Posted on

Life in a Place of Death

As regular readers know by now, I’ve been taking a class on how to keep my attention on the present. Saturday was an all-morning session that included a silent, hour-long walk through Oak Hill Cemetery in Newburyport, Mass. A lot of us tend to see cemeteries as a place of death. But I found a lot of life there, instead.

Mood music:

[spotify:track:4s4S5JJGfqXGlNY6eQZWQB]

This wasn’t a new experience for me. There are three cemeteries within walking distance of my house, and I’ve walked through all of them. I tend to look at the date of death and consider the myriad ways the person passed. If it’s 1918, for example, I find myself wondering if he or she died in the Spanish Flu pandemic. If a veteran died in the vicinity of early June 1944, I ponder the likelihood that this person died in the carnage of D-Day during WW II.

In Oak Hill Cemetery, I was stopped in my tracks by a gravestone with the death date of Sept. 11, 2001. I looked up the name, Thomas Pecorelli, and learned that he was on American Airlines Flight 11, which terrorists flew into the north tower of the World Trade Center. He was 30 when he died and was carrying the ultrasound image of his unborn child, headed home to his wife.

He lived a hell of a life. He was a cameraman with Fox Sports and E! Entertainment Television, the obituaries said.

Thieves stole his original gravestone, but a new one is in its place, complete with two benches and a garden with bird feeders.

There’s a lot of life to be found in these graveyards. But you might miss it if you jog through. You have to walk through slowly and silently.

If you have a mind that sometimes gets stuck on one obsessive thought or often drifts when someone is talking to you, the occasional cemetery stroll is worth working into your life.

Few things will get you out of your own head like a study of other people’s lives.

Now that I’ve learned something about giving my present attention to the dead, I’m eager for the next step: learning to give present awareness to the living.

Pecorelli Tombstone

Posted on

Happy Depression

I’ve been in a mental space lately that some would consider strange. I’m somewhat depressed but also fairly content and happy. To most people, feeling all those things at once doesn’t make sense. You’re either happy or depressed. But I’ve found that it’s more complicated than that.

Mood music:

[soundcloud url=”http://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/33409634″ iframe=”true” /]

I used to spend my depressive episodes curled up in a ball, feeling sorry for myself. Depression was cause for making the world stop and accepting everyone’s sympathy. It was a time to let things slide at work and to binge on food, alcohol and worse.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to see my depressed episodes as a mild nuisance, like the common cold or a toothache. It sucks to have it, but life has to go on. I still have to work, get my kids from points A to B and be available when a friend or family member needs help. Curling up in a ball is no longer an option, though the occasional 20-minute nap is OK.

Medication has helped. So has therapy. My faith has made a massive difference, too. But I think the bigger game changer in how I view my depression came from the realization that I had unrealistic views on what it was to be happy.

We have an overdeveloped sense of what happiness is supposed to be. I call it the Happily Ever After Syndrome. We have this stupid idea that if we can just get the right job, find the right mate, accumulate the right amount of material things and have as little conflict with people as possible that we’re going to be on cloud nine for the rest of our lives.

Deep down we know that’s bullshit. But we reach for it anyway.

It’s a battle of false expectations. And when we can’t reach those expectations, it’s a huge let down. It creates a hole in our souls that we try to fill with more material things and addictions.

That stuff makes us feel better for a few minutes, but before long we feel worse than ever.

I think that hole is still in me. But through the grace of God it’s gotten a lot smaller.

I used to raise my fist and scream at God over how unfair life can be. I saw myself as a victim. Now I get it: We all have our ups and downs. We all have difficult problems to carry on our shoulders.

Happiness isn’t the absence of trouble. It’s not the worry-free, rainbow-infested existence I used to think it was.

In my case, happiness comes from getting a shot at doing things that matter to me. When I feel depressed, I can still keep going because of all the good stuff in my life: my wife and kids, a job I love, this blog, etc.

The depression wants me to forget all those things and give in to despair. And that’s what I used to do. But when I keep focusing on the important things in my life, I find that the depressed periods go away sooner than they used to.

So while I’m a little depressed this morning, I’m also full of gratitude. I have a great life, despite all my missteps along the way.

October Sun

Posted on

Welcome Back, Mrs. Silva

I rushed to the kids’ school this afternoon for a parent-teacher meeting and saw the most excellent sight: Eileen Silva, back in the mix, helping her fellow teachers sort through the usual chaos of afternoon dismissal. The first-grade teacher missed all last year due to illness, but she’s back, and it’s like she never left.

Mood music:

[spotify:track:0ZGLuduCPjgWY1n85ykgMe]

We Brenners love Mrs. Silva for many of the same reasons other parents and students do: She’s a kind, nurturing and patient soul. But she’s particularly special to us because of what she did for Duncan at a very critical stage of his life.

Duncan was in first grade when he was first diagnosed with ADHD, and we didn’t know where to begin when the pediatrician gave us a list of recommendations as thick as a small novel. We brought it to Mrs. Silva during one of our after-school meetings. Some teachers might be overwhelmed to read a big bulleted list of recommendations like that. Teachers have plenty on their plate just dealing with the normal challenges of running a class full of boisterous children. Throw in a few kids with special requirements, and I’m sure it can be too much to take at times. True, every teacher has a few students with extra needs. That’s part of the job. But I’ve seen some handle it better than others.

Mrs. Silva took the list and lit up. She was thrilled to have so many details to work with, and she incorporated it into Duncan’s work load with grit and grace.

From our perspective, we had a big ally in our corner and felt like we might actually be able to get Duncan what he needed after all. Since then we’ve had plenty of support from other teachers and administrators. Duncan has done a lot of hard work himself, and we’re very proud of him.

But Mrs. Silva gets a very special place in our hearts because she helped us get this steamroller moving.

When I was Duncan’s age, I was the student teachers’ nightmares are made of. I had a boulder-sized chip on my shoulder because of serious childhood illness and my parents’ less-than-amicable divorce.

I also had learning difficulties. I received special services like Duncan did, but back then misbehaving kids were more likely to be written off as damaged goods. Today, the better school districts have a more rigorous process in place to ensure kids don’t fall through the cracks.

That’s how it often seems from my perspective, anyway.

There were teachers along the way that I felt were in my corner, rooting for me to overcome my limitations. But none were like Mrs. Silva.

For most parents, the greatest wish is for their kids to have it better than they did. When it comes to Duncan having an ally to guide him through the early rough patches, I got my wish.

Thanks, Mrs. Silva, and welcome back.

Mrs. Silva

Posted on

Most Days Are Like New England Weather

Last Friday started in a brutal fashion. I woke up more than an hour late after a lousy night’s sleep. As a result, I fell way behind with work. To top it all off, the kids had the day off and were making all kinds of noise.

Mood music:

[spotify:track:5H19HygtEjZJLdGtGdpSPR]

For the first two hours of the day, my mood was bleak. My head pounded, I felt disoriented and I was convinced my day was going to suck on every level.

Two hours later, I had caught the workload up to where it was supposed to be, the kids had settled into some activity, and I was sitting on a sun-kissed deck with my beloved, drinking a fresh cup of Starbucks she bought me on the way home from a doctor’s appointment.

The rest of the day was pretty pleasant. I even found a couple of hours to practice my guitar playing, using some nifty online lessons I found on YouTube.

Which brings me to the point of this post: If you’re having a shitty morning, don’t write off the rest of the day. Most days are like New England weather: Wait five minutes and it’ll change.

I used to let a couple of bad hours destroy the entire day. Truth be told, I still do sometimes, especially in the winter, when I’m more susceptible to mood swings because of the shorter windows of sunlight.

I wasted a lot of good life that way. I went on many addiction-fueled binges because of it.

Fortunately, I’m much better at catching myself in those downward moments. Friday was a good example of that.

It makes for a much better existence.

Sunset

Posted on

Older But More Alive

Sunday is my 42nd birthday, which happens near a bunch of other birthdays in the family and at work. Inevitably, when discussing this, someone admits they’re depressed about being a year older.

Mood music:

[spotify:track:2qZu6ByfZFFb56CwZRfwTo]

I have a different outlook, which is that when you reach another year without having dropped dead, that’s cause to celebrate.

When I was sick with the Crohn’s Disease as a kid, I lost a lot of blood and developed several side ailments. I’m told by my father that the doctors were going to remove the colon more than once. It didn’t happen. I felt close to death a few times, though I doubt it was ever that serious. Either way, here I am.

When the OCD was burning out of control, I often felt I’d die young. I was never suicidal, but I had a fatalistic view of things. I just assumed I wasn’t long for this world, and I didn’t care. I certainly did a lot to slowly help the dying process along. That’s what addicts do. We feed the addiction compulsively knowing full well what the consequences will be.

When I was a prisoner to fear and anxiety, I really didn’t want to live long. I had isolated myself. Fortunately, I never had the guts to do anything about it. And, like I said, suicide was never really an option.

I spent much of my 30s on the couch with a shattered back and escaped with the TV. I was breathing, but I was also as good as dead some of the time.

I’ve watched others go before me at a young age. Michael. Sean. Even Peter. Lose the young people in your life often enough, and you’ll start assuming you’re next.

When you live for yourself and don’t put faith in God, you’re not really living. When it’s all about you, there’s no room to let all the other life in. So the soul shrivels and hardens. I’ve been there.

I also had a strange fear of current events and was convinced at one point that the world would burn in a nuclear holocaust before I hit 30. That hasn’t happened yet.

So now I’m 42, and it’s almost comical that I’m still here.

I’m more grateful than you could imagine for the turn of events my life has taken in the last six years.

I’ve learned to stop over-thinking and to manage the OCD. When you learn to stop over-thinking, a lot of things that used to be daunting become a lot easier. You also find yourself in a lot of precious moments that were always there, but you didn’t notice them because you were sick with worry.

I notice them now, and I am blessed far beyond what I probably deserve. I have a career that I love. I have the best wife on Earth and two boys that teach me something new every day. I have many, many friends who have helped me along in more ways than they’ll ever know.

Most importantly, I have God in my life. When you put your faith in Him, there’s a lot less to be afraid of. Aging is one of the first things you stop worrying about.

These days, I fell a lot better about myself than I did a decade ago. In fact, 32 kind of sucked.

I’d be in denial if I told you everything was perfect. I wouldn’t tell you that anyway, because I’ve always thought that perfection was a bullshit concept. That makes it all the more ironic and comical that OCD would be the life-long thorn in my side.

In recovery, I have good days and not-so-good days when I’ve come close to relapsing. I’ve had to work harder at being a good man. All of that is OK.

I’m still very much the work in progress, just like everyone else. The scars are merely the scaffolding and newly inserted steel beams propping me up.

I don’t know what comes next, but I have much less fear about the unknown.

And so I think will have a happy birthday.

Birthday Cake on Fire

Posted on

Two Years Later, Remembering Joe Zippo

Hard to believe, but it’s been two years since the death of Joe “Zippo” Kelley. I’ve been listening to Zippo Raid’s Punk Is In Season disc a lot lately and I smile every time. I’ve made some wonderful friends these last two years and Joe is our common link. Sometimes it seems strange to me, because at the time of his death I hadn’t talked to Joe in years.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/nnyVCQrFN7Q

I’ve gotten to know his awesome parents, Joe and Marie, and a lot of other people from other local bands. I’m richer for that. It would have been a million times better if I was making these new friends with Joe still around, but there’s no use in trying to figure out God’s master plan.

We fell out of touch after college because I let my demons turn me into a recluse for a long time. What’s done is done.

There’s a great lesson for all of us, though, one that has gotten clear as the months have gone by. The soul of a person who lives to the full and impacts so many people for the better never really dies.

Joe’s presence has been at every local rock show I’ve been to, most notably the handful of benefit shows in his honor. He’s very much with us whenever we listen to his music.

One of my favorite songs on the Punk Is In Season disc is about Greg Walsh, drummer of Zippo Raid, Pop Gun and other acts. I’ve known Greg for almost as long as I knew Joe. We worked together at my first reporting gig in Swampscott and Marblehead, Mass. The first time I heard the opening lines, I laughed till I hurt:

Greg couldn’t make it to the fuckin’ show
It was rainin’ wasn’t even fuckin’ snow
What else can we say
Greg is a fuckin’ pu-sey!

Greg knew how well that lyric nailed him, and during the chorus you can hear him gleefully chanting: “Oye! Oye! Oye!”

That’s the Joe I remember. He could poke fun at you and make you feel like one of his best buddies in the same breath. In fact, if he needled you, you knew he liked you. When you hung out with him, you always knew you were in the presence of someone with a heart of gold.

That’s how it was at Salem State, when we’d stand outside the then-commuter cafe smoking cigarettes and talking about Nirvana. He could take to people effortlessly, even a guy like me who often had trouble knowing how to act in front of other people.

It’s been said that when you went to a Zippo Raid show, everyone who showed up was in the band. That’s just another telling example of how welcoming a presence he was.

I’ve become a fan of many of the musicians who showed up at those shows to pay homage to Joe. And that experience has rekindled a love of the Boston music scene that had gone cold for a long time.

Thanks, Joe.

Joe's Headstone

Posted on

Nine Things to Consider When Life Starts to Suck

On my worst days, when depression takes over and common sense goes out the window, I try to remember the following to put my life back into perspective.

  • I’ve had my share of bad health, but family and friends have always helped me through. Some friends and family dealing with cancer right now know what I’m talking about.
  • I hate the snow, cold and darkness of winter. But winter always gives way to spring and summer.
  • I may not like the excessive heat and humidity we’ve had around here lately, but the weather will turn colder soon enough. Since I hate cold weather, that thought makes me appreciate the dog days of summer.
  • I have an addictive personality, but today’s slip-ups are nothing compared to when I was spending $40 a day on binge eating, passing out on the couch from the pain meds I was taking for a bad back and getting buzzed to keep from eating.
  • I may get frustrated with work issues sometimes, but a bad day in my current job is still much better than the better days I had in past jobs. It also beats being jobless and homeless.
  • I hate getting stuck in traffic, but being stuck in it sure beats being the driver who caused it with an accident.
  • It’s hard to put up with the annoying behavior of others. Then I remember that people put up with my annoying behavior all the time, and I suddenly feel a lot more patient.
  • My children tire me out and give me little time to hear myself think on a daily basis. But the richness and joy they add to my life far outweighs the irritating things they do sometimes. And the irritating stuff sometimes translates into comedy gold.
  • I may screw up every day, but no matter how bad I am, God never gives up on me.

Chicken Miserable

Posted on

Family Reading Time

In our house, a cool nightly ritual has taken hold. We all gather on my bed and read until the kids reach their bedtime and the grown-ups (me specifically) pass out.

Mood music:

[spotify:track:27xIf7tzHPQFX068pFYlAh]

Here’s what I love about it:

  • We’re all together in one cozy spot.
  • The kids have their faces buried in books, which always makes me a proud papa.
  • After the typically chaotic days we live, with two demanding jobs and kids who are involved in a lot of activities, it’s a change to be mellow and quiet. Since Sean and Duncan are often like Mothra vs. Godzilla when they’re together, this is a chance to teach them the value of quiet time.

Sometimes the children and I pass out in the middle of family reading time. One time, Erin was out at an event during the usual family reading time and came home to this:

Brenner Boys Hog the Bed

Eventually, the kids go to bed and it’s just me and Erin. We’ll keep reading until I inevitably fall asleep first. Sometimes, before that happens, we’ll talk and snuggle.

Good times? Absolutely.

Posted on

The Freak in the Newsroom

A tale of terror in newsrooms across the state of Massachusetts.

I love my job. I love the subject matter (IT and physical security, emergency preparedness, regulatory compliance). I love the people I work with, many of whom I’ve worked with at other points in my nearly 19 years in journalism. And I love my daily dealings with some of the smartest, passionate security professionals on the planet.

But it wasn’t always this way. Work used to be something to dread, binge eat and get sick over. And I had no one to blame but myself.

For me, one of the main triggers for obsessive-compulsive behavior was work. I was driven to the brink by a desire to be the golden boy, the guy who worked the most hours, wrote the most stories, handled the most shit work and pleased the most managers.

Golden Boy

I got my first reporting job at Community Newspaper Company, covering the school system in Swampscott, Mass. It was part time, but I put in more than 40 hours a week. Not terrible. I liked the people I worked with and felt pretty dang good about having the job even though I was still one course shy of earning my degree. But I spent much of the time in fear that I wouldn’t measure up. My head would spin at 3 a.m. as I tried to come up with things to write about and prove my worth. My weight soared from 230 pounds — already too much — to 260.

Sullen Boy

The next job was full-time as reporter for the Stoneham Sun. I pretty much worked around the clock, trying to show the editor, managing editor and editor-in-chief (all friends to this day, BTW) that I was THE MAN. Late in my tenure on this beat, my best friend killed himself and I binged as much on work as on food to bury my rage. It didn’t work. I gained another 20 pounds and wrote a column about my friend’s suicide, naming names and describing the method of death in way too much detail. To this day, his parents and sister won’t have anything to do with me, and I can’t say I blame them.

Lynn Sunday Post and Peter Sugarman

This was a bad year. My best friend had just died and I was given the task of editing The Lynn Sunday Post, a newspaper that was on its deathbed. You could say I was chosen to be its pallbearer. There was barely a staff. Few people read it anymore. My only day off was Monday. And my only reporter was an eccentric guy with a cheezy mustache: Peter Sugarman.

He infuriated me from the start, writing epic stories dripping with his personal passion and political agenda instead of the objective writing I was taught to follow in college journalism classes (Peter would call it my J-School side, and it wasn’t a compliment).

It was only natural that he would become my new best friend, another older brother who was always tring to get me to see the light (his way of doing things).

He and his wife Regina were a constant presence from that time until he choked to death in May 2004, three weeks after I started my SearchSecurity job. But while he was around, I learned a lot about using my writing as an agent of change, a force for good, and about thinking about the readers instead of the higher ups I had been trying so desperately to please.

Another person put in the right place at the right time by God.

Interlude

Much of the same behavior while editor of The Billerica Minuteman, though there was some level of stability during this period.

Deep Slide

During this period I was night editor at The Eagle-Tribune.

Before I go further, I should mention that what follows is HOW I SAW THINGS AT THE TIME, NOT NECESSARILY HOW THINGS ACTUALLY WERE.

For a year and a half of that I was assistant editor of the New Hampshire edition. It started off well enough. But this was a tougher environment than I had experienced before. Editors were tougher to please and often at cross purposes with each other. Part of the task I was handed was to be the bad cop that called reporters late at night to rip them over one perceived injustice or another. I sucked at it. I mostly came off as an asshole, and it never made a difference for the better.

The most insidious, bitter part of the experience was during my time on the New Hampshire staff. The managing editor I worked for directly seemed to relish cracking down on reporters, putting them down and ripping their work to shreds. And he expected me to do it the same way, exactly as he did it.

To be fair, the guy wasn’t without a soul. He tried to do the right thing most of the time and genuinely cared about the people under him. But he was also consumed with the idea that all the other editors on staff were out to get us and undermine our efforts. Everyone was a back-stabber. Whenever I had the impulse to collaborate with editors from other sections or let some things slide, he came down hard.

More than ever, I was being the editor he wanted me to be and not who I really was. I called reporters at all hours. I put them down. I fought with other editors and hovered over the page designers on deadline.

I also came as close as I had to an emotional breakdown at that point. I started calling in sick A lot. I’d wake up with the urge to throw up. By mid-afternoon, the urge switched to binge eating.

That managing editor eventually moved on and I returned to the night desk. By then, I was burning out, a shell of the man I once was. By the time I left there, everyone on staff was evil in my eyes; the cause of everything that had gone wrong.

I was wrong for the most part. Fortunately for me, most of my co-workers from the period looked past my insanity and today many of them are among my dearest friends.

Working a Dream Job But Trapped in the Mental House of Horrors

For the next four years I wrote for SearchSecurity.com, part of the TechTarget company. The job was everything I could have hoped for. Excellent colleagues, a ton of creative freedom and plenty of success came my way.

It also coincided with another emotional meltdown as I started to wake up to the mental illness and the fact that I needed to do something about it.

I think I hid it from my colleagues pretty well, except for my direct editor, Ann Saita, who became something of a mom to me, a nurturing soul I could spill my guts to. I’m pretty sure God put her in the right place at the right time, knowing my time of reckoning was at hand. During this period, I untangled all the mental wiring, started taking Prozac (See “The Bad Pill Kept Me from the Good Pill“), officially became a devout Catholic (more on that later) and finally started to feel whole.

Managing Editor, CSO Magazine and beyond

My current job is truly the best I’ve had. I get to work with people like Derek Slater, Joan Goodchild and Jim Malone, who was my editor-in-chief during my first reporting jobs at CNC and one of the folks I went out of my mind trying to please. A side note that amuses me greatly: Peter Sugarman used to drive him nuts, too.

The most noteworthy thing about the last year and a half is that a personal focus has been to get a handle on the eating. In 2008 I discovered OA and started to regain the upper hand. I quit flour and sugar and started putting all my food on a little scale. My mind cleared.

Here’s the best part about my present situation: From Day 1 at CSO, I have not once worried about being a people pleaser. I’ve just focused on the projects I believed in and my bosses have been content to let me have at it.

I don’t work much more than 40 hours a week, and the funny thing is that I’m more prolific now than I ever was before.

Business travel I used to dread has become a joy. Speaking in front of people has gone from something to fear to something to do more of.

Now, five years into my stint at CSO, I’m headed for a new challenge, focusing all my writing and editing skills on the security data at Akamai Technologies.  I feel no dread, only happiness and glee.

And to think — All I had to do was get out of my own way.
Eagle-Tribune staffers