A Salad With Pita Chip Croutons

A Salad With Pita Chip Croutons

Lately, I’ve been experiencing a lot of “firsts.” First mental health advocacy speech, first time telling various people in my life about my mental health - and this week, my first time actually putting something in my mouth at a conference I attended for work.

I’m very used to my usual routine at these events - I pack a protein bar, and sometime around noon, I sneak into the largest bathroom I can find, wait for the pre-lunch rush to leave, and then eat in a bathroom stall. The part of my OCD that focuses on germs is not exactly a fan of this, but it’s so much better than exposing myself to the shame of eating something different and getting asked so many questions about why I couldn’t just eat what was there.

I was fully prepared to do this at the conference. I’d packed a protein bar and scoped out the bathroom - but then a friend spotted me and invited me to go to lunch with her and her coworkers.

I was happy to be invited, but also very nervous. I knew that, as per the program’s schedule, I wouldn’t have time to sneak off to the bathroom if I went to lunch with my friend - and I could be stuck sitting there not eating anything, or worse, I’d get hungry and bring out the protein bar and be subjected to all sorts of questions.

I know the questions come from a place of kindness. Jewish culture, the way I’ve experienced it, is deeply invested in caring for people especially in the realm of eating, and if someone isn’t eating or seems uncomfortable at the table, it becomes everyone’s business. Some people may find this comforting, but to me, it feels like a bright, shining spotlight when all I want is for people to ignore me and how weird I’m being by not being able to eat traditional Jewish foods.

Somehow, I convinced myself to go to the lunch, and I reluctantly scoped out the food situation when I got there. It was Mediterranean themed, as I assumed it would be since the conference had a large focus on Israel - and as I expected, none of the entrees were anything I’d be able to choke down.

I was about to resign myself to awkwardly explaining why I wasn’t eating to every well-meaning but intrusive person in the room until I noticed a large bowl off to the side. It was a salad, filled with mostly vegetables I am okay with eating, and the ones I didn't eat were cut into big enough pieces that I could easily work around them. The only strange thing was that instead of croutons, there were little strips of pita chips to go with the Israeli theme.

It was definitely a “first” for me to stand in line with other people, chat as if I didn’t have a care in the world instead of being too self-conscious, and actually take some food from the event. It tasted like a regular salad, and even though the pita chip croutons were a little beyond what I would usually do with a salad, I was still able to eat it - and even get a little for seconds.

At one point, I realized I wouldn’t be full with just salad, and took out my protein bar. My friend briefly questioned me before she remembered that I have dietary restrictions, then quickly moved on. No one else at the table asked me any questions, nor did the staff who hovered around and cleaned so meticulously that when I dropped an olive on the table, they asked me for permission to pick it up.

I was extremely happy to be able to eat at an event like this, especially since I’ve never done it before. It felt wonderful to just be part of the crowd, not sticking out in any way, not embarrassed or forced to explain myself or lie to total strangers. It was also reassuring that, even when I brought out my protein bar, no one asked any questions - which gives me hope that people are respecting each other’s differences a little more and whether or not I find things to eat at future conferences, hopefully I can at least be self-confident enough to avoid eating in the bathroom.

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.

The Day The Impossible Started

The Day The Impossible Started

A few hours before the meeting where I was due to give my first-ever mental health advocacy speech, I spoke to a friend I work with who had agreed to film my speech for my faraway friends and family. She excitedly let me know that there would be smoothies at the meeting and asked if she should save me one.

I decided to be more open, and let her know that I hadn’t had a smoothie since one time in college (where it gave me an upset stomach, so I didn’t try another one ever again even though I liked it - a detail I didn’t share with my friend). Until I mentioned that I also have food allergies, her reaction was that I was strange for not wanting the smoothie.

And yet, I still got up in front of over 200 people and openly shared about my mental health journey.

It was a three and a half minute speech, carefully crafted with the help of one of my coworkers. I had never written a speech before, and knew it would be so different from my usual blogging. I didn't know if I would be able to deliver it well or if I would just get blank stares or people thinking I was weird.

When I got up to speak, right before the end of the meeting, I was nervous that people wouldn't pay attention or care about what I had to say - but that couldn't have been farther from the truth.

Whenever I looked up from my notes, I saw riveted faces. I got more encouraged, more animated. When I made it all the way to the end - as cliche as this sounds - the room erupted in applause and a standing ovation.

The moment the meeting was over, I was approached with love and kindness, hugs and congratulations. My email inbox was soon filled with messages of support from so many people I didn't know.

All of this made me feel like I was welcome exactly as I am in the Jewish community for the first time in my life. Something I thought impossible for so long - belonging - was finally beginning.

It felt as exhilarating as when I met the hobbits, went to my first DragonCon, and booked my ticket to New Zealand. Or maybe even stronger, because I've been waiting for this moment so much longer - ever since I first went to Jewish school and was never good enough.

In this moment, I was not only good enough as myself, but I could also help people. I loved when people shared their mental health struggles with me and when neurotypical people asked me honest and well meaning questions about how to support their family members with OCD.

For the first time, I was being wholly and unabashedly myself in the Jewish community and I couldn't get enough. I felt the support I marketed to other people and even though one day can't make up for years of trouble, it's a first step I've wanted all my life.

It reminded me of my D&D character, Kit, who was ostracized all her life and then was able to find her place.

I spend so much time dreaming of stories, my favorite fantasy characters like Kit and so many others, living flawed, beautiful lives. I spend so much time not wanting to stay in my own headspace, but today I wanted nothing more than to be myself, exactly as I am, struggles and all.

A mental health advocate, living proudly with OCD, might not be what I imagined for my life, or what any of my relatives imagined for me when I was little. But today, I couldn't have felt prouder to be me.

I was proud to be the person whose writing helped people. Who was able to give advice based on personal experience. Whose voice didn't falter as I admitted to so many things I never would have admitted to as a child. Who got a standing ovation for fighting the silent fight for so many years and finally speaking out.

I used to see public speaking as a means to an end - to get my book published. But now, I see it as an incredible way of bringing hidden things to light and forming a community I never thought possible - and I can't wait to find more ways to speak out for people like me who never thought I could.

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.

Opening the Door

Opening the Door

As someone who has always been very private about my mental health diagnoses except for hard-won exceptions for close friends, it feels strange to be preparing for my first mental health advocacy speech that many people I know will hear - or hear about.

I vividly remember moving here to Chicago four years ago this week and thinking of the fresh start I would get. Unlike when I lived in a small town in Pennsylvania, I had no reputation at all - positive or negative. No one in Chicago knew me beyond the two people I interviewed with for my job, and I was determined to be as “normal” as possible at work and make friends in “normal” ways, especially since I was moving away from my best friend from college who helped me through my junior year mental health crisis.

When I moved, I had only been to Chicago once - to look for an apartment. I had to ask my new boss where to look since I didn’t know the city well enough to choose on my own. I had a single day to find a place and did the best I could, and by the time I moved in a month later, it hit me that I was well and truly alone.

Even when I started meeting people, I was so determined to create a persona that I didn’t let anyone in. I was conscious of what I could and couldn’t talk about, be interested in, and do to make people like me, and for a while that was what I focused on.

The one place where I let my guard down was a Pokemon Go group I joined shortly after moving. I was thrilled to discover that the average level of interest in the hobby was far more than I would usually let myself admit to, so I felt like I could fit in and also have a place to express my strong interests. It also helped that people didn't mind if I didn’t eat at events as long as I brought good pokemon to trade.

As time went by, I found a mix of activities that helped me reach my current (very!) active social life. I’ve met people by hanging out in card game stores, playing in Magic: the Gathering casual events and tournaments, attending local conventions, starting a Dungeons & Dragons group, and taking improv classes. I’ve even made a few friends at work who I was able to be myself with even before the speech opportunity came up - but the speech represented breaking an entirely different barrier than I set out to.

No matter where I’ve lived, the Jewish community has always seemed to be a place where no one can have a secret. Everyone knows everything about everyone, so I knew that as soon as I volunteered to speak about my mental health around anyone from work, basically everyone would know.

It was a tough decision to open that door I’d left shut for so long. Sure, people at work know that I eat strangely and am overly interested in “Lord of the Rings,” but there’s a big difference between observing those behaviors and learning the reason why. Even though I knew that it would be illegal to fire me for my mental health, I didn’t know if people would treat me differently.

I was lucky that, as soon as I volunteered to give a speech about mental health at work, someone offered to help me. I had never written a speech before, and having help - plus someone who wanted to talk with me about both my mental health and her own - was refreshing. I wasn’t expecting to find supportive people so early on, and throughout the draft-writing and approval process, I have been pleasantly surprised by how many people now know what is going on in my head and treat me kindly.

In other words, in addition to other people learning about me, this speech prep has been a great opportunity to learn about the people around me who I may never have gotten to know in this way. It also helped me be a little less afraid of participating actively in the Jewish community, where I have been treated in a variety of negative ways before (which made me afraid to try again).

It’s also been a way to start to speak up for myself more, not just at work but in general. This week, I told someone I would be unable to eat with her at a particular place and even though I was a little embarrassed, I didn’t stay silent and get myself stuck in an even more awkward situation. This may seem small, but when I consider how many other times I have been afraid to speak up, I am proud I’ve gotten this far.

Not to mention, how am I supposed to stick up for destigmatizing mental health if I let the stigma shame me into not sharing my story?

I’m excited that my first-ever mental health speech is coming up soon. I’m genuinely looking forward to opening that door to deeper understanding and relationships with the people around me - even in the place where it scared me the most. I had never considered anything like this before, but I think it’s a wonderful first step to being my real self with more people in my life. 

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.

Never Doesn’t Always Mean Never

Never Doesn’t Always Mean Never

I discovered one of my first positive obsessions when I was seven years old - and shortly after, I found out that it would be one of those things I had to keep to myself.

I first became interested in LEGO Bionicles when I was seven, the year they were released in the US. Instead of building a town or car out of LEGOs, these new kits let you build characters that were part of a fantasy adventure story I got to read in comic books I received every month. My old copies of the comics are torn and taped together from the amount of times I read them, and every time a new issue came, I couldn’t wait to dive in headfirst.

I’m pretty sure my parents were confused when I started playing with my new Bionicle figures together with Barbie dolls, making up stories for them together, and my interest in them quickly eclipsed everything else.

The problem was, I didn’t know anyone else who wanted to talk about them. It wasn’t just that people weren’t interested - they were actively disinterested, even to the point where I felt like I couldn’t bring up basic facts about my favorite characters without being treated like I was some sort of freak. The combination of an incredibly strong interest - and the fad being “for boys” - made me feel like no one would ever care about something I loved so much.

My parents and therapist encouraged me to keep my interest in Bionicles at home so I could avoid getting picked on. My parents bought me the toys and supported my passion behind closed doors, but I always wanted something I thought was impossible - a discussion with a friend where we share a mutual interest.

I thought I’d never be able to tell anyone that out of the six main characters, my favorite was Gali. Not just because she was a female superhero, but that she was one who wasn’t pink, designed to look sexy, or always coming in second place to the boys. I thought I’d never be able to tell a friend that Gali had awesome water powers, was a respected and powerful leader who doubled as a great mediator, and her second-in-command’s name was the same as my Hebrew name.

This week, I proved that “never” just meant I’d have to wait a couple of decades before having the conversation I longed for as a child.

I was playing Splatoon 3, a newly released online multiplayer game, with some people I knew well and others I didn’t know as well. We were all in a voice chat together, and while playing the game, one of our characters (who are based on various forms of marine life) turned into a crab. It struck me that the crab looked very similar to Bionicle’s Ussal crabs, my favorite creatures in the world because of how cute and resourceful they were.

Before I could remember to censor myself, I told the group that the crab character looked like a Bionicle crab. I had a moment of regret, but then realized that these were online friends, and if they decided off my one remark that I was weird, I didn’t really want to be hanging out with them anyway.

Much to my surprise, someone who I’d only spoken to once or twice immediately piped up, exclaiming that he’d noticed the resemblance to Ussal crabs too.

I immediately got so excited! After so long of having to hide various interests, I was thrilled to finally meet someone who I wouldn’t be inflicting my interest on.

I asked him who his favorite character was, and learned from him why he enjoyed one of the other heroes so much. And then he asked me about my favorite, and the two of us went off on a tangent that no one else quite understood, but felt like validation for me after so long of wanting to have such a basic thing of people showing interest in my hobbies.

My therapist calls this phenomenon a “corrective experience.” She says it’s things like this that show me that some of my childhood beliefs are faulty - it’s not that no one is interested in my interests, it’s just that I have to be patient and find the right people. It’s a good way to break out of my usual black-and-white thinking and the experience affirmed for me that even if my childhood interests weren’t the same as what most people my age cared about, I still deserved to be heard and finally getting that made me just as happy as I always imagined it would.

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.

It's Been 29 Years...

It’s Been 29 Years…

In Pokemon X and Y, video games released in 2013, there is a character named AZ. He spends what feels like eternity - and is in fact much longer than the average human lifespan - waiting for his dream to come true. The moment when it finally does, and he exclaims “it’s been 3,000 years…” was quickly turned into a meme used to represent the thrill of experiencing something you feel like you’ve been waiting for all your life.

I had my own “it’s been 3,000 years…” moment this Rosh Hashanah when I listened to a sermon from Nana’s synagogue where the rabbi explicitly and urgently fought for the destigmatization of mental health in the Jewish community.

His words touched me deeply - as someone who has never felt like there was a place for me in the Jewish community, I saw his speech as creating a welcoming space for the next generation so others don’t have to feel like I did.

As a child, teen, and even in college, I felt the pressure to perform well in Jewish spaces, and that always meant being the same as everyone else. But the only way I could do so was academically - I studied Hebrew so hard that I’m now fluent in it as a second language, and I memorized every tune for every prayer so I could perform at my best during school assemblies and prayer services.

I tried as best as I could to fit in with what was expected of a young person in the Jewish community. I was smart and accomplished, I “looked Jewish” (which was more of a thing years ago than now, thankfully) and did my best to act Jewish, but I couldn’t eat Jewish foods or make lifelong friends at camp or feel an instant connection to Israel the second I stepped off a plane at Ben Gurion airport.

The things I couldn’t do soon overcame the things I could, and I felt like there was no place for me unless I squished down everything that made me me, and just focused on being smart and learning what I was supposed to learn. But the Jewish community didn’t want me - they just wanted that part of me, and if the tiniest part of my real self came through, I was relentlessly bullied and made to feel less than everyone else who could somehow do everything.

My elementary school teachers did the best they could to fit me into a mold and made my parents and I feel like I couldn’t do a single thing right. My middle school principal regularly called me a freak even though I performed very highly in her Holocaust studies class. In high school, I joined United Synagogue Youth (USY), never fit in, and hated every convention (how strange those words sound to me now, as someone who counts down to fandom conventions for months at a time!).

In all of these settings, I performed well. I led prayers in USY for years, and proceeded to join my college’s Hillel and attempt the same. But when I had a mental health crisis in college, the Jewish community wanted nothing to do with me.

It’s why, as an adult, I struggle to go to Jewish events. I bristle at the thought of having to pretend I’m someone I’m not after fighting so long to accept myself as I am.

This rabbi’s sermon made me feel like there could actually be a place for me in the Jewish community.

The first and most important thing he did was to acknowledge the extreme bias against anything “not the same” in the Jewish community. He brought up the Yiddish phrase “shikker is der goy” - meaning “the alcoholic is a non-Jew” - as a metaphor for how the Jewish community wants to perceive people doing things that are socially unacceptable - such as having an addiction to alcohol - as outside of the community.

He said that, instead, we need to consider that “shikker is der yid” - “the alcoholic is a Jew” - and acknowledge the problems people face every day that are swept under the rug in an attempt to present a “model minority” of smart and highly accomplished people.

As an adult, I’m lucky that I can mostly “pass” as neurotypical. Just recently, when I received a speaking engagement to talk about mental health at a local Jewish organization, I was told by the person organizing it that she would have known I was an anxious person, but she would never have known I had an actual mental illness. She meant it as a compliment, and all my life, I was pleased to receive comments like this when my acting skills outshined my mental illness.

But even with my acting skills, I can’t pass well enough in the Jewish community. I can’t eat Jewish food. I can’t wax poetic about my experiences with Jewish people throughout my life. My proudest Jewish accomplishments tend to be more individual - reading the “Harry Potter” series in Hebrew in high school and college, learning my whole Torah portion for my bat mitzvah when I didn’t have to, and educating people about Judaism when they have questions or default to stereotypes.

This rabbi’s words gave me hope that, one day, I may find a place within the Jewish community where I can admit that my Jewish experience has been a mixed bag at best.

Where I don’t have to find a place to hide the little piece of challah I receive after it’s been passed by other people’s hands since I’m too worried about germs to eat it, even if it’s the only food at Shabbat dinner that I’d normally be willing to touch.

Where I don’t have to pretend that going to a Schechter school was amazing or that I didn’t spend the entirety of my two trips in Israel worrying about where my next meal would come from.

Where I can admit that I used the same prayers I memorized to look smart as a child as an essential part of my compulsions.

Where I can admit that, like many Jews, I have questioned God - if for a different reason than many - and have open and honest discussions about how to return to a higher level of faith.

I’ve been waiting 29 years - since I was born Jewish - to hear someone in a position of authority take a strong stance on mental health. Ever since my years in USY in this same congregation, I waited and wondered if there would ever be a place for me - and now, after everything that’s happened, I’m starting to think it might be true.

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.