  • I get to bed fairly early on Sunday night.
  • I plan out my breakfast and lunch for the week. Otherwise, I’d starts the week eating from the drive-through and wouldn’t stop.
  • I play a lot of guitar on Sunday. I play guitar daily, mind you, but those Sunday sessions have become critical to my mental equilibrium.

It’s Sunday night as I write this, and I’m feeling just fine.

Calvin and Hobbes making faces; happy Monday

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It’s Not How Far You Have to Go, It’s How Far You’ve Come

No matter how much we’ve grown, no matter how far we’ve come, we insist on beating ourselves over the strides we have yet to achieve.

When it comes to self-loathing over one’s vulnerabilities, I’m about the best there is. But I’ve worked hard to break myself of that, because the truth is that I have come a long way since the days when I was owned by my OCD, anxiety, fears and dark impulses.

Do those things still get the better of me? Absolutely. But I’ve found that the more I dwell on it, the longer it takes me to grow into something better.

Mood music:

I used to let myself plunge into days of depression and self-hating every time I made a mistake at work. I binge-ate my way to 280 pounds, and I would let my brain spin for weeks over every possible worst-case scenario for the same reason.

As a kid, I bullied other kids even as I was getting bullied, because finding kids that were seemingly weaker made me feel better about myself.

Thankfully, I’m in better control of myself and my actions than I used to be, though the darker impulses still get the better of me occasionally. I still beat myself over mistakes, which makes the step forward slower. I still give in to laziness when life seems too hard. I still judge other people when I don’t really know them.

But I keep those impulses in check a lot more often than not. When I’m feeling down, I try to celebrate that fact.

Efforts at personal evolution are a life-long thing. The work doesn’t end until we’re dead.

Best to focus on living the best way we can.

baby elephant climbing a steep hill

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Binge Eating, Heroin Overdoses and Suicide

My first full-time reporting gig was for The Stoneham Sun newspaper, part of what was then Community Newspaper Company. (It’s now Gatehouse Media.) It was a fun job, giving me a priceless education in local politics, public safety and criminal court proceedings. But in some ways, it was the darkest year of my 20s.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/1e3m_T-NMOs

It was a year of vicious binge eating, 80-hour workweeks for little money, depression, anxiety and the suicide of my best friend, who slowly fell into madness while I was too busy working to pay attention.

I remember feeling relieved on Fridays because it was the start of the weekend and depressed as hell on Sunday mornings because it meant I’d soon be diving back into late nights of selectmen meetings, ambulance chasing and writing deadlines. I comforted myself with multiple daily visits to the McDonald’s drive-through and the various gas stations along my driving routes where I could tank up on candy bars and Hostess products.

I wanted to show everyone how badass my work ethic was, and I never seemed to leave the newsroom, except for my forays into Stoneham to collect police and fire logs and find people to interview for stories important and insignificant.

I gained about 40 pounds in that one year alone.

That summer, my friend wound up in the mental hospital. I visited him once or twice, then got wrapped up in my work again. Through much of that year I took Sunday-morning walks with him and another friend. But I was so anxious over the next story that my head wasn’t really there. I usually walked a few steps behind them, lost in thought.

He got out of the hospital but never shook his depression. I knew it was there but figured it would pass. That November, he proved me wrong.

I only took a few days off before returning to work. My first assignment upon returning was to get to the bottom of a heroin death. It took a few years for police to figure out that the overdose was part of a larger plot by some thugs to silence a few kids who knew too much about their gun-running enterprise. They gave one boy a fatal overdose of smack and later murdered a girl whose remains eluded the authorities for years.

At the time, though, all I knew was that a seemingly all-American boy with everything going for him was dead. He wasn’t the type to try heroin. I interviewed his family and, with my friend’s suicide still eating at me, I decided to write about what I was feeling. Specifically, I tried to answer the question: Why do good people step down dark and deadly avenues? An editor wanted to publish it. I said OK. I put things in that column that never should have been revealed. It was deeply personal stuff that wounded a family already mired in grief. They won’t speak to me to this day. I don’t blame them.

By year’s end, I had proposed to Erin and by January 1997, I was on to a new post covering Lynn, Mass. But it would be another couple years before I pulled myself from the mental abyss. By the time that happened, I was 280 pounds.

It took another 15 years to fully make peace with that part of my past.

Lettin___It_Out___Ink_by_EddieTheYeti

“Lettin’ it Out,” by Eddie Mize. Go to his website to see more.