2014, AGE FIFTY-TWO.
“So why are you doing this?”
This is a question I’ve asked myself and have been asked by people who care about me, for several years now. Why am I putting myself out there, exposing the embarrassment and shame of a lifetime that I spent years in therapy trying to heal? Things in my life are really good now, so why am I bringing all this up?
I’m bringing it up because I understand now what OCD is, and I know what it can do when left unacknowledged. The effect of this mental disorder on my self-esteem was catastrophic, and the majority of my life has been spent in search, first, of “What’s wrong with me?” and next, of “Can I be fixed?” I also know that, like addiction and anxiety, the tendency toward it can be hereditary. As I watched my daughter start to struggle with the initial manifestations of OCD a few years ago, before adolescence even, I thought, enough. This stops here. Not the OCD—because, while it can be managed, right now it can’t really be cured—but the fear and the shame and the inability to talk about what’s happening to her. If she’s going to wrestle with this, she’s going to wrestle it with knowledge, self-confidence, understanding from others, and the safety of knowing that it’s just a thing that she has—and that she can control it, rather than the other way around.
Sir Francis Bacon said that knowledge is power. Knowledge about mental illness can change an otherwise debilitating and shameful facet of a child’s life into an element of her personality that simply needs to be managed, much like near-sightedness or flat feet. If a child is encouraged to communicate and to ask for help, and taught to be self-aware and self-accepting, then two things could happen: The child’s self-esteem won’t be destroyed, and the perception of mental illness, both internal and external, can change.
If you know that you do something over and over and that the repetition is something you want to stop but can’t, then you should be able to say—to your parents or your teachers or your friends or your spouse—“Hey, I think I’ve got something going on in my head that I’d like to get a handle on. Can you help me?” It should be as easy as that. We have no problem saying, “Hey, I think I sprained my wrist; can you take me to a doctor?” Telling someone we need mental help should be that easy, that straightforward, that judgment-free.
Too much of my behavior—my rituals and thoughts—are steeped in blame and shrouded in shame. I never allowed myself to share any of them with the people I knew and loved because I was ashamed of them; I still am, in some cases. I went through way too much, for way too long, completely alone because behaviors associated with OCD can be about as isolating as it gets. And now that I know this, I’d like to stop it, thank you. I can’t stop the disorder, but, if I can talk about it and if my children can talk about it, then maybe we can stop the loss of self-esteem that can take a lifetime to recover.
One day I was unexpectedly drawn into a conversation with my then seven-year-old son about my alcoholism. I’d always intended to tell my kids when they were older, but circumstances in this moment dictated that he and I have the discussion sooner rather than later. Afterward, I wrote a column about the conversation:
I keep my cleaning supplies locked in a cabinet under the kitchen sink. I thought that keeping them hidden would protect my kids—that if I showed them where and what they were, they’d be more inclined to want to experiment with them and would get hurt. If they didn’t know the stuff was there, then there wouldn’t be any danger.
Of all people, I should know that pretending something doesn’t exist doesn’t make it so.
My son and I were reading a book together. It was one that might have been a little mature for some seven-year-olds, but we’ve been reading novels for so long already that I didn’t give it a second thought. As we got further into the book, I realized one of the main characters had a drinking problem, although it wasn’t being addressed directly.
It wasn’t, at least, until the last chapter. It became clear then that the character’s alcoholism was the central issue behind his actions, and his actions were the central issue of the story.
My son asked me what that meant, and I explained it the best I could on short notice. I told him that some people have a physical problem with alcohol, while others don’t; that people with this problem have a very hard time not drinking, but that not drinking is the only way to be okay. Unfortunately, some people aren’t able to quit, and it can affect their lives—and the lives of people they love—in a bad way.
He responded, “Alcoholics must be bad people then.”
And there it was. I was blindsided. I always knew we would have this conversation one day because, from the generations of alcoholics before me, I am keenly aware of the damage that comes from not talking about it. But I thought he’d be a little older—and that I’d be a little more prepared.
“Oh, no, honey,” I said, “Alcoholics aren’t bad people. It’s a disease, and people with this disease just have to make sure they don’t drink.”
“But the guy in the book did bad things,” he persisted.
“Maybe,” I said, “but he was not a bad person.” I was stalling, trying to put off the inevitable as long as I could. But I simply could not let him walk away from this conversation with the very belief system I wanted to dispel. I could not perpetuate the cycle of guilt and shame of which I’d been a victim all of my life.
“You know,” I then said, “Mommy’s an alcoholic.”
His face took on a look of confusion and fright. “But . . . are you sick?” he asked.
“No, sweetie, I’m not sick. I’ve been sober for fifteen years. I’m what they call a ‘recovering alcoholic.’ I was able to get help a long time ago, before you were born, before I even met Daddy. I knew I had to get better if I ever wanted to have you all in my life someday.”
He mulled this over for a few moments and asked, “Will I be an alcoholic?”
Once again I was not prepared for the question. The truth is that, based on my family history, there’s a chance he may have a problem with drinking—but he’s certainly too young to adopt that worry. Still, I chose not to lie—a choice that was more difficult than I care to admit.
“I don’t know,” I finally said, “but I do know that whatever challenges you face when you get older, Daddy and I will help you through them. That’s why we talk about things—so that you’ll always be able to come to us.” That satisfied him, and I thought this was the end of it.
It wasn’t. He came home from school a few days later, put down his backpack, and said, “Hi, Mom! Um . . . you were drunk, weren’t you?”
Wiping the initial shock off my face, I replied, “Well, yes, I guess I was. I mean, well . . . why do you ask, honey?”
He pulled out a paper from school that explained the workings of the lungs, with a section on the ill effects of smoking.
“The teacher said that we shouldn’t smoke because it’s addictive, and once you start, sometimes you can’t stop. And I raised my hand and said, ‘That’s like my mom with drinking!’” He was so proud of himself for making that connection and, yet, in need of some reassurance that it was okay to do so.
I stood there silently, trying to picture his classmates’ dinner conversations that night. I was imagining his party invitations drying up and play dates dwindling away, when suddenly I caught myself. I was doing exactly what I did when I was a kid, and exactly what I didn’t want my kids to do: I was letting myself be ashamed.
And in that moment, with my son waiting expectantly for some clue that he hadn’t done anything wrong, I knew what I had to say and I knew I had to be ready to live it. I kissed his head and said, “Yes, honey. That’s right. They’re very similar.” He smiled and walked away, presumably filing the information away in his head under “Things to Know Later.” And he taught me something in the process.
The mere existence of something does not make it dangerous. What makes it dangerous is not understanding what it is and what it can do, which leads to judgment and fear and prejudice. Knowledge, I’m learning, truly is power, and so I’m going to go get my children and head for the kitchen.
We’ve got some cabinets to unlock.
AT THE TIME THIS COLUMN WAS PUBLISHED, I WAS ASKED THE SAME QUESTION: “WHY?”
Why write about it? Why disclose it? Why do this to yourself?
The answer then was easy. I did it because I needed to start breaking the cycle of shame associated with addiction. I needed to clarify it for my son before he had an opportunity to adopt the hand-me-down theme of embarrassment and shame. And I was glad I did it—until I realized later that alcoholism was not the only secret I harbored. There were more that had to be exorcised, and writing is my priest.
Suddenly, I was teetering on a fence between my past and my future—and my kids’ futures. My past secrets—and present, for that matter—may well affect their futures. Will they be surprised to read this book and learn some things about Mommy that she doesn’t really talk about? Possibly, but, then again, maybe I’ll be able to talk about them more easily now. Will they be more equipped to handle their own issues if they know it’s okay to talk about them and get help for them? I hope so. Will they still love me? Without a doubt.
If I really wanted to break the cycle of shame and guilt that seems endemic to people like me—who seem to have perfectly normal, happy lives while praying that, in the next moment, they won’t have to count, pluck, use, or pick—and if I wanted to be honest with my children, my husband, my family, and my friends, then I had to be honest with myself. The paradox has always been that I can’t be honest if I’m ashamed, yet the shame has always shrouded the honesty. It’s time to break through the shroud.
And, most importantly, this is for my kids and any other kids who grow up with these kinds of issues and concerns and fears. I want them to be able to talk about them openly and honestly, without blame and without shame, like people talk about acne and periods and break-ups. I don’t want them to spend half their lives in their rooms, hurting and wondering why they’re always so alone. I want to empower them on their journey through life—from the innocence of white belt to the enlightenment of black—to fight back.
That’s why I’m doing this.