My wrestle last week with my bit of obsessive compulsive disorder (see previous post) came to a happy ending.  I got a new prescription.  It's working great and I feel wonderful.

Also, I started planting big shrubs to screen out the forest devastation I was upset about.  (Again, the previous post will allow this to make sense.)

And my otherwise better-than-excellent doc dared to tell me, after reading my blog, that I have a Very Mild Case of OCD.  To that I say, God help the individual who has the more advanced condition of Mild Case or worse.   I am so relieved to be free again of that thicket of highly unpleasant mental repetition. 

My fine new drug is clomipramine.  When I googled it, the first thing that came up was use of this medication for anxious dogs.   So I guess I won't have any problems with fear of thunder or vacuum cleaners.

One lingering possibly pathological feeling: I don't want to get help planting 12 to 15 huge shrubs, because then my garden will feel permanently messed-with and no longer mine.  I cringe a bit at saying that, am hoping the feeling will pass — or I may still be digging holes in August.

Thanks for all the get-happier-soon wishes. 

A friend suggested I might hold off on blogging today.  And she has a point.  What one says online tends to be permanent and I can already imagine writing an apology tomorrow for whatever I say today.

But I regularly claim here to write about coping with obsessive-compulsive disorder, and it seems like dodging the subject and potential usefulness to write only when it's not a problem.

So here's my situation:  In recent days I had to quit taking a drug because it seemed to be interfering with my sleep.  I spent a week cutting down on the dose, and have been without it now for a day and a half.  Yesterday was fine, though I was more emotionally expressive than usual.  Nothing wrong with that.

Today?  Grief, rage, and fear of saying something permanently destructive. My focus, insofar as there is one: the loss of some trees around my house; more were cut down than I thought would be in the process of our going solar, and I allowed this to happen.  Won't dwell on this further just now. Too debilitating and painful. I haven't been willing to say the word tree out loud today.  My maybe-disproportionate upset has alternated today with a sense of unusually calm perceptiveness and capability.  I think I'm cutting myself some slack because I'm having a hard time, and that is relieving and liberating.  I'm  in the latter state at the moment and will not say more about the trees, because I don't want this to change. 

My brand of OCD seems to be largely scrupulosity — fear of doing or of having done something wrong. 

I'm feeling better right now because friends have listened to me at length and I've distracted myself with work and my doc is going to call me back tonight and likely prescribe a new med that I can get hold of tomorrow morning.  Plus there is writing this; writing always helps.  And I'm avoiding any possibility of conflict, for fear of going to extremes.

In the meantime, I've just regoogled scrupulosity and OCD and found companionable resources I hadn't seen before, chiefly www.ocddave.com and some of the books and links he suggests.  I found myself embarrassingly consoled by learning on his site that Leo DiCaprio has a mild case of OCD. ( My own case is  mild, in comparison to possibilities like repeating an action all day.)   It's helpful to see examples of people being successful and productive while dealing with the same problem.    On the other hand, it didn't help me at all to know that Martin Luther and Saint Teresa of Lisieux tended to be overscrupulous.  I could have guessed that.  And if I wanted to be like either one of them, I'd be having a very bad day.

Anyway, not sure what my point is here except to create a document from a moment in the midst of some trouble.  It seems wrong not to.  I was impressed that "OCDDave" posted on his blog on a day when his mental health was, as he so ably said, taking "a precipitous ride down the crapper." 

I'm on the verge of getting my first novel Revelation (Simon & Schuster, 1988) out in digital form.  And I've been having second thoughts about which set of paragraphs should open the story: the one that I first turned in to my editor, or the material that I added which served as the opening of the published book. 

I would love for you to tell me which sequence you find more engaging.  Both chapters will contain the same material, simply placed in a different order.

So, what do you think:  A or B?

A.

Swain hits the brakes and all the books on the car seat beside him shoot forward onto the floor. A Jeep swerves out around him, the driver yelling, but he can't hear a sound through the guy's closed window. The last Swain sees as the car flashes past is the man's finger pointing him to look up. He does as he's told and looks: red light. When did they put a light in here? There was never a light here.

He sighs, shrugs, backs his car out of the intersection and sits motionless, his elbow on the hot window frame in the midsummer heat.  Six o'clock and it's still this hot. The smell of the road tar rises up around him.

He stares for a moment at the books spilled onto the floor, then slowly piles them back on the seat. Eschatology and Ethics. New World Metaphysics. The Science of Theology. He shakes cold coffee off the bottom book. Damn. He finds the mug, empty now, and puts it back on the seat. Somebody behind him honks. Okay, okay, he thinks, and pulls out.

 I should have demolished that guy, kept going and plowed right through him, or at least yelled something. One good “fuck you.” Once in my life l'd like to do that. The one time I ever do, it'll tum out to be somebody from the congregation.  Or someone who sees the Clergy hospital parking sticker and writes an outraged letter to the newspaper.

He presses his head back against the headrest, trying to loosen his neck muscles. Nothing is more irritating than sitting in a seminar with a bunch of other ministers all day. All of them working so hard at being warm and sensitive.  

 In all his life, Swain would never have said that he was called to the ministry. After spending a day with his colleagues, he still occasionally questions how it happened. But in his heart, he knows. He simply grew up certain that it would be so — that he would be a preacher. Not because of any belief he could actually pin down. Instead, it was because of a powerful lifelong desire that there be “something else." He wanted there to be more to life than he himself had seen or felt so far-something to ease his chronic vague dissatisfaction, to subdue the irritation he tries to keep reined in.

OR to begin with this order:

B.

 In all his life, Swain would never have said that he was called to the ministry. After spending a day with his colleagues, he still occasionally questions how it happened. But in his heart, he knows. He simply grew up certain that it would be so — that he would be a preacher. Not because of any belief he could actually pin down. Instead, it was because of a powerful lifelong desire that there be “something else." He wanted there to be more to life than he himself had seen or felt so far-something to ease his chronic vague dissatisfaction, to subdue the irritation he tries to keep reined in.  

 Some would consider that yearning a too-slim, or very selfish, reason for the choice he made, but it was enough for Swain. So, after Yale and one brief stint as an associate minister, he came home to Chapel Hill to be the pastor at Westside Presbyterian. He and Julie live in a neighborhood a few blocks back from the fraternity and sorority houses along Franklin Street, the wide avenue that divides the campus from the town.

Swain hits the brakes and all the books on the car seat beside him shoot forward onto the floor. A Jeep swerves out around him, the driver yelling, but he can't hear a sound through the guy's closed window. The last Swain sees as the car flashes past is the man's finger pointing him to look up. He does as he's told and looks: red light. When did they put a light in here? There was never a light here.

Again, all of the same material will appear in either one; my question is essentially what's the best opening graf?  Which engages you more?  

Thanks for considering this.

(A little background on the book: it's about a liberal intellectual minister in a Chapel Hill church who hears God speaking aloud.  His congregation, hearing this news, thinks he needs help and his job, his ministry, is in danger.  It's a serious dilemma, not an Oh-God-type comedy.  The New York Times said,"Peggy Payne's first novel is very good….The author has the real thing: you want to find out what is going to happen."  Publishers Weekly said, "Payne writes with lyricism and deep understanding."  Synergy Films owns screen rights.)

Last night was the second time that a Duke basketball team reminded me to never give up a millisecond before the buzzer.

I'm not even a huge sports fan — hadn't watched a basketball game all season.  But last night the legendary rivalry broke out once again: Duke vs. Carolina.  And I'm a Duke alum.

One of my writers groups was meeting last night (I was a little surprised that everyone came), so by the time I got home the game was more than half over and Duke was losing by a lot.  I watched a few minutes, decided I'd had enough and switched to something more uplifting, probably Hollywood gossip.  Then husband Bob came running into the living room yelling about, "…Your team!!"

Hearing nothing more than that, I turned  back to the game, just in time to see Duke freshman Austin Rivers drop the three-pointer that gave Duke the game by a point.  Duke coaches and players erupted onto the floor in glee. 

Turned out that a run in the last two minutes of the game had brought Duke up to two points behind UNC.   Then Rivers got the ball into the air as the buzzer sounded and by damn, it went in.

The message of the night:  never give up, never give up, never give up.  Not as long as there is a fraction of a second left.

(The other time Duke b'ball reminded me of this was a few years back when Grant Hill threw the ball almost the full length of the court and Christian Laettner caught it, shot, and, with the timer showing zeroes, made the winning basket.)

I never expected to see such a thing twice.  Duke has another game in a couple of days.  I plan to be there.

The bottom line:  I boldly stayed on the green ("Easier") ski run and enjoyed a day of skiing without having to be rescued even once.

The backstory:  last week I mentioned here that I would be going skiing again for a day for the first time in more than 15 years.  My career as a skier/ski-writer-from-the-klutz-perspective was always colored by the fact that I started off with an experience pretty much akin to falling out of a plane.  (see previous post)

And then more recently I received word that my aging bones were not as sturdy as they might be, which also curbed my appetite for skiing for a while. 

Monday I was back in the bindings once again, at Beech Mountain near Boone, NC.  And it was thrilling.  I started in a barely tilted patch of white called The Playyard and re-acquainted myself with wearing skis and getting on and off the rudimentary conveyance referred to as a T-bar.   I played there a long time.

My strategy was to build a little confidence before plunging ahead to greater challenges.  It's a relatively unusual approach for me.  I usually want to careen on to the next thing. For example, I always think that a nice new clean crossword puzzle will  be much easier to finish than the pencil-smeared half-done paper in hand.

This time I went slowly from the Playyard to no more than one step up, where by contrast I came off the lift at a speed that felt like flying.  But I was not out of control.  I was actually skiing.  Thrilling, as I said.  Even though the slope was Green and easy.

I also fell twice, which felt like an accomplishment, because in the past, after my initial experience, I've usually skied so warily that I almost never fell.   Anyway, mission accomplished:  wiped out twice and didn't break a thing.  Although the second time it took me several minutes and skooching over to a fence post for support to get onto my feet again.  A little embarrassing.

I'm very happy with the adventure: a gorgeous day, perfect (machine-made) snow, and just the right level of challenge.

On an impulse this week, I sent out an email to about a dozen or so friends whom I thought might have sufficiently flexible schedules and adventurous spirits, asking them to go skiing with me Monday afternoon.  The trip from here to Beech Mountain:  an early morning four hour drive, then four hours or so of skiing, and a ride back home that night.  Total cost: $36, which would cover both rental and lift ticket.  And I would be driving my cozy little red Ford Escort.  (I really didn't expect a crowd.)

RSVPs started coming back almost immediately.  Brenda's complete response, sent from her phone:  "Can't have fun." Now that's not true.  I decided that she meant for the punctuation to be understood.  Surely she meant:  Can't.  Have fun.

Her response had gone out Reply All , so then I heard from Angela who said:  "Brenda can't have fun and I can't ski!"

This was followed by Christina and several others who all offered a very slight variation on: Thank you for even imagining that I would do this.

And then came Jennie's answer:  Yes! Let's do it! And my mother owns a condo there that we can use.

Yay!  And so we go: Sunday instead of Monday, to spend the night instead of making the trip in a day.  Jennie hasn't skied since she tried it at 17, and I haven't skied in that many years at least.  Back when I was doing a lot of travel writing, I wrote stories from the point of view of a beginning skier.  That story angle was my only option, since I never advanced.  I was a slow and timid skier. 

Once I was even rescued, from a catwalk on a glacier in Switzerland.  Snow was falling so thick that I couldn't see ahead, couldn't tell the difference between sky and trail.  I stopped and sat down — and I sat and sat.  Then a fellow came along who'd been something of a loud drunk jerk in the bar the previous evening.  Up there on the mountain, sober and soft-spoken, he had the countenance of an angel. He offered me a ride, told me to stand behind him, then slide forward putting my skis between his, and lean against his back.  And relax.  Then he took off down the mountain, skiing for both of us.  Best skiing I ever did in my life.

But then I switched from travel writing to fiction.  And then a doc told me that my bones were a tiny bit on the porous side, and so I didn't get around to skiing after that.  But now, after much weight-lifting, calcium etc., I'm ready to go again, with full medical approval.  And I hear that the skis now are so much better that they almost ski for you.

I'm ready and excited.  Except for knowing what to wear.  I do still have one thrift shop bib/jacket that was old decades ago.  It looks like a Seventies from-the-slopes-to-the-disco outfit, John Travolta does Star Wars.  I will find some alternative to wear for this comeback occasion.

Please wish me luck.  And I will let you know how it goes.  

Gregg Levoy, author of the terrifically useful book, Callings: Finding and Following an Authentic Life, is looking for people to interview for his latest project.

He would like to hear from those who have "compelling and dramatic stories about coming back to life. Reclaiming your passion and lifeforce, your sense of aliveness, after losing it in some way. I want to know how you did it. How you lost your vitality and how you got it back.
 
 
He adds:  "I'm looking for stories in several different arenas:

* Intimacy and Relationship
* Expressiveness and Creativity
* The sense of Wonder
* The spirit of Adventure
* Personal Power
* Pleasure and the Body

(Unless it's an exceptional story, I'm steering clear of passion as it relates to Career, as I already addressed that at length in Callings.)

If you or someone you know has a dynamic and specific story of reclaiming vitality and passion—discovering it for the first time or rediscovering it after a deep sleep—send me a short paragraph describing it, and an email address to contact.

Please know that I greatly appreciate your help, and that I won't be able to respond to each submission."

Contact: callings@gregglevoy.com
 

 Give your writing a fresh burst of energy this January. Or tell your students and writer friends…  I'm throwing a workshop in which writers spend a day devising a realistic productive strategy for their best writing year.

Devote a Saturday — January 21, 9:30 a.m. to 5 p.m. — to getting a good start.

Begin a new project or bring what you're working on (or want to be working on.)

This day is an opportunity to decide and clarify what you're going to accomplish in your writing this year, how you'll manage your schedule in order to succeed, how you'll deal with inner and outer obstacles. The workshop offers a time and place–and the company of kindred spirits–to begin or begin again. No experience necessary.

Setting: a lovely private home in Durham, NC, with cat and wooded setting.

 For more info or to register, contact: rcwmsnc@aol.com.  Or sign up at http://rcwms.org/resources/eventRegistrationForm.pdf  Workshop title: Begin a Bold New Year of Writing.

My ambitious resolution for this New Year:  I'm dropping the habit of self-berating and switching to what's known in the psych biz as "positive self-talk." 

I've long felt that berating one's self is the only true waste of time.   And I waste a lot of time that way.

I've made efforts before to drop this pernicious destructive habit.  They didn't take, or at least not for long.

But now the campaign has been elevated to the status of New Year's Resolution.  It will take this time.  I declare it here.

And how do I plan to do this?  First tactic:  I'm using a gizmo, a bit of software I bought last spring. This is going to sound like snake oil, I know, but it has worked for me.

The gizmo is: subliminal messages on my computer.  Little flashing messages that I can program myself or choose from a list.   I bought the software, called Subliminal Power, after I'd read an article elsewhere about the subliminal message phenom.  The studies indicated impressive effectiveness.   Being married to a psychologist who does clinical hypnosis, I'm also a pretty good subject. 

On the other hand, wrestling as I do with a bit of obsessive compulsive disorder, I'm no champ at what's called thought-stopping.  Once a repeating thought gets started, it's damn hard to stop.

When I first tried the software on my screen, I could see tiny flickers here and there, one every few seconds. My first thought:  I can't put up with this; it will drive me mad.

After a couple or three minutes, I ceased to see them.   So I let the invisible flickers keep flicking.

After a few weeks of experimenting, I found that if I installed a  message aimed at mood improvement, my mood improved.  I also found I was better able to concentrate when that was my intention.  Et cetera. 

Some of the messages you can choose are pretty emphatic, having to do with being a man magnet, developing outrageous charisma, blasting depression and unleashing life.  Or even losing a few pounds.

As far as I know, no one has been outraged by my charisma since I dropped $39.95 on this software, but in important ways it's working for me.

And so, this is my number one tool in this year's positive self-talk transformation.    I'll figure out more tactics if I need them. 

In the meantime, it's 11:25 p.m. on the last night of the year.  I have 35 more minutes of this life in which to finish the business of giving myself a hard time.

 Cellist Yo Yo Ma says he isn't a brave man, that he is scared much of the time.  "But," he adds, "I must like being scared," since he keeps on doing things he fears.

Ma is one of the 5 winners of the Kennedy Center Honors for 2011, the 34th annual presentation of this award for lifetime achievement in the performing arts.

I caught a bit of the awards show tonight on TV and found it moving, funny, and wildly inspiring. First time I've seen any of it.  I won't miss it again.   I love seeing people who have worked so hard and achieved so much — so much that I admire — getting their due, and clearly feeling so happy about it. 

The winners — seated in the presidential box with the Obamas — saxophonist/composer Sonny Rollins, actor Meryl Streep, singer/songwriter Neil Diamond, singer Barbara Cook, and Ma — watched first-rate performances in their honor.   Neil Diamond seemed rapt listening to Lionel Ritchie and Smokey Robinson sing his songs.  (I was too.  I'm a devoted Neil Diamond fan, and felt very proud of him.)

Moment after moment of the tribute was so moving that even the highly satirical Colbert seemed  touched.   It wasn't at all necessary to win an award to be in on the pleasure.Just as it isn't necessary to "be" brave to do brave things.