Fists and Science

Kerry is apopleptic with rage.

"They said what?"

"I was saying that I was looking forward to my doctor's appointment this week, that we're going to talk about me taking an anti-anxiety medication, and their response was "I'm not a doctor, but I'm sure there has to be a better way to take care of your anxiety.""

"Please inform them that this kind an an attitude has has or will hurt someone in their life who is struggling with mental illness."

"I will."

"And that I want to punch them in the face. With science. And my fist."

"I don't doubt that you would."

***

"Welcome back."

His voice is the first thing I hear after the alarm, and between getting teary and wondering how he could tell from my face, I start berating myself.

"Hi." I mumble in return.

Superficially, it's been a normal week. We've gotten up, gone to work, come home, made dinner, and puttered about with our usual evening pursuits.

Unironic domestic bliss, usually.

But I've been sleepwalking through the week in a cloud of anxiety and sadness. I couldn't tell you what I've done with most of my days. I can tell you that I've slept less than 10 hours in the entire week and that I walked into a fire hydrant the day before because I was so out of it. I am, on a basic level, aware that the boyfriend has been gently encouraging me to eat, to drink one of the endless cups of tea he has made me, that he's been taking me for walks like a recalcitrant old dog.

I am aware of these things only because this part of our life together isn't normal but it's happened enough that it's tediously familiar.

And it's these small kindnesses, these tiny moments of thoughtfulness and love that leave me undone when I wake up back in charge of my own life. Because I meant to stay away from deep, loving relationships until I didn't need someone to do these things for me.

But, whoops, here we are, trying to navigate our way through this.

He kisses my forehead and whispers. "I'm so glad you're here. I missed you." There's no judgement or anger in his voice, only warmth, relief, and happiness.

I bury my face in his shoulder. "I'm trying. I really am."

"Oh Kel, I know."

***

There have been some hard-learned lessons in the course of talking more openly about mental illness. Namely: humor helps, you'll never be ready to talk about your mental health with your boyfriend's family (regardless of how warm and wonderful they are), and that some people are never, ever going to get it.

On my best days, I can find some degree of amusement in how freely people comment on my course of therapy, my decision to go on medication, and my desire to be as open as possible about life with anxiety and OCD.

On every other day except my best, I want to simultaneously scream and cry when someone asks me if I worry that getting treatment is going to make me a worse writer ("Afterall, your funniest, best, most engaging writing is about mental illness.")

Oh boy.

I am not a good writer because I have mental illness. I am not funny, engaging, or creative because of anxiety or OCD. Any good quality I have, I have in spite of mental illness. And here's the thing (and I'll say this once, psycho-typical people) even if I was those things only because of my mental illness it wouldn't matter. If I could press a magic button right now that would allow me to live a life without anxiety, obsessions, compulsions, feeling securely attached to the people I love, where I could have a whole month without a single sleep-walking day, but I would have to give up being a creative person?

I would do it without hesitation.

Because despite therapy and medication and a supportive partner, I still have days (weeks) where I am sleepwalking through my own life. I am so tired of mornings where the boyfriend could welcome me back to my own life. No amount of creativity could ever be worth that. When people suggest otherwise it makes me want to punch them with science. And my fist. 

Don't Get Too Personal

"Just don't get too personal."

About two months ago I was talking to a friend of mine about the possibility of writing an Ignite Minneapolis pitch on life with OCD.  I bounced some ideas off of him and asked him to read the shitty first drafts of the pitch. One of the notes was to avoid talking about the personal aspects of OCD and approach it from a neuroscience and therapeutic perspective.

"I just don't think personal stories would appeal to the organizers or attendees."

I could see his point, kinda. I just thought that he was completely insane. One of the many reasons I'm not a scientist (terrible at math and chemistry, threw up during every biology dissection, have a slight tendency to accidentally set experiments on fire) is that I lack anything approaching objectivity. I had zero interest in (and zero qualifications to) talk about OCD from anything approaching a clinical viewpoint.

So I said a grateful "thank you" for the advice on how to talk in front of groups and for some careful editing and went ahead and wrote a pitch about what it was like to fall in holyshitreallove with significant mental health challenges.

In other words, I pitched a talk I might actually be able to give.

You know, with a lot of Xanax.

The boyfriend and I were headed up to the North Country when I got an email informing me that my talk had been accepted. After reading the congratulatory "You're Speaking!" subject line I started to hyperventilate. The boyfriend (how is he always so calm?) set the tone for the entire next month by placidly asking "Are you okay? What happened? Do I need to pull off and get you your paper bag?"

True love.

"No," I gasped. "My pitch was accepted."

Let's hit the pause button for a second on the intense social anxiety and my deep dislike for being the center of attention. What was even more terrifying was that the talk I had pitched was both intensely personal and not just about me. It was as much about the process of falling in love with the boyfriend and his reaction to finding out about my mental health issues. It's one thing to write about it here, where there's a degree of removal. It's another to talk to a large audience about our lives together.

Over the intervening month we talked a lot about the things that were okay to address in the talk. Oddly enough, I was more concerned about our privacy than he seemed to be. I wrote, edited, scrapped, and rewrote the entire talk no fewer than fifteen times. With each new incarnation of the talk I tried to keep it as aloof and third-person-y as I possibly could. I remembered the advice to "keep from getting too personal," saw the truth and the wisdom in it, and made it my mantra.

And each time I got to the final paragraph I realized I hated the entire thing and binned it.

Finally, a week before the event, twitchy and exhausted to the point where even my anti-anxiety meds were barely having an impact, I broke down on Kerry. "I can't do this. I don't know how to do this."

"What's up?"

"I can't be objective about this. I don't know how to not make this personal."

She started laughing at me. Of course, she reminded me, I couldn't be objective about this. It was my story about my mental healthy diagnosis and it would be (in her actual, scientific opinon) stupid to try to be objective about it.

"Fuck that advice." 

With her advice (she is, after all, the source and fountain of all truth) I rewrote the talk to sound more like something that would actually come out of my mouth. I gave it to the boyfriend and asked if he thought it was too personal and if he was comfortable with everything I said in it. His response was simply: "It's amazing, and you're going to kill it."

I thought he was being kind and supportive. I didn't think for a second that I would kill it. I was just hoping not to crash and burn.  Truthfully, I don't remember much of the actual five minutes I was on stage. I actually had to ask when I got off if people laughed at the jokes, because I was so terrified that I couldn't quite hear the reactions.

The part I remember was near the end, when I was talking about how the boyfriend reacted to one of the craziest thing I've ever said to him. The audience actually gave an audible "Ohhhhh" and I had an "Ohhhhh" moments myself.

The ohmygodthisismylife part of sharing stories isn't what scares the crap out of me. I do it all the time while writing or in small groups. Sharing what having OCD and falling in love has meant in our lives was scary because it made me (us, really) vulnerable. For those five minutes, my disorder and our lives were open to so much criticism that the thought of it nearly made me bail on the talk all together.

Because of the way many people have reacted when I'm in the midst of an obsessive/compulsive episode or merely anxious ("Quit worrying." "Calm down." "You're exhausting.") I am disinclined to be candid without some physical (or intellectual) distance.

Ignite made that distance impossible.

Short of saying "fuck it" and dating with mental health issues, Ignite was the scariest, hardest, most rewarding thing I've ever done (and done without anti-anxiety meds!). It made me realize that aloofness is not always a virtue. I didn't know how much I wanted to be authentic, personal, and vulnerable on a larger scale.

I certainly didn't realize how necessary it is when talking about mental health.

Now, to help the boyfriend with his pitch for Ignite 9.

Failure, Ridicule, Death

"I'm going to fail, be ridiculed, and then die of embarassment, and that's not even the worst part!"

"What's the worst part?"

We're driving through Wisconsin to visit my parents and I'm emoting about a talk I'll be giving in the coming weeks.

"It will be on Youtube forever."

It isn't the first time or even the fortieth time I've recited the FailureRidiculeDeath mantra to the boyfriend. It's probably the sixty-fourth time. In the three hours we've been in the car. And I forgot my anti-anxiety meds at home.

It's going to be an unintentionally long weekend.

But despite the constant mantra of FailureRidiculeDeath that I've been repeating out loud for weeks now, the boyfriend has somehow managed not to leave me on the side of the road or pack up my stuff and leave it on the curb while I'm at work. Rather, he reminds me of my most useful mantra (the Litany Against Fear from Dune), gives me convincing pep talks, and occasionally busts out a terrible joke. 

"That does sound pretty dire. Oh well. Good thing I have all these other girlfriends waiting in line for a shot with me."

I turn to him with my faux-outraged face. He keeps his eyes on the road for a few beats, turns, glances at me, and smirks.

I break out laughing. For the moment, "FailureRidiculeDeath" has been replaced by a case of semi-hysterical giggles.

Throughout the weekend (and much of the coming week, I expect) I'll be stuck on the FailureRidiculeDeath loop. It gets bad enough that I am told by one friend familiar with my OCD diagnosis that I am "exhausting" and need to "stop obsessing over this."

Stop obsessing over my talk about life with obsessive-compulsive disorder. Tell me more, Obi-Wan.

For me one of the hardest parts about life with OCD is how isolating it is. Setting aside for a second the weeks I was having difficulty leaving my house because my compulsions were so strong, it's hard to talk to people when in the midst of an obsessive episode. I don't know how long it will last, I can't always rely on my CBT toolkit to get me out, and while therapy and meds have helped me get better I'm still far from well. And the isolation that comes from being unable to talk to many people about what's going on in your negative-feedback, brain-locked mind only reinforces all of the feelings of guilt and shame you're already experiencing.

Unfortunately, even among people who know I have OCD the default reaction still tends toward "don't obsess," "quit worrying," and "calm down." For a long time, my reaction was increased shame yeahIshouldhavethisundercontrol. These days, it's less shame and more frustration because there is no way to effectively communicate to a psycho-typical person what an obsessive or compulsive episode is feels like.

An added +1 to frustration is the fact that I don't always know what's going to help. Sometimes I need to be reminded to go for a run or go to Spin. Other times I need someone to recite "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer" to me. Occasionally I need to hear my calm-down song or crawl into a video game for a few hours. What I need depends almost entirely on how far down the rabbit hole I've already gone.

Still, despite the moments of isolation and frustration, I'm grateful to have a handful of people who know my CBT toolkit well enough to know how to help me replace FailureRidiculeDeath with something more helpful.

Even if that something is the image of other girlfriends, waiting in line. 

Make Me Better

I have thrown no fewer than five temper tantrums on the boyfriend in the past two weeks.

The rational part of me (the part that can ask questions better than my therapist) knows the reasons for it. We've started talking about what's coming next in our relationship, and none of it is the easy ohmygodyou'regoingtomeetmyparents stuff that seemed so daunting a few months ago. Now it's starting to talk about leases and shared season tickets to roller derby.

In conjunction I've discovered (much to my chagrin) that maybe my OCD isn't anywhere near as under control as I thought it was. For so long it was about locked doors and hot stoves that I didn't realize that my obsessions could be about my emotional safety as well. I assumed that once I conquered the obsessions/compulsions about my physical safety, I would be in the clear.

Holy hell, was I ever wrong.

It sorts out simply enough. Loving someone and its attendant vulnerability is really, really hard. It's hard, I think, for psycho-typical people. But for people with the kind of control and attachment issues that manifest as OCD, it feels impossible. Like I will never be perfect and consequently, don't deserve to be loved.

As a result, I've been rocketing back and forth between joy and terror, alternately being the greatest girlfriend in the history of the world and a stone cold bitch (my words).

So I throw temper tantrums. Quiet ones, but temper tantrums regardless. The bitch of it is that even when I recognize that I'm acting badly, I can't do anything about it. I keep throwing crazy grenades at the boyfriend. Partially, I expect, to see how he'll react and partially because being alone was so much easier. 

I mean easier in the most selfish way possible. I didn't have to worry about how anyone else felt, when I was upset I could wall myself up in my apartment and not talk to anyone for days on end. My actions, my bad moods, my mental health issues had zero consequences for anyone except for me. My life was perfectly calibrated so that nothing would trigger panic attacks or compulsive episodes.

Nothing fucks your shit up quite like being in love.

Suddenly there's this whole other person who is deeply impacted by your choices, your mental health issues, your rituals and therapy appointments and inability to self-soothe. And because you love them and are trying to do right by them there's so much pressure to be perfect and fixed and not to have any of the issues you maybe haven't worked through on your own yet.

A few weeks ago, in the midst of a conversation, the boyfriend remarked "I think we're out of the honeymoon period."

My instant Dr. Dinosaur reaction was incredible, overwhelming sadness. It was the kind of remark that was casual and devastating and more than anything else I wanted to run away and hide in a room and cry for awhile. 

But in one of those rare moments, I didn't stay with the Dr. Dinosaur reaction. Rather, I realized what a gift it was to be outside of that stage of the relationship. First of all, it's the stage that I've never gotten to with any of my other exes. I have a bad habit of dumping people after my first fight with them (friendships and romantic relationships alike), so to have arrived at the point beyond my normal breakup point is amazing in and of itself. 

Second, it's a bit of a relief to see the boyfriend as a human being rather than an ideal. He has his flaws like anyone else, and it's comforting to be able to see those and have him see mine and know that we're both planning to stick around. I lob a crazy grenade, he covers it with his helmet. We move on. 

Falling in love with this man, at this moment, has been the most grace-filled experience of my life. One of the myths people with mental health disorders tell ourselves is that we are unlovable. Because of the things that are wrong with us, we don't deserve love, affection, or happiness. I felt that way for a long time, and it's something I continue to feel as our relationship deepens. He reminds me (almost daily) that this isn't true, that I am totally, eminently lovable. 

More than that, though, he has made me see the way my untreated mental illness has a profound impact on my relationships (ours and others). While being single and holing up in my apartment when I get upset or freezing people out of my life were the easy solutions, they had consequences, even if it didn't feel like it. 

He's made me want to get better. 

Not in the unhealthy ohmygodIdonotdeserveyouandhavetoearnyourlove kind of a way, but in the "you help me to understand how my actions impact other people in my life, and that I've spent a long time as a pretty selfish person" way.

I wish I could say that after coming to these realizations, I hit the "self-actualized" button (that exists, right?) and have instantly achieved Enlightenment. Or that I've at least managed to become a bitch^2 as opposed to a bitch^100. Who knows? On my good days, maybe I have. But there are still enough off days that I know I should be can be better. And I find that I'm now, at least, willing to try. 

Earned

"Yeah, but speaking from the perspective of someone who has a partner with anxiety issues, you don't stick around if you don't want to stick around."

"I understand what you're saying, I mean, I hear it with my rational brain, but my lizard brain sometimes has a hard time believing it."

"Your lizard brain?"

"Yeah, the irrational side of me that goes from zero to crazy in 1.2 seconds. I nicknamed it Dr. Dinosaur, from the Atomic Robo series because that's what it feels like."

She laughs out loud. "Dr. Dinosaur is seeing a therapist?"

"Along with the rest of me, yeah."

"Okay then." She waits. "It gets easier, you know?"

***

I can't stop thinking about Jane Kenyon's "Happiness."

It's a beautiful poem, one I've been reading almost daily for weeks. The opening stanza is the kind of thing that makes me cringe to think that I used to write poetry: 

There's just no accounting for happiness

and the way it turns up like  a prodigal 

who comes back to the dust at your feet

after having squandered a fortune far away. 

Can you think of a better description of happiness? 

***

Here's the thing that no one ever tells you about happiness. 

It's completely terrifying. 

At least, it has been for me. 

For years I've told myself you don't deserve to be happy.

Happiness was always something that I had to earn, and once I found my ideal job or lost twenty pounds or sorted my OCD, then I would be allowed to be happy. But I had a long, long way to go before I earned it and in the meantime I might as well make myself comfortable as slightly miserable. I mean, it couldn't be that bad.

I know, I know. I go therapy, trust me, I know.

But two years ago, happiness showed up on the same day I was unpacking my boxes after the failed North Country Experiment. It was okay (non-terrifying) for a bit because it just seemed like a houseguest.and I had earned a few months of it by taking this new job and moving home. When it stuck around I became a little . . . unsettled. It felt fraudulent and I spent a lot of time waiting for the bottom to drop out.

It didn't. And it hasn't, despite my apparent best efforts to make myself the most persnickety, least loveable human being on the planet. It stuck around and multiplied and sent Dr. Dinosaur on a rampage and landed me back in therapy wondering am I the only person who can be the happiest they've ever been and still need to see a shrink at the same time? 

Nope.

The reason for the therapy, I think, is that for the first time, I want happiness to stick around. Many of the best things in my life--my close group of friends, life in a city I adore, my boyfriend--there is no possible way I earned any of these things. And I don't want to feel like I have to earn them anymore. The therapy sucks, there is no way around it. I dread appointments the way most people dread the dentist, and I never feel quite so ohmygodthebottomisgoingtofallout Dr. Dinosaur-y as I do when I leave my appointments.

But it gets easier. Bit by bit, it seems like happiness might now be something I have to earn.

Some Conversations With Women II

"That's not that young."

"It is when I'm trying to date someone between 35 and 40!"

I suck in a quick breath through my teeth. "Oh, yeah. In that context, he's just a baby! What were you thinking?"

"That he was a super cute 24 year old and that I wanted to make out with someone."

We dissolve into laughter.

***

"What do I do?"

I'm sitting on the tiled floor of a not-quite-public, not-quite-private bathroom, texting my best friend and waiting the longest three minutes of my life.

"Well, you can make an appointment. I'll take the day off of work and take you."

"I honestly have never loved you more than this I do in this moment."

"I know."

"Three minutes is a long time."

"I know."

"Do I say anything? I mean, if it is . . ."

"I wouldn't. But you probably would."

"Fuck."

"I know."

We wait.

***

"I mean, I'm settled now, but there's no way I would ever date a guy under the age of 35 again."

"Do you really think it makes that much of a difference?"

"Yeah."

"What is it?"

"Well, the sex."

"Yes of course the sex, but is there anything beyond?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"It's cliched."

"What is it?"

I pause. 

"You know how guys in their 20s don't know what they want?"

"Yup."

"Guys in their early 30s know what they want, but if it's not you they don't mind using you as training wheels for their next relationship."

We sit quietly.