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.

A Different Kind of Writing

A Different Kind of Writing

It’s coming up on five years since I started writing for No Shame On U’s blog, and over that time, I’ve become comfortable with writing about a lot of different topics.

Most of the time, I try to keep things light and focus on everyday life with OCD beyond the stereotypes. I could have done that for this week’s post, too - talking about a coworker making repeated OCD jokes or the sudden nerves that hit me at the prospect of my first catered lunch at the new job - but this week, I’ve actually been doing a lot of writing about OCD already.

Most people who know me know that it’s been my lifelong dream to be a published author. I remember that, when I was little, I used to talk about getting published every time I wrote a paragraph on a piece of lined paper, and I couldn’t wait to show everyone what I had done. As a teenager, I got more into fantasy and science fiction and started writing a novel a year for National Novel Writing Month.

But it took me writing this blog to actually have a chance at getting a book published. A couple of years ago, I put together a manuscript from various blog entries and started sending it out. And this week, after I decided to pitch the book in a new angle focused on the power of positive obsessions, I finally got a bite.

I am a manic mix of excited and terrified at the thought of the publishing company representative reading the chapter I sent him. We had a wonderful conversation last week about the new proposal and the ideas we both had for the book, and then he asked me for my most powerful chapter.

Even though I called Mom to get her advice, I already knew which chapter was the most powerful. It’s one that I wrote separately from the blog, one that I decided to rewrite again to make it even stronger even though it hurts just to think about it. I wanted to give myself the best possible chance at fulfilling my dream - and, ironically, the way to do that was by writing about the time in my life when I didn’t think I’d survive to fulfill any dreams at all.

It’s not just the blood clot story, which I’ve touched on in various posts here. It’s what happened a year and a half later - the nervous breakdown I didn’t think I could survive.

Even though this happened nine years ago, writing about it makes it feel as fresh as peeling off a newly formed scab. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to not be afraid of something like this happening to me again or being afraid whenever I have a major change in my life like losing Nana.

Aside from this blog, I hadn’t written anything since Nana got sick - and really, since before I went to New Zealand. It’s been almost nine months since I wrote a story that wasn’t for work or a volunteer commitment - just for myself. And this was the most horrifying story I could possibly pick.

As soon as I got off the phone with the publishing company, I knew what I had to do, but I honestly didn’t think I could do it. Sure, I could write an article for my old job or a post for this blog, but turning the scariest and most intense time of my life into 5,000 words that would impress a publisher was something I thought beyond my purview.

And yet, somehow, I wrote 2,000 words the first day - more than I’d written at once in well over a year. And then another 2,000 the next day, and the last 1,000 the day after that. The story poured out of me, likely because I wasn’t just writing about OCD - I was writing about the way my connection to a video game called Nine Hours, Nine Persons, Nine Doors helped me survive the blood clot and breakdown.

It was easier to write about Akane’s experiences in the game than the ones I faced. I started with those parts of the chapter, delving into what I identified with and why. A near-fatal crisis of the body breaking the mind is something you don’t often see in video games or visual novels, but it’s something that has stayed with me for years since, to the point that I still say 999 is my favorite video game.

Once I wrote about Akane, I could start to write about myself. The reasons I associated with her feeling tortured was because I felt tortured. I felt half-alive too, chained to a moment in the past that I couldn’t control or forget.

Writing the chapter was cathartic, but so different from this blog. Even though I share intimate things here, the chapter I wrote is a whole new level of intimacy I haven’t reached before. Most of my close friends don’t even know this level of detail about my junior year of college, so it feels strange to dive so far into my breakdown headspace for someone who I haven’t even met.

Not to mention I couldn’t call Nana like I always did when I wrote anything while she was alive. She wasn’t there to tell me that my work deserved a Pulitzer no matter what the publishing company said, and even though I knew she would have said that, it was still painful to write without her there.

Even so, I was proud to send what I had written to the publisher. I’m anxiously awaiting a reply, trying to not check my inbox more times than necessary but desperate to know if my gamble paid off. He asked for something powerful and I delivered something far more than I thought I could, something beautiful and horrifying at once that I hope will lead to my first book deal.

If this works, it’ll be the ultimate proof of something I’ve been trying to convince myself of for years: my greatest weakness can be my greatest strength.

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 Rigor of New Routines

The Rigor of New Routines

I’m someone who has to stick pretty closely to a routine to feel comfortable--so any routine change, even a much-wanted one like getting settled in my new job--can feel overwhelming.

And it doesn’t help that being in a new industry feels like everyone’s talking to me in a new language I don’t understand!

As soon as I hit my first day, everything felt different: the hours, the commute, the people, the work itself (which I needed to be trained in from square one), the length of the lunch break, the food available nearby--the list felt never-ending. And the more I thought about it, the more stressed I felt.

Even though this is the first time I’ve changed jobs without also moving across the country--which made it my easiest job transition so far--I still felt stress creeping in and threatening to take away focus from the vital first days of meeting people and starting to learn the ins and outs of the new job.

I didn’t know what to do at first except try to stick as closely to my previous routine as possible, but with all these changes, I wondered how I’d manage. Especially after coming back from DragonCon, which was amazing yet muted this year since it felt strange to go home without seeing Nana, I wanted to put extra effort into keeping my head above water.

And so, I took inspiration from Goblin Tools (https://goblin.tools/), which I learned about in the group therapy I joined about a month ago, and listed out these unknowns in the notepad on my phone. If I could consider each one individually, that would help me feel less overwhelmed.

Even though I wanted a quick solution to this, it turned out that some of the problems were harder to solve than others. I now know I have the option to take five different buses or two different trains to work, but I’m still working on timing and figuring out which is fastest. I’m slowly trying lunch places one by one, which is stressful but enjoyable thanks to having a coworker who’s also a close friend.

I think a job like this in a new industry with so many other unknowns is going to take some time to get used to, but one week in, I’m proud that I’m starting to adjust. I understand the first two tasks of my new job, and I’ve started learning a third. I’m decreasing my confusion by taking copious notes (in a notebook with a barely visible, therefore professional T-Rex on it) and retyping them, then going through them before I do my work. For the first time in my life, I’m prioritizing accuracy over speed, and so far I’m managing to learn things pretty well.

Some things, like my work wardrobe, are more easily fixed. But there are some things that won’t resolve immediately, and I have to learn to be okay with that. It’s a test of my ability to overcome the black-and-white thinking that comes so innately to me but hinders my flexibility.

After nearly five years in the same job, I’d gotten pretty used to the everyday scheduling, but there were also times there when I had to relearn how to schedule my day, like during the pandemic. I need to remember that even though there are some other things I’m working on in my life now, that doesn’t mean I’m unable to learn something new in order to get a major upgrade to my quality of 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.

Being My Own Friend

Being My Own Friend

This past week, I experienced something I haven’t in a long time – I came very, very close to throwing up.

This might not sound out of the ordinary, but as someone for whom vomiting has been my biggest phobia since age three (and it even helped in my early diagnosis, as I performed compulsions to “avoid” throwing up even at such a young age), this was beyond terrifying.

Even after nearly five years of writing this blog, it’s hard for me to describe the sheer terror that spread through my body as I realized I had to shut down the computer game I was playing because I was getting clammy; my body tensed up; I dashed for the bottle of antiemetic pills I keep in the house just in case and struggled to swallow one as I felt something rising through my throat.

Finally, I managed to choke a pill down, but things were just starting. My anxiety was kicking in now, and my heart started to pound as if I was running—something my Fitbit quickly picked up on as it congratulated me on the solid workout. I was filled with nervous energy and prayed that this oncoming anxiety attack wouldn’t progress into a panic attack, which I thankfully haven’t had in years.

Since it was so late at night, I was limited in terms of who I could call, and my best option ended up being a relatively new friend. I berated myself for having to share myself in such a state with a new friend, but thankfully, he was kind and accepting, and stayed on the phone with me for about three hours until I was relaxed enough to try to get a little sleep.

When I woke up the next morning, still exhausted from a night of panicking about my oldest fear, I was ashamed that I still felt like this. I still had to do all of my adult responsibilities like go to work and do chores around the house, all while still thinking about my experience from the night before and how I felt like I did when I was a kid—out of control.

It helped me a lot when I figured out—thanks to a little help from Mom—that this was likely a response to eating something contaminated with almonds. Normally, nausea doesn’t escalate like that in three seconds and my stomach doesn’t take a few days to re-regulate, but I do recall that the last time I wasn’t careful enough, I experienced symptoms exactly like this.

Realizing that helped me avoid panicking about a potential future episode, but I was still distressed that this one happened. I’m thirty years old and have been in therapy for years, I told myself—and I still reacted the same way as I would have reacted to nausea when I was a kid. I was disappointed in myself for panicking so much and felt like I hadn’t learned or grown at all since I was a little girl.

When I told this to my parents and therapist, they were surprised to hear me talk like this—and they all immediately asked me how I would respond if one of my several friends with anxiety that spikes like mine came to me with such a problem.

I immediately responded that, to a friend, I would be kind and encouraging. I have trouble doing it for myself, but with a friend, I would try to talk them out of their negative self-talk and say that they did their best under incredibly difficult circumstances and that’s all you can do.

My parents and therapist told me that, even though the thought of “I have no idea what to do” kept cycling through my head, I did, in fact, know what to do. I called for help, followed my therapist’s advice in the moment, and distracted myself in healthy ways until I could attempt to sleep. If any of my friends told me this story, I would have told them that they absolutely knew what they were doing and I was proud of them for facing a big fear like this.

But for myself, I still struggle to be kind. I still can’t treat myself the way I treat my friends and judge myself harshly, demanding perfection when this is impossible under such circumstances. Even though I know this isn’t exactly reasonable, I still find myself treating myself like one of my old childhood bullies, nitpicking everything and demanding a standard of perfection that literally no one can meet.

In the wake of this incident, I’m putting more effort into noticing my self-talk and how I handle even small incidents that come up. Maybe, if I can practice being kind to myself with something more minor, I’ll be able to be kinder to myself when bigger things come up. I’m going to practice treating myself like a friend, and see if I can bring the same understanding and hope I bring to my friendships to my own experiences.

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.

An Exercise in Giving Up

An Exercise in Giving Up

I’m someone who always wants to overachieve.

Every year since turning 17, I’ve signed up for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and finished a 50,000-word-plus novel in 30 days--and most of the time, I’m done by the middle of the month because I’m worried I’ll miss the deadline so I go ahead. I’m also currently 41% of the way on my challenge to walk the length of New Zealand, in only 32% of the time.

So, when I signed up for the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang (TRSB) writing challenge this year for the fifth time in a row, I assumed it would be like NaNoWriMo--I would take the three months I had to write 5,000 words and get it done easily, just as I had in previous years.

I was therefore very surprised when I kept trying over and over for the first two months to put something on the page, only to get stumped. I came up with an idea I liked eventually, but whenever I sat at the computer and tried to write, I felt a writer’s block like nothing before.

It took until I finally forced myself to sit down and write a scene that I realized what was going on: I was missing my beloved tradition of calling Nana to share everything I ever wrote with her, and she would kvell over me and say I deserved a Pulitzer for every line and tell me how smart and accomplished and amazing I was for every first draft.

She didn’t care about the craft or whether the story was perfect; she just cared about praising me--and I didn’t realize how much I would miss that when the opportunity came to write my first story after she passed away.

I reached out to my therapist for advice about how to make myself push through and write the rest of the story. I had reached about ⅕ of the way, which I considered highly disappointing--I wrote less in two months than I always wrote in a day during NaNoWriMo.

I was surprised when she told me, instead, to reconsider whether this challenge was something I needed to do at the moment with so much else going on, and advised me to think about how I consider easing away from a project, let alone quitting.

I told her I felt like a failure for even thinking about it. I was always capable of so much more, after all, and I didn’t want to lose my ambition to do projects like these.

My therapist told me this is yet another example of the all-or-nothing, black-and-white thinking that my brain tends to favor. She told me that there’s no reason for me to feel like a failure if now isn’t a good time for me to do something even if I’ve succeeded before, and there’s no shame in needing extra help or time especially after a life-changing event like losing Nana.

I decided that I should give TRSB one more try, with a new organization system designed to break a big project into tiny steps. If this helped me and I was able to write the story, I would do it; otherwise, I would withdraw from the challenge and hope the artist whose work I was basing the story on wouldn’t be too angry.

After a week of trying, and even writing a little more, I realized that the more I pushed myself, the more I was hating the process--and that was the worst way to get back into writing after taking a hiatus.

And so, I reached out to the artist and let her know that I would be withdrawing and finding someone else to write the story. She actually found someone else before I did, and there was no harm done. She didn’t get angry with me, and none of the negative things I imagined actually happened. Since I withdrew before the deadline, I’m allowed to take part next year if I choose--so there are literally no negative ramifications.

My therapist told me that I was also allowed to take things easier with my walking challenge, which requires 5 miles a day, but I often end up averaging 7--and I even hit 10 some days. She told me that if I was going so far ahead to leave myself a buffer, I was allowed to use that buffer and not hit my goal every single day, especially since I’m still recovering from what turned out to be a bacterial infection of sorts and the walking makes me cough harder.

I’m still working on allowing myself to step back from something if it’s making my mental health feel worse, especially if it’s not something important to the course of my life as a whole. It can be very hard considering I’ve spent nearly all my life trying to push myself as hard as I can, but it’s also liberating to take a step back and realize that these extra projects are supposed to be fun and make me feel good. If they don’t, I’m absolutely allowed to take control over them, rather than letting them control my life--and find a way to feel good about my side projects again.

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.