9/12/11

This post is dedicated to love.

Yesterday was the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks on The United States. I don't really feel it necessary to discuss where I was on 9/11/01 or to reiterate any sad sentiments about that occasion. There are many things I could say about that day or my subsequent experience with that event, but that event is not about me at all so it's relatively pointless. I mean no disservice to anyone who was directly affected by those events, but I chose not to watch any news coverage related to the 10 year anniversary because yes, I know, "never forget", but all my thoughts and feelings about 9/11 are solidified and I just don't want to see anything that will make those change.

I will say this: my greatest memory of 9/11 and its aftermath is not of the tragedy, but it is of love. It is of how we genuinely came together as a nation, crossing the usual divides of political party, borders, race and religion (okay, maybe not so much for Muslims, but we're working on that) out of love for our country and love for our fellow (hu)man. (<-- this is still a feminist blog afterall) I remember the celebrities and comedians desparately trying to make us laugh during that time of grief. I remember gathering in churches and community spaces to just be around each other so we wouldn't have to be alone. All the phone calls made from those in the planes and in the tower, were messages of love. I remember the Red Sox rooting for the Yankees. Seriously. Do you remember that? Let that sink in for a minute. The Red Sox rooted for the Yankees. I remember so much love. We loved things and people that we wouldn't otherwise love. For a little while, I even loved George W. Bush and Rudy Giuliani. That may have been short-lived, but I still have some marginal respect for how they, and many other leaders, behaved during that aftermath.

Also, today is my third wedding anniversary. I grew up in a house where my parents openly celebrated their wedding anniversary each and every year, but it seems that in other households wedding anniversaries are largely ignored. It could be that I place more importance on this day than other couples do, especially for one as insignificant as number 3, but I think it's quite within my right to reminisce about the day we devoted ourselves to each other.

A lot of things were said at our wedding. Nearly all those things we wrote or chose for ourselves. We wrote our wedding ceremony and chose the readings, the only thing ad-libbed was the sermon from the minister, to which we had contributed anyway. But one of the things that strikes me about everything that was said, is that everything has been so true. We didn't know anything about marriage, and yet, everything we chose ended up being eerily accurate. Sure, maybe the advice was vague and the readings just generalities about love, but I find myself thinking about what we said and what the minister said that is just so fitting in our daily lives.

The general theme? Marriage is a huge risk. You don't know what will happen, people change and it is a lot of ongoing work to keep your relationship alive. But if you love each other and cherish each other and build each other up instead of tearing each other down, you'll find much joy and happiness.

This first reading, the one I chose for B. And the second one, the one he chose for me. We are smart cookies.

But ultimately there comes a moment when a decision must be made. Ultimately two people who love each other must ask themselves how much they hope for as their love grows and deepens, and how much risk they are willing to take…It is indeed a fearful gamble…Because it is the nature of love to create, a marriage itself is something which has to be created, so that, together we become a new creature.

To marry is the biggest risk in human relations that a person can take…If we commit ourselves to one person for life this is not, as many people think, a rejection of freedom; rather it demands the courage to move into all the risks of freedom, and the risk of love which is permanent; into that love which is not possession, but participation…It takes a lifetime to learn another person…When love is not possession, but participation, then it is part of that co-creation which is our human calling, and which implies such risk that it is often rejected.
   ~Madeleine L'Engle, The Irrational Season

 Love is friendship caught fire; it is quiet, mutual confidence, sharing and forgiving. It is loyalty through good and bad times. It settles for less than perfection, and makes allowances for human weaknesses. Love is content with the present, hopes for the future, and does not brood over the past. It is the day-in and day-out chronicles of irritations, problems, compromises, small disappointments, big victories, and working toward common goals. If you have love in your life, it can make up for a great many things you lack. If you do not have it, no matter what else there is, it is not enough.
   ~Laura Hendricks

and your medical charts, and when you start

This post is about menstruation. It's not an apology or even a warning, it's just a notice. Menstruation, below.

I know I'm risking losing my credibility as a reasonable feminist (street cred, yo) to say this, but dood....having periods is like....ovulation and being fertile and part of some sort of womanly bond...and like....the moon. For realz.


But then, well, then there's the blood.

(See first line above)

Okay, I know it's not really blood, it's lots of things that make up the lining of the uterus, that like...drips out of you. But like...despite how easily all the absorbent cotton products on TV make it seem, well, it's not always well-managed. Amitrite, ladies? Sometimes it's like WWII down there and you just want to throw your hands up and wave that white flag. Or well, it probably wouldn't be so white anymore, but....I digress.

Us modern women have lots of choices, both for controlling the length and flow of our periods and managing to not walk around covered in blood once a month. It's pretty amazing to think about what kinds of products and options we have today compared to what our great-grandmothers did or didn't have. But sometimes I think way way before that, back to a time when humans were just evolving. I assume that women passed along to each other that they would get this thing occasionally and that it didn't mean they had a wound, but was there ever an early time where they just didn't know what was going on? Did they ever think they were ill or did they just know it was part of the life cycle? These are the kinds of things I wonder while curled up in my sweatpants shoving a chocolate bar into my mouth. I think about cave women trying to figure out what periods were. #mylifeissad

The other thing that I find absolutely fascinating is the whole ovulation cycle. Now, I know my heteronormative is showing a little here but HOLY CRAP did you know that women's bodies were like...meant to conceive by making them the rowdiest right at the time where they're most likely to conceive? It's how we're still alive and the Dodo Bird is not. (I only assume that the female dodo birds all got "headaches" when they were the most fertile.)

I mean, check this out.

From Wikipedia

You see that purple line go up right around day 21? Yeah. That's your lady boner. Basically, God puts on a Barry White record to make little babies. It's absolutely genius. No wonder feminists are always blah blah blahing about how amazing periods are. They ARE amazing.

In today's world of Seasonale and Mirena and tampons in neon colored candy wrappers, I just didn't want y'all to forget that even though you have the incredible option of not being a baby making machine, your body is totally designed to get you off the couch every once in a while and into bed to do the nasty. That, ladies, is intelligent design. ;)

feed them on your dreams

Last week I went home. Actually, home is a funny word. Baltimore is my home, but my hometown is in Ohio. So "going home" means going to Ohio, that is unless I'm in Ohio, in which "going home" means going to Maryland.

No less than 4 very emotional events happened during my visit and on the subsequent drive home, but this isn't about any of them. This is about my visit with the Miss Superwoman Molly, her loserface husband (just kidding, he's super awesome too) and her 2 very fantastic there are no words to describe it children.

Her son, L, has met me once or twice but at the tender age of 5 he doesn't remember. That being said, we were LIFELONG FRIENDS the moment I walked in the door. Now, as someone who finds children, well, annoying and sticky, this was surprisingly welcomed. He's just, the most totally awesome kid and I know that sounds like a 90's motivational slogan but he really is. He's kind hearted and quick to learn and really funny. (Molly, if you're reading this, you can thank me later for teaching him knock-knock jokes.)

The newest addition, baby girl T, was secretly the only reason for my visit. Who cares about her parents, she is the star of the show. Most importantly, sitting on top of this girl's head is a pile of red hair. My heart melts for a red-headed child. And while I can't claim to understand at all how a parent feels about wanting to protect their child, as I sat there holding her on my lap, the most surprising things came out of my mouth. I suddenly had the urge to tell her ALL about life. "You are beautiful. Never ever go on a diet.", I said. "Being a girl is amazing. Sure you get periods and have to shave your legs, but that's so much better than being a boy. You are perfect the way you are. You can do anything you want. And if you're good at math, run with it."

Children never make me want to have my own. They are the best reminder that I am not ready for that stage of life, if ever. But in that moment I did kind of think for a second that it would be very nice to hug something every day and tell it how awesome it is. And then she started to scream and it shattered that little dream. And I thanked God for birth control.

Enough with my problems, here is something I really like. This is the glorious Tina Fey on Ellen talking about her pregnancy with her second child and how they're not going to find out the sex of the baby, ever. They're just going to wait to see what it wears to prom. The comments start at 0:38 but the whole segment is adorable and hilarious. (By the way, she just had the baby, and it's a girl.)

there's no need to complicate, cause our time is short

Of course I want to write a very long blog entry and post it to twitter, facebook, google+, myspace, the outside of my house, my office door and the back of my car, but I can't. Because my story is not just my story to tell. Much like my previous post about my OCD it would feel like a relief presenting it for all to see, but then I would quickly regret it as well-intentioned people would make me feel awful about it. So as revealing as I can be, I can tell you that life just isn't what I expected it to be, but I'm taking care of myself and moving forward in a way that protects my mental, physical and spiritual health, and if taking those steps means making one of the saddest decisions of my life, then I have no choice.

Trust me, I'm okay.

some talk about drapes...

Since my last post was hella long, this one is going to be, uh, shorter. I'm not really interested in disecting all the issues surrounding the unrealistic portrayal of women in the beauty and magazine industry (both in the models themselves and the overuse of image editing) because that's been done (and done, and done). Instead, I'd like to briefly discuss just how powerful visual images have on our sense of self. Well, I'd like to discuss how images have a powerful effect on my sense of self.

I don't have some fancy statistic to tell you how many times a day we see images or reflections of ourself, but I can say that it's a heckofalot more times than we did 50, 100 and 500 years ago. The invention of the mirror, the camera and now the digital camera has made it possible for us to see what we look like virtually any minute of the day. At one point in time the only way to see your reflection was to look in a pool of water. Back then it's logical that you wouldn't have a good grip on what you looked like. Now we have mirrors in several rooms of the house, albums upon albums of printed images of our face from the time we're born, and hundreds it not thousands of photos of us on facebook. We are oversaturated with images of ourselves.

But this means that we're also oversaturated with images of other people, and this has a profound effect on what we expect to see when we pass a mirror. Meaning, do you expect to see yourself, or are you expecting to see something else? Because chances are, the images you're seeing of others don't even come close to what you look like since they are likely to be thinner/whiter/smoother/younger/tanner/taller than you.

Here's my real life example. I was born with a rare gene mutation that causes a pigment variation in my skin and hair. (read: I'm a redhead.) I was born with a full head of bright orange hair, and while I don't have textured curls or a face full of freckles, believe me when I say I am very much a redhead in almost every sense. Being a redhead is sort of cool, actually. Sure I got teased as a kid and require more anesthetic at the dentist, but I have the rarest hair color in the world and people notice it. I get asked about once a month if my hair color is natural, which is then followed by some glowing compliment about how beautiful it is. People pay hundreds of dollars to get what I have naturally. It is absolutely part of who I am and I wouldn't trade it for the world.

But....

I am totally surprised when I look in the mirror every. single. time. When I imagine myself, I think I have brown hair. But I do not. My hair is the color of copper. It's not a variation of brown, it's a variation of orange. My hair has been pretty much the same color for all my twenty some years and I've seen myself probably hundreds of thousands of times in mirrors and through pictures. I know that I'm a redhead, but I expect to see brown hair when I look in the mirror. I don't know how to explain it, but I'm still somehow surprised by my hair color. I am convinced that being surrounded by brunettes explains why I somehow think I am a brunette.

I know you probably think I'm crazy, but I'm totally not. I'll leave you with this excerpt from "Their Eyes Were Watching God" by Zora Neale Hurston. I think it says it all.

Ah was wid dem white chillun so much till Ah didn’t know Ah wuzn’t white till Ah was round six years old. Wouldn’t have found it out then, but a man come long takin’ pictures and without askin’ anybody, Shelby, dat was de oldest boy, he told him to take us. Round a week later de man brought de picture for Mis’ Washburn to see and pay him which she did, then give us all a good lickin’.

So when we looked at depicture and everybody got pointed out there wasn’t nobody left except a real dark little girl with long hair standing by Eleanor. Dat’s where Ah wuz s’posed to be, but Ah couldn’t recognize dat dark child as me. So Ah ast, ‘where is me? Ah don’t see me.’

[...] Ah looked at de picture a long time and seen it was mah dress and mah hair so Ah said: ’Aw, aw! Ah’m colored!’

secrets, secrets, are no fun...

This isn’t about feminism, but it is about my life and how I’m negotiating it. This post is about a tightly kept secret, one I’ve kept from my parents and my husband and nearly all of my friends. I even kept it from myself for a while, but I think it might be time to do some therapeutic writing about this topic. I write this today knowing that it’s a subject that is widely misunderstood as it becomes a part of the American lexicon and trusting that my readers will be respectful and non-judgmental as I bare my soul on the world-wide-web. So grab a cup of coffee, this is a long read.

I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

I don’t mean it casually, like “omg, I am being such a perfectionist today, I’m so OCD” or “I cleaned the same dish 3 times because it just didn’t look clean, I totally have OCD”, I mean like actual Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Let those words sit in your mouth for a minute. It’s a disorder characterized by irrational, repetitive thoughts or behaviors aimed at reducing anxiety. Often, after time, these thoughts and behaviors are sources of anxiety as these actions only relieve anxiety momentarily and become crutches instead of real treatment for the cause of that anxiety. So, yes, Obsessive. Compulsive. Disorder. I have that.

Maybe I should clarify, I have well-managed Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Like many things, OCD is a spectrum illness and I definitely wouldn’t say that I’m on the worst end, but at one time in my life I had it to the point of severe frustration. It negatively affected my life and my ability to function as a normal person. Anyone who suffers from OCD would agree with this statement: “It was torture.”

I’ve had OCD for almost as long as I can remember. In looking at my life from beginning to now, I can say that my periods of heightened OCD closely coincided with periods of heightened stress, but there were clearly a few years where it was overall worse than it is now. Partially I healed because I learned to manage it and partially because I removed some of the anxiety in my life.

The most important thing to understand about OCD is that it is a condition, and the behavior is a symptom. This means that the symptom may very well change throughout one’s life. It can be closely likened to the way a drug addict might get clean off of one drug but start using another. This doesn’t mean that they are no longer addicted to drugs, it just means that their drug of choice has changed. They are still an addict. Furthermore, if they get clean all together, they are still an addict. An alcoholic is always an alcoholic.

When you have OCD you feel at highest anxiety when you are not practicing that behavior, however, most of us with OCD know that we’re being irrational or phobic, and wish that we could just stop. That’s where the feeling of torture comes in, because you can’t shut off the mental narrative. No one wants to practice their repetitive behavior, but there is a “high” that comes from it, that release of anxiety. In fact, OCD and drug addiction are very, very similar. Related is Body Dismorphic Disorder (eating disorders, the need for extreme plastic surgery, etc.), Tourette syndrome and Hoarding.

Okay, I know you’re dying to know what kind of OCD I have. No, I definitely don’t have a cleanliness, or washing OCD, although those kinds of compulsions make up over half of all people with OCD. I have counting and order OCD. Counting compulsions make up a little under 3% of all OCD obsessions and order or arrangement OCD makes up for about 5%. I’m not sure if there are approved names for each kind of compulsion, but I would generally refer to my OCD as being one of these. The “order/arrangement” compulsion is really more like a sub-category of the “counting” compulsion for me because the order is really dependent on what numbers are associated with it. The counting compulsion does not manifest itself in a compulsion to do things a certain number of times, it is a mental track that counts steps and paces and objects in even numbers. Complicated, right?

Counting compulsions include counting steps, floor tiles, bricks, light poles, really anything that can be counted to be honest. Arrangement compulsions can vary, the kind I have is the kind where if I’m counting something I need it to be symmetrical, not the kind where I have to eat my chicken nuggets in even numbers, but it may very well affect my eating if my food isn’t portioned out in a symmetrical or mathematically divisible way. (For example, I’m likely to sort M&M’s by color and then eat the leftovers until I have even amounts of each color, then eat them in rainbow order. Not technically OCD since if I couldn’t practice this I don’t think I’d feel too much anxiety, but that’s an example of the compulsion.) Overall, my biggest compulsions are steps, floor tiles (sidewalks and the like), bricks or cinder blocks and symmetry in patterns. This manifests itself more mentally than behaviorally, as in when I look at a brick wall, I will look at every other brick on the entire wall, and if I accidentally look at an “off” brick I have to start over. If you can imagine looking at a chessboard and focusing only on the black tiles, and punishing yourself for looking at a white one by starting over and looking at each black tile until you’ve successfully completed that task, that is exactly what my brain does whenever I see objects with repetitive patterns.

I used to have an extreme compulsion about steps. I had little ways about walking up steps that involved only stepping on certain steps with a certain foot, or starting with one foot and having to end on the opposite foot, and so I would come up with little mathematical games in order to do this correctly, and if I couldn’t figure it out I would go up and down the steps over and over until I got it right. Now, keep in mind this wasn’t just some game I made up because I was an only child, in my head this was absolutely necessary. And when I couldn’t get it right, my punishment was to do it over and over again until I could get it right, but when I finally did, the satisfaction was pure bliss. Whenever I was home alone as a child, I could do this for hours. My parents had no idea. (Or maybe they did? Eh.)

Over time, my compulsions have changed slightly, and become highly managed. While I no longer count steps I still count bricks and floor tiles. Some of the counting has transformed into a need for certain objects to be arranged in a symmetrical fashion. To be honest, it’s natural for humans to prefer symmetry over asymmetry, our faces and bodies are symmetrical, many objects in nature are symmetrical and I think that human nature is to prefer order over chaos. But at times this need has interfered with my ability to be a functioning adult.

For a while in high school I developed low-end trichotillomania (pulling out one’s hair) but fortunately that subsided and eyelashes grow back. There were a smattering of times where I had a bit of a number compulsion, not counting but over specific numbers or number combinations. Some numbers were good, some were bad. Some numbers were more symmetrical than others and that made them preferable. (8 for example was more symmetrical than 6 because if you break it in half you have 4 which is an even number) I still have an affinity for remembering phone numbers, street addresses and zip codes.  I still love arithmetic and number games, however my need for symmetrical numbers took a serious toll on my academics when I was introduced to Algebra. Algebraic equations created so much anxiety because I lost all control of the numbers. I couldn’t keep them symmetrical and because it’s a math problem you can’t just rearrange the numbers to suit your needs like magnets on a fridge, no there is a proper way to keep them and you can’t just move the 3 to the other side because it’s a bad number. (I was exponentially better at Geometry, if I may say so.)

In addition to algebra class, my high school career suffered because of my OCD. The walls in my high school were made up of cinderblock. Cinderblock is possibly the worst for me. Not only did I have to sit there and count all the blocks, but whenever I couldn’t see all the cinderblock because it went behind the chalkboard or a cabinet or whatever, I felt anxiety. So then I’d start all over again. With the same result. (Remind me again for that word used to describe repeating an action over and over with the same result?) Concentration on anything but the counting became very difficult. A couple times after class I would casually walk up to a bookshelf and look behind it so that I could get the satisfaction of seeing the rest of the cinderblocks so I could resolve that count. Lord help me if I am ever institutionalized in a prison.

If I had to put my finger on the times when this was worst I would say ages 6-10 and 13-15. I know that’s kind of broad, but that’s pretty accurate. And yes, I had OCD when I was 6 years old. I had (and still do) an obsession with keeping anything and everything in rainbow order, I seriously LOST IT when my crayons were out of order. But even then, I knew that was irrational so I tried to keep my temper under check. The counting thing started not long after. When you’re 6 years old, you don’t know you have OCD, it’s all a game to you. But at a certain point the fun of the game stops and the obsession takes over. It was incredibly frustrating for me, I couldn’t decide if I was totally normal and everyone experienced the same nagging counting behaviors or if I was totally crazy. Either way, I sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything.

The most common treatment for OCD is something called “exposure therapy”. Obviously, it is exactly what it sounds like, you are exposed to that thing in order to stop being afraid of it. For people with my kind of OCD it would mean exposing myself to not participate in that specific behavior and learning to manage my anxiety while not using that crutch. When done correctly this therapy gives you great power over your compulsion and over other fears in life. Learning to “expose” properly has greatly improved my well-being and my ability to confront situations where I am reasonably afraid or otherwise anxious. As my natural anxiety subsided I was able to slowly wean myself off of these behaviors, but like I said before the underlying cause still exists. I still have OCD. I am cognizant to try to avoid developing other compulsions, although the urge is still there.

I know you might be thinking: “Uh just don’t count things. Don’t look at bricks. Don’t look at floor tiles.” But it’s not that simple. Remember above when I said the purpose of the repetitive behaviors was to reduce anxiety? That means that avoiding them will create more anxiety. You’d have as much success telling an anorexic to “just eat” or a meth addict to “just stop using”. It’s not that simple. In a single instance, yes, I can achieve victory over one instance, but for someone with OCD or for anyone trying to reverse chronic behavior patterns, even one second can be made up of multiple instances.

I am writing about this now because at my current job I am christening a new office with my presence and have had to fill it starting from scratch. I find myself constantly rearranging things, even pieces of paper to be in a symmetrical and organized pattern and am discovering that even well-managed OCD can easily slip into not-at-all-managed OCD. And the hallway tiles here don’t help. They’re in this weird pattern that I blame for moving my OCD management down a notch, but I’m trying to look forward instead of down. (So far, unsuccessful.) Oh and also EVERYTHING HERE IS BRICK! But let me take a deep breath and continue…

You know the movie “A Beautiful Mind” where he looks at magazines and certain words just highlight themselves and float out in the air to them? That’s kind of what a counting compulsion is like, only with every other brick, tile or square and I’m also not a mathematic genius. Also, I’m not batshit crazy. I have OCD. Well-managed OCD. I keep telling myself that. Over and over and over again… (see what I did there?)

I do want to say that everything I've described here is not all-inclusive of my disorder. I do have another manifestation of this disorder that is better left not on the world-wide-web. Not because it is shameful or embarassing but because I'm still working through it and discovering how it affects my adult life. It is drastically different from what I've described above. If you also suffer from OCD whether it's well-managed or otherwise, or just to learn more about OCD, I encourage you to visit the International OCD Foundation for more information.