The Food Thief

A sandwich I ate on our drive home. Blake happily ate a similar one, plus many of my French fries.

I pull into the Trader Joe’s parking lot and circle around a time or two. The lot is crowded with folks shopping for their evening meals and the rain is beginning to fall. As we walk through the lot, the water and dark sky mask the red blotches that have bloomed on Blake’s face from the tears he’s cried the entire short distance from his apartment. He feels like a failure – having left home four months ago to begin a new college career in a new city and dropping out after one semester.

“I’m completely unable to function,” Blake has told me on more than one occasion.

What I see differs from what he sees. I see success in having navigated the basics of day to day living. I see a future full of possibility. I see growth and more lessons that still can be mastered. But I also see something that concerns me – something I’m not sure my 19-year-old son is even aware of. I see his weight – or lack of it, that is.

Back at the Apartment

Before we leave Blake’s apartment, he phones his academic advisor.

“Um, hi. This is Blake Roberts. Is there anything else you need from me before I leave?”

As I stand behind him, waiting as he makes his call, my son’s almost-six-foot-tall frame comes into focus. And for a moment, it startles me. He is shockingly thin. His clothing hangs on him, making the weight loss look even more obvious. Did anyone at school notice that the clothes he arrived in at the beginning of the semester had become exceedingly large? He’d lost a good amount of weight before he’d come home for Thanksgiving. Has he lost more? It appears that way.

When Blake finishes his phone call, I focus back on our task of moving out. I file my observation away for later. How would I bring this up in a sensitive way? Would I even bring it up at all?

At the Store

Blake wipes his face and follows me into the grocery store. We’re here for food for the three days ahead of us. Because of food restrictions, eating in most restaurants is not an option for Blake. I want him to choose things he’d like to eat, but he seems uninterested when I point things out.

“Food just doesn’t seem interesting now,” he notes.

I know from experience that trying to force him to make some choices won’t work. Instead, I begin to pick things off the shelf and put them into my cart. I give Blake space and he wanders close by. After a time, something catches his interest. He picks it up, reads the label, and then adds it to the cart. Little by little in this manner our cart fills up. Blake pauses at an item – chocolate mint caramel popcorn (or something like that). He ponders it. I know he’s questioning whether to treat himself (something he rarely does).

“Can you add that to the cart?” I ask.

“Why?”

“It looks interesting. I’d like to try it.”

Blake seems reluctantly happy to comply. He puts it in the cart. We pay. We pack up the car, drive to our hotel for the evening, and unload what we need for the night. Before I’ve even shut the door, Blake has gotten into a bag of food. He eats with abandon. And I silently and gratefully take notice.

Are You Aware…?

Blake continues to eat this way over the next couple of days. He even treats himself to snacks at convenience stores we stop in along the way. Nearing the end of our second driving day, a day in which we’ve marveled at views and checked out historic downtowns, I decide to ask.

“Hey honey? I was wondering – are you aware that you’ve lost quite a bit of weight?”

“Yes,” is the answer.

“Was it intentional?”

“No,” – which is said in a tone that indicates he’s not offended, so I dare to dig slightly deeper.

“Was it because of mood, or was it because of having slept so much and missing meals?” I try to ask gently.

“It was a mix of those. Sometimes I was so depressed food just didn’t sound good. I just didn’t feel like eating. Some days, bed was the only thing that sounded good. It was like a warm hug and I couldn’t think of a reason to leave it – and I slept through mealtimes,” he answers.

“Thank you for sharing with me,” I say tenderly, and we continue on with some other topic.

Silently, though, I’m thinking what a thief and a liar both depression and OCD can be.

“Bed is the best thing in your life. Stay here! Feel safe and comforted. You don’t need to bother with such trivialities as eating. Ah, there. See?”

I imagine Blake sleeping through a day, tricked into believing that bed is best. When he can finally lie there no more and the cobwebs begin to clear, the depression takes the opportunity to dig in more and remind him what a failure he is. It steals his appetite, he mindlessly plays video games to numb the sting of the words his brain tells him about himself, and then it steals the next day of living by convincing him once again that bed is the only place worth being.

For now, Blake seems to be eating with regularity. Occasionally, he forgets a meal. I’m observing and trying to give him room to work this out. One thing I have noticed is that, like me, he seems to derive joy out of feeding others.

“Mom,” he says to me, “may I cook a lasagna for the whole family one night? I’d like to share one with you all.”

“I love that idea,” I say – and I do, much more than he will ever know.

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The Journey Home Begins

Blake was fast asleep when I arrived at his apartment. A roommate answered the door and went to wake him. Blake, now awake, led me to his bedroom where a quick glance revealed that the young man he shared a room with was also fast asleep. Almost two in the afternoon. Seemed about right for college students…

What took me by surprise (though it probably shouldn’t have) was that Blake hadn’t packed up his room at all, except for his clothes, which were all in his duffel bag. I’d asked him to pack up everything he could before I’d arrived and he’d done very little. I was frustrated, but kept that to myself. I recognized that getting upset would most likely only delay completing the task at hand. Instead, I suggested we get to work. Blake suggested he take a shower. Sigh.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll go make some work phone calls in the car. Come get me when you’re ready to pack.”

Twenty minutes later, Blake was knocking on the car window. He didn’t seem to know where to start. I’m not sure if it was depression, being nineteen, or just plain old lack of experience that paralyzed him. Whatever it was, I began directing.

We folded bedding; we packed kitchen supplies; we sorted through his remaining food. Hygiene items had to be sorted – those worthy of the journey home and those to be relegated to the trash. I directed Blake to suitcases, to giant trash bags I’d brought with me, and to grocery bags. At some point his roommate had gotten out of bed and we had the room to ourselves. I directed swiftly staying focused on the task.

There was a quarter dollar coin on the carpet. Blake walked carelessly back and forth over it.

“Who does this belong to?” I asked.

“It’s been there a long time,” Blake answered, “ probably most of the semester.”

We loaded all his belongings into the car, two floors below. Up and down the stairs, over and over again. Finally, we’d finished and it was time to say goodbye.

“Hey, Josh,” Blake called to his roommate, who was now at the dining table, “Do you know whose quarter is on our floor?”

“Oh yeah. That’s mine. I dropped it a while back.”

Blake handed the quarter to him and then they shook hands.

“I wish you all the best, man,” Blake said as they parted.

“Yeah, you too.”

We climbed into the car.

“Ready to go?” I asked. Blake nodded. As we pulled out of the apartment complex, I saw Blake wipe a tear from his face. Then another. And another. They were flowing freely now.

“You gonna miss it here?”

“It just feels like another failure – another failed opportunity in my life,” he said.

“Hey,” I said, “there were successes here, too. A lot of them. You’re allowed to feel what you feel and I won’t take away from that. You certainly have more growing and learning to do. At the same time, please remember that there were some things you dealt with very well.”

“Thanks, Mom.” My cue to be quiet. And we drove out of the complex I silence. Onward toward the future.

“I Just Don’t Trust Myself!”

I wrote this post four and a half years ago. It is my most read post by far and continues to be. It tells a tale of how OCD can take a rational and reasonable young man and cause him to question what seem to be the simplest things in life:

OCD In The Family

IMG_2101[1]Many of us who live with a loved one who has OCD have heard this familiar refrain.  It doesn’t really matter what it is about; it could be one not trusting their own eyes that their homework is in their backpack, or whether the knob on the stove is really in the “Off” position.  OCD has a nasty way of making its victims regularly doubt themselves.

“I just don’t trust myself!”  Blake uttered in defeat one morning this week.  This had followed an excruciating morning of trying to choose a simple something – anything – to eat for breakfast.  He just couldn’t do it.  He stared deeply into the refrigerator.  His angst was palpable.  I could see the wheels churning furiously in his brain.  What can I possibly eat that will be acceptable?

Blake has lots of food rules and restrictions, yet he usually finds something to eat in a relatively…

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Monday Morning

It’s 8:32 in the morning and I send a text message to both of my boys about the Thanksgiving holiday, which is over a month away. I have to make airplane reservations and I want to check on their schedules. I expect I’ll hear from Michael; it’s three hours later where he is and he already had a class this morning. Blake I don’t expect to hear from until at least late afternoon or evening with his sleep issues. He has a 10 am class, but he’s missed attending nearly every week.

To my surprise, it’s Blake I hear back from first at 8:39 am. He confirms his schedule for me. 

Me: Whatcha doing?

Blake: Waking up.

Me: You heading out to class?

Blake: Yeah 

Me: Out of bed yet?

Blake: Showered.

Me: Wow. Just wow.

Blake: I appreciate your amazement at my basic levels of human functioning. 😛

Me: It’s a mom thing.

Blake: Are turnovers a breakfast pastry or dessert?

Me: They are whatever you like them to be. Love you.

Blake: Love you too!

It’s a brief moment in time, but it’s a victory nonetheless. Blake is awake. He got himself showered at a time that allows him to participate in the day. Whether he will leave his apartment and head to school or head back to bed is uncertain. It is just this – a moment.

I’m Still Here

Image courtesy of Bill Longshaw at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Just a quick post to let my readers know that I’m still here. Life has been a bit busy with Michael returning home from college for the summer and Blake wrapping up his class for the semester. Friends’ kids are graduating from high school and college. My practice has been busy with more adults and children with OCD than I can humanly work with (I suppose that it’s a good thing that my practice is busy, but I always feel sad when I have to say, “No.”).

I’m working on my next post. In the meantime, if you’re looking for me, you might find me helping prepare one 18-year-old to go off to school in the fall, or helping a hubby prepare for a trip, or teaching a 21-year-old how to meal plan so he doesn’t eat out every day again in the next school year. Of course, you might also find me in a public restroom, coaxing a patient to touch a door handle; or crawling around in the outdoor planter with a child at work; or I might be in a home encouraging a frightened young patient to eat a challenge food or prompting an adult to put her things away “just wrong.”

No matter what I’m doing, it won’t be boring. Have a good week!

Dear 14 Year Old Self #OCDWeek

It’s OCD Awareness Week. As I’ve pondered how to mark the week on my own blog, after reading Ellen’s touching post, I could find no better way.

Ellen's OCD Blog

Dear 14 year old self,

You’re about to start therapy. Something you’re not too sure about just yet, but trust me, it’s going to be one of the most valuable experiences you will ever go through. OCD’s being a pain in the ass right? At this point, you don’t really know what makes your OCD ‘tick’. All you know is that you despise what it has done to you, robbing you of your independence and ability to function and wishing you could eradicate it from your life in an instant.

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