Tormented

Looking back, I always remind myself of my life when things were the worst—a teenager on the brink. I am a young guy seeking and trying to find my way at work and with others. I become a middle-aged man plowing through 8-10 glasses of wine daily. My career is booming. Why am I doing this? Opposites attract.

Where do I fit in?

What am I good at?

Who will love me?

Will I develop Cirrhosis? Will it hurt if I do?

What will history say about me? What about my family?

I can be the quietest person you've ever met. If I know and trust you, I will talk your ear off. I was a guy who lost touch with his soul. Nervous constantly. Checking, obsessing endlessly, managing evil thoughts, and so on. It was a nightmare. I slept so little. I somehow managed to be popular and have a lot of friends. Talk about irony. I hid everything except my hands. I would wash them so frequently they chapped and bled. My fingernails chewed to the cuticles. But I forged on. I started researching what was ailing me. The library would produce a book about OCD. It didn't take me long to figure out I had it. It did take me a long time to do something about it. It was embarrassing, constant, heavy, and painful to my core. I had to hide this from my parents as a kid, my wife as a young man, and my family as a retiree.

Suppose you're staring at a stove for an hour until you are comfortable that it was turned off, only to get hung up on whether the toaster is unplugged. You'll know what I mean. When I found alcohol in my teens, I thought it was something that would calm me. So I started drinking and would for the next 40 years. I quit five years ago. The depressant drug held a firm grip on my body and intellect like a jackal protecting Satan himself. The only relief gained after a trip to the liquor store. I bought my daily 1.5 bottle of wine and transported it home. Soon, I'll be somewhere else one more time. My daily binge is a three-hour process. Act one got me started, and I achieved a relaxing high. Act two had me at cruising altitude, which I would nurture until I began losing lift and the clock approached the bewitching hour of 10 PM. Did I know where I was? Hardly. I'd crash into bed only after a few rounds with the stove's fire.

What did I gain in my 3-hour, 3-act play? Only one thing. A further reliance and desire to repeat the script in 21 hours. The devil's grip tightened around my liver. The ever-tightening tunicate would morph from loving protection to death's saturation. Good night.

OCD is bad enough. Alcohol-infused OCD is worse. For me, it came with depression, too. What a bonus. I was fortunate. I found an excellent psychiatrist to work with me. Therapy and meds would start a process that allowed me to address the cause at the heart of my issues. It would take almost ten years, and on 2/14/19, I gave up trying to drown myself. I would stop soaking up poison and start a regimen of healthier life choices.

I retired and started working out and writing more. Slowly, my OCD and depression waned. While not nonexistent, these maladies lurk around with a loosened grip that allows me to fight and win against Prostate Cancer. I am hoping I have enough strength to manage Multiple Sclerosis for the rest of my life while we knock off a few items on the bucket list.

Whatever you do, stay after it, resolve it, defeat it, and celebrate life itself.

Peace, Chris