The Miracle of Not Sticking Out

The Miracle of Not Sticking Out

This week, I’m celebrating Hanukkah for the first time at a secular workplace - something I assumed would make me feel alienated and othered.

I felt this way a lot growing up - as a child with very visible symptoms of mental illness, I struggled to fit in no matter where I went. Going to Jewish school didn’t make things any easier over the holidays, but I did at least feel some sort of comfort that the crafts, songs, and foods (the ones I ate, at least) were familiar to me and everyone was celebrating the same thing.

I branched out from Jewish education after eighth grade, but after grad school, I worked exclusively in Jewish places for seven years. And just like in elementary and middle school, it didn’t matter whether or not I fit in socially - I always knew how to participate in everything. I knew the words to the songs, how to spin a dreidel without knocking it off the table, and which brands of gelt are safe for my nut allergy.

And then, I relocated to a secular company with no particular religion at all. Having never worked in the for-profit, corporate sphere before, I didn’t know what to expect except one thing - right away, I thought I was going to be the weird one once again for celebrating a different holiday than other people.

The first cracks in the foundation of this idea came at my first holiday party at the new job, a four-hour adventure at a fancy bowling alley. I wasn’t just stunned that I managed to hit any pins without bumpers; I was also not expecting the party to be entirely secular and not make anyone participate in anything they didn’t want to do. Even though there were cheeseburger sliders, I still felt welcome to talk about Hanukkah just like other people shared their Christmas plans.

Back in the office, the only decorations in our workspace are some silly online snowman name generators (my snowman name would be Berry McSparkle). In the lobby, there are ornate Christmas trees bedecked in blue, purple, and silver ornaments; giant wreaths; and an equally giant menorah prepared for lighting on each day.

Between how my workplace has handled the holidays and the conversations I’ve had with and overheard between coworkers, I feel a lot more comfortable than I thought I would. Instead of feeling like “the different one” or “the weird one,” I felt welcomed and appreciated.

I cherish this safe space especially at a time when antisemitism is running rampant in this country and beyond, and it’s not always easy to find a place to talk openly about Jewish traditions.

Encountering this environment at work emboldened me to reach out to some of my non-Jewish friends to ask them to join me in Hanukkah celebrations this year. Since I know I’ll be missing Nana a lot, I wanted to make sure I would be surrounded with people who love me and adapt my favorite traditions from home to a new phase of life.

Instead of making Trader Joe’s frozen latkes with Nana, I’m going to make fresh latkes with a coworker-slash-friend who loves to cook - and we’ll also make Manischewitz Hanukkah ugly sweater cookies (check Mariano’s for this wonderful product)! We’re going to light my old Three Bears menorah my great-aunt gave me for my first Hanukkah as a baby and play with 20-sided dreidels that bring D&D into one of my favorite holidays.

Blending new traditions with old ones seems to be the theme of my Hanukkah this year, and it’s something I’m excited about. Instead of feeling nervous or wondering if I’m going to fit in, I’m finding ways to celebrate the good new changes in my life while also honoring old times and the people I miss.

Michelle Cohen, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

Thankful for Laughter and Fresh Chances

Thankful for Laughter and Fresh Chances

Every year, until she retired, Nana would call me shortly before Thanksgiving, laughing harder than she did about anything else (except the time I took her “mail me a snowball” request seriously), to tell me that the Thanksgiving recipes were up at the school where she worked.

Even though Nana worked in the cafeteria, she always made time to walk past the kindergarten classrooms to see their latest art projects. For Thanksgiving, the teachers asked each child how they would cook a turkey and helped them write and illustrate their recipes.

Some kids knew cooking terms and applied them in the funniest way, like “cook it at a million degrees for one second.” Others said to just leave the turkey outside to cook in the sun. Since this school was in Georgia, there were a fair amount of “go find a turkey and shoot it.” Sugar-loving kids added chocolate, candy, and ice cream as stuffing. Many also included very important steps like figuring out if the turkey is a boy or a girl.

Every year, Nana would tell me everything the kindergarteners wrote and drew, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. And every year, I would tell her I would follow these instructions exactly, if only my vegetarian self were willing to try eating turkey.

This year, I won’t hear any Thanksgiving recipes from Nana, which isn’t unusual since she retired when I was in college. But this is the first Thanksgiving when I won’t get to hear her voice at all unless I play one of the voicemails I saved.

Going into the grieving process, I prepared myself for holidays, especially the ones that Nana and I celebrated together. But I was completely unprepared for the everyday moments that would make me think of her - and the response I’ve had to my own thoughts.

I’m usually used to my thoughts being cyclical, after a lifetime with OCD, but I’m still not sure what’s the “right” amount to think about Nana. I never thought about this when she was alive, and so far, the best standard I’ve been able to come up with is “it’s okay as long as it doesn’t overly disrupt the things I need to function, like work or hobbies.”

But I’m also very good at self-criticism and thinking I’m always doing everything wrong. This usually comes in the form of self-talk in “should” statements like “I should be able to get through a day without thinking of Nana” or “I shouldn’t be crying right now.”

I’m trying more intentionally to disrupt these thoughts after going to a lunch-and-learn at work that focused on stress management. Although I knew a lot about this topic going in, I can always use a refresher, and the presenter used a great phrase when talking about “should” thoughts.

She described this thought pattern as “shoulding yourself,” which she said intentionally sounds like “shitting yourself” - something people definitely don’t want to do.

And people don’t want to be criticizing ourselves all the time, either - although it can be such a hard pattern to break. I’m at the point where the Cognitive Behavioral Therapy work I’ve done can help me spot these thoughts, but it’s harder to replace them with the kindness and love I need during a tough time.

I’m someone who has a much easier time being kind to friends and family about things like this, and I often set impossibly high standards for myself that I then get mad at myself for not being able to reach. I tell myself that because I’ve been diagnosed for so long and living with this for so long, I should be perfect at handling whatever life throws at me - even if it’s something I’ve never dealt with before in all this time.

Even though it sounds funny, I’m going to put serious effort into not “shoulding myself” about grief. I want to focus on smaller, more achievable goals like laughing at a memory of Nana instead of feeling sad - something I absolutely did while writing this post.

For Thanksgiving and the upcoming holiday season, I’ll do the best I can to not tell myself what I should do or feel, and instead celebrate the happy memories of Nana telling me the silliest ways to cook a turkey.

Michelle Cohen, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

Finding the Magic

Finding the Magic

As an avid Magic: The Gathering player and Lord of the Rings lover, I was thrilled that there was a second release of the LotR-based Magic set. I was even happier when a friend offered to help me find a cheaper box of cards to buy, especially considering price is not much of a consideration for him and he absolutely didn’t need to help me in this way.

He spread three boxes on the table, two for him and one for me. He told me to pick which one was mine, and I - as I tend to do - anthropomorphized the boxes of cards and went for the one in the back with the bent corner and the little tear in the plastic wrapping. I considered, for a moment, leaving this superstitious practice behind and going for the first one, but I decided not to.

I opened my box first, and loved seeing new, gorgeous versions of the LotR-themed cards I adored when they first came out in June. I had been hoping for a serialized card - a special card marked with a unique number to show that it’s the only one of its kind in the world - but I didn’t get one.

When my friend - who isn’t a Lord of the Rings fan, but buys large amounts of cards for every new Magic set - opened the box I snubbed for the “imperfect” box and got a serial card, he wasn’t excited, thinking the card itself was lame and he already had several serial cards before.

He immediately noticed that his reaction wasn’t exactly what I was looking for, and I struggled to keep myself together. I wished that, somehow, I could find a way to afford more boxes just so I could keep trying to have my own magical moment with a serial card I got to keep. I stayed with my friend for as long as I could, then went home and quickly fell apart.

To me, pulling a serial card would be the equivalent of any of the dozens of magical moments that happened on my trip to New Zealand, where it felt like everything was perfect even though there were nights when I ate potato chips for dinner and I was terrified of the four-wheel drive “adventure” I had been so thrilled to book.

It reminded me that I’m not normally a person whose emotions swing wildly, but I went from the happiest three weeks of my life to the saddest and scariest time in my life (tied with my blood clot) in so little time that sometimes I still feel like my head is reeling.

I realized then, as I sat at home and sorted the cards like I always do while trying to love what I had gotten instead of being jealous like a little kid, that I had been chasing so hard to feel even the tiniest bit of that euphoria, that magic, that pervaded nearly every moment of my trip.

I was hoping, when I went to DragonCon this Labor Day weekend, that I would be able to feel the magic. But it didn’t happen. I didn’t want to stay long at the elf party or dance to even a single song even though I knew them all. I didn’t have anything to say at the fanfiction panel. I didn’t get a thrill out of cosplaying or care enough to go to a single photoshoot. I still went to most of my usual places and participated in many of my usual activities, but my heart wasn’t in it.

Honestly, that scared me. I’ve never felt that way at DragonCon, and in terms of the Magic cards, I had never felt genuinely sad about opening a product I’d looked forward to for so long. Even though I can still be happy about things I love, it’s a muted happiness - like in The Sims 4 when a negative moodlet like grief lingers in the background of happy ones, not taking them away entirely but changing how they’re perceived.

This upcoming week will be six months since Nana died, and I’m scared that I won’t find the magic again.

I’m worried that I won’t ever get another fantasy or science fiction story idea that I’d love to write. I’m worried that, no matter what I do, no matter how hard I work in therapy, I won’t be able to find anything that makes me feel like I felt in New Zealand apart from sharing memories of when everything felt perfect.

I never realized how much every day would change without Nana. Even though I can function without her and am settling in well to my new job and routine, I never knew her absence would affect so many little things I never thought of no matter how much I tried to prepare for life without her.

I knew I would miss her whenever I open my empty mailbox or walk home from a late-night activity without her on the other end of the phone. But in the last six months, I discovered there’s so much more I never could have predicted.

I miss Nana whenever I want to talk to anyone late at night, as she stayed up even later than me and I never woke her no matter how late I called.

I miss Nana when I have any kind of good news, even though I could say word-for-word exactly what she would say about being proud of me.

I miss Nana’s reactions to silly things, like my Roomba or the way I dust the swords I bought in New Zealand so they sparkle as they hang on the wall - and to serious things like the way she would check on me so many times a day if I didn’t feel well and tell me how much she was praying for me.

Speaking about Nana in the past tense feels easier, even though I still feel a weird mix of “she’s been gone forever” and “it hasn’t even been that long.” I’m in the phase of grief where my reminders of her are more subtle, but still so prevalent that I think of her every day. And I feel a desperation to seek things like serial numbered cards to see if I’m even capable of feeling magic at all.

My friend later told me that he should have hidden the serial card from me, that it would have made me less upset. He’s not wrong, but the experience also helped me realize that I need to figure out two things looming in my head at this point:

How can I stop minor disappointments from feeling like crises just because Nana isn’t there?

And, more importantly, how do I find the magic?

My favorite part of having OCD has always been this magic, which comes from my ability to fixate on the things I love the most, but I can’t do that if they make me sad. I don’t quite know what this process will look like, but I feel like I’ll have to undergo some kind of journey of reframing my thoughts in order to really feel like myself again.

I know the magic is there. Just like when I couldn’t find it during my junior year breakdown or at other times when I’ve been too clouded to see it, I always managed to find it again. I don’t know how I’m going to do it at this point, but six months in, all I’ve managed to get are tiny tastes - a moment of feeling beautiful in my elf dress, a commute where I daydream myself into one of my favorite stories, losing an hour or two in a favorite video game.

I first felt the magic after my junior year crisis when I found a shiny pokemon I had been hunting for months. It didn’t fix everything, but it did remind me that I was capable of feeling that level of joy and that it was coming back. I was getting better. And somehow, nine years later, I was able to feel the magic at its strongest and fly all the way around the world and take a trip many of my friends consider brave even though it felt like every dream I’ve ever had coming true at once.

One problem here is that I’m not hunting any shiny pokemon, which takes time instead of money - and there is a limit to how many cards I can sell and how many boxes I can try to sift through in what would likely be a vain attempt to get a serial card.

I need to get creative to find something else that would work, and no matter how hard I’ve tried, my lessened creativity hasn’t been up to the task. I know I’ll get there somehow, but right now feels like when I start writing a story and I always start at the end, know the beginning, and puzzle endlessly about the middle.

I hope to write a joyous update one day that something just clicked and I found the magic. But until then, all I can do is focus on self-care, doing what needs to get done in the practical things in life, and (let’s be honest, impatiently) wait for a miracle.

Michelle Cohen, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

When Words Aren’t Necessary

When Words Aren’t Necessary

I was both pleased and surprised when a coworker at my new job suggested creating a team for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP) Out of the Darkness walk at Montrose Beach.

And by the time I got there, I absolutely couldn’t believe how many people were roaming through the maze of tents filled with helpful tips, inspiring messages, ways to remember lost loved ones, and merchandise to show support for the cause of preventing suicide and destigmatizing mental illness.

Never before have I seen so many people (over 5,000!) gathered to talk about what seems to me like the most stigmatized part of mental illness - and that’s saying something. Even though I feel like our society is coming along in terms of talking more openly about mental health, it’s still very taboo to talk about suicide. I’ve seen people leave conversations, events, and even friendships simply because of this - so seeing this many people bringing something that’s so stigmatized into the sunlight was refreshing and inspiring.

I took time to read messages at the “Why We Walk” wall filled with love for people who lost their battle against mental illness and people who are still fighting - and left some words of my own. I found and purchased a cozy pair of sweatpants that say “Be The Voice,” something I try to do through this blog and my daily life. And I picked up a variety of brochures about helping yourself and others with various types of negative thoughts.

For me, the most beautiful part of the experience was a table covered in plastic bead necklaces of all different colors. A placard at the table explained that every color was meant to show an individual’s connection to the cause, whether that meant losing a relative or friend, living with personal struggles of suicidal thoughts or attempts, honoring the LGBTQ community, and more.

I wound up with three necklaces - a dark blue one to support the cause in general, a teal one that I’m proud of a friend who is living with suicidal thoughts and self-harm, and a green one for a personal struggle.

It’s been nine years since I lived with a steady surge of daily suicidal thoughts, but I will never forget the way it made me feel. I was so terrified all the time and even just remembering some of the tougher days while working on the newest draft of my book made me anxious and uneasy. It’s hard to describe how pervasive and life-altering these thoughts can be and how I felt like I was clinging onto anyone who would support me - only for many of them to leave my life forever.

Writing that chapter reminded me how alone I felt when I struggled with suicidal thoughts and how many people completely abandoned me out of fear or shame. Being able to look across a crowd and see how many people had green necklaces - and how many people without green necklaces were supporting the people wearing them - filled me with so much hope.

Shortly before the walk itself started, I ran into an acquaintance who I knew from my frequent trips to game stores. He’s an employee at one that’s farther away from me, so I don’t go there often, but he’s always there with a smile and when his work is slow, he pauses to play Magic: The Gathering with me.

He introduced me to his family, who were wearing necklaces of various colors. I felt an immediate kinship with them and felt comfortable to do far less masking than usual, simply because I knew they understood and cared. When we walked the three miles together, that impression cemented itself as we got along instantly and had so many stories to share.

Most of what we talked about didn’t even have to do with mental health. It was just that the environment was so supportive that people were able to connect in a way that usually isn’t possible among so many unfamiliar faces.

The more I chatted with people, the more I thought about how some people withdrew from me back then because they didn’t know what to say. But this walk helped me realize that sometimes, when words are hard, we don’t even need words.

Just seeing everyone’s necklaces made me feel included and cared about even in a giant crowd of strangers - and that also applied to the supportive signs, high fives, and hugs that were rampant at the event.

I went into this expecting to support a cause I care deeply about, but I didn’t expect to feel such a powerful sense of belonging. I look forward to attending more events like this and showing support beyond what I can write at the keyboard.

Michelle Cohen, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

Why Accommodation Matters

Why Accommodation Matters

Today, I experienced something I’ve never done before: eating a full meal at a catered team meeting.

Part of this comes from the fact that I am now working at my first job that isn’t for a Jewish organization, which means expanded catering options thanks to a lack of kashrut restrictions. But even so, I found myself looking at menus of sandwich places with increasing exasperation as I realized that being a vegetarian with food allergies and OCD would likely mean I wouldn’t get to eat anything once again.

But then, I thought of something: I was looking at these menus because someone on the administrative team reached out to me and asked me how to accommodate my allergies and other food concerns. And no matter how many times I tried to apologize, she wouldn’t take it at all.

Her replies consisted of one overarching message: everyone deserves to eat at the meeting.

It may seem strange to dig in one’s heels here; after all, it would have been a lot easier for her to just say that I should eat before or after. But she never said that, not even once - and as someone who has been told that many times, it’s so refreshing to hear that someone wanted me to participate in this small but important way.

It wound up being complicated, too - the administrator presented me with three menus, only to have to add more options when someone insisted on cookies, only for some of the options to be closed on Mondays. There was even one point when I thought we would have to pick a place where I literally couldn’t eat anything between my allergies and not eating meat, but thanks to the overall vibe of kindness and acceptance I have been feeling at this new job, I decided to speak up.

It was nerve-wracking to write back and say that picking another menu would enable me to eat, but it didn’t even take ten minutes for her to get back to me and say that’s what we would be doing. And even though sandwiches are the bane of my existence in terms of eating at restaurants, I was able to make something with her help that I could eat at the meeting.

When I showed up, there was a little wrapped package with my name on it next to the large trays of sandwiches, and I could easily grab it plus a bag of potato chips. Everyone had the same food - a sandwich and chips - and no one cared that my sandwich had different ingredients.

It still tested me in terms of some unexpected toppings I hadn’t tried before, but I was able to eat about half of the sandwich - and, much to my surprise, absolutely no one at the meeting noticed what anybody else was eating, so I didn’t get a single comment or question.

Eating a prepared lunch at a meeting may not seem like a big deal, but to me, it felt huge. It meant that I didn’t have to prepare extra snacks or eat at my desk before or after. It meant that I didn’t have to face well-meaning but potentially invasive questions from people around me about why I wasn’t eating, which can quickly escalate into people making a fuss even if I just want to blend in. It meant that I got to feel like I was part of the group instead of just pretending - and as a result, I was able to focus a lot more on the content of the meeting.

Little things like this that don’t matter much in the grand scheme of life can be so helpful not only in terms of helping people have a good day, but also in showing people that they are welcome as they are.

It may be easier to not make accommodations for people’s physical or mental health concerns, but making the effort really shows people that they are valued and worth accommodating. It’s a wonderful feeling that I’m still getting used to - even as an adult - and something I hope to continue experiencing.

Michelle Cohen, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.