I Don't Much Like Spinning My Wheels...

it doesn't take me anywhere.

I've been making up lots of stories lately. I'm particularly good at it.

Unfortunately they're not the kind on paper, the kind I can send into the world in return for fame, money, or just recognition. These stories are the ones in my head. You know, the little stories you make up about what someone is thinking, or why such and such happened in your past the way it did, or what tomorrow, or tomorrow's next year will be like.

And so. And then. And next.

I'm extremely good with these stories. I suspect most of us are. Our brains have to do something with our thoughts to keep themselves occupied.

But when I find myself falling into the realm of too much storytelling, I've learned to pull back and relax. To recognize it as a sign of stress and trying to do too much. Trying to be too much.

I try to approach my brain with gentleness and compassion, listening to its stories with the same sort of kind humoring I would give to a small child. It can't really help itself; it only wants love and attention.

Sometimes I laugh at it, just a bit. Sometimes I marvel at the range of its imagination, the things it can construct out of the barest wisps of experience. Frequently, I mine this inner narrative for my writing, informing my fiction, my blog and my work.

Over the last few years, I've come to recognize that I've brushed up against some pretty serious mental illnesses. Depression, generalized anxiety, post traumatic stress disorder, and, my favorite, OCD. I've realized that mental illness is exactly that - an illness, a departure from complete health. When my body gets stressed in a physical sense- through other illness, fatigue, or poor nutrition - or when mental stressors tax my emotions and psychology, then mental illness starts to rear its mythic heads.

For reasons I don't completely understand, my own illnesses are always mild and livable, more like an annoying cold than a bout of pneumonia. When I feel symptoms cropping up, I pay extra attention to my healthful regime. Through careful lifestyle choices, I medicate my mentality with physical health. I'm not suggesting everyone should do this, or only this. I think actual medications are great for some people; they're just not for me.

I'm reflecting on all this because I watched a show this week that had an extreme impact on me. A&E is doing a series on Generalized Anxiety Disorders that is fascinating and heartbreaking. I caught the OCD show.

At first, I was horrified and feeling that bit of superiority we all feel when we watch other people doing odd things in their lives. Really? You have to kiss your dog 12 times? You have to check the door over and over? You have to gauge your face to make yourself feel "better?"

But then I started thinking about neural pathways. About the way our brains like to lay in a response and then follow it again and again. About the small distinction between habit, addiction and compulsion. The pain that this man and woman were battling against, desperately seeking protection from, was so evident, so overwhelming. I felt incredibly sad for them.

And incredibly lucky that somehow, in all its wanderings, my own brain can keep itself from that. One thing I noticed was that the sufferers were extremely serious. They took everything so hard. They struggled so valiantly. Christa even said, "Trying to stop my obsession is the whole point of my life." Well, there you go, I thought. If she did stop, she would have to face the emptiness of not knowing what else to do with herself. I just really felt for her.

Later that night, I said to my husband, "You know, I'm really worried about those people with OCD."

Then I heard myself. We both started laughing.

Lightness. Compassion. Softening. Humor. Joy- my own anecdotes.