Tag Archives: NAMI

The Alienated Stranger.

Obsessive Compulsion is a marauding demon.

The Interweb consolidates. “Many investigators have contributed to the hypothesis that OCD involves dysfunction in a neuronal loop running from the orbital frontal cortex to the cingulate gyrus, striatum (cuadate nucleus and putamen), globus pallidus, thalamus and back to the frontal cortex.” You’ll get this search result at the top of Google.

Happy looping!

There’s more. “Research suggests that OCD involves problems in communication between the front part of the brain and deeper structures of the brain. These brain structures use a neurotransmitter (basically, a chemical messenger) called serotonin.” Yep. That old, familiar, feel good goodie, wrecked by one nasty migraine med, Imitrex, taken for far too many years unawares.

Serotonin reuptake inhibitors are being prescribed, to treat OCD. But, Imitrex is a triptan, which interacts with serotonin (probably causing the OCD, long term.) You got it. Ya cain’t mix duh meds.

Even more currently (2011, these things move slowly) “Recent evidence suggests that the ubiquitous excitatory neurotransmitter glutamate is dysregulated in OCD, and that this dysregulation may contribute to the pathophysiology of the disorder.” Glutamate > Gluten. Sure enough. Gluten intolerance > drug dysregulated neurotransmission > OCD.


So, my hapless grieving partner, alone at home – weeks after his mother’s death – making dinner and drowning his sorrows ends his convo with me on the Messenger phone App. Only, he thinks he can just hang up a Phone call, and leaves the Messenger line open.

For the next twenty odd minutes I listen in, picking up kitchen utensil sound effects and an increasingly persistent, if garbled, female voice continuously talking with no audible response from another vocal source. This could be the TV, but the demon thinks it hears his name spoken. Then, his voice, clearer, making a declarative vulgarity into a complete sentence, and I am captured. Captured, by the devil in the details.

By the time he finally discovers his phone status, our satan in the eaves has created the whole scenario: he’s having another female over for tacos, she’s on her phone until he proclaims the Italian classic: “Let’s eat!”, and they plan their intimate hours directly following dinner. My hollering to Hang Up The Phone! finally draws her attention, he asks What are you doing?, silence ensues, he frets This Is Bad and the phoneline cuts out, me with my conclusion in tablet stone.

But, the demon is tenacious. (They all are; categorically doomed, they persist in the pathetic hope that hanging on will somehow alter their fate. ) My mind now in its full control, the hell’s minion’s story must play out; I must pummel him with decision based texts, including the announcement that all his things will be in a bag at an undisclosed location, and ending with a prophetic Bible verse from the Book of Proverbs about dogs, vomit, and fools.

The clincher: way beyond the normal pale, OCD sends its victims into the realm of the stranger. I contact Suspect #1, a woman with whom my partner has history and who has recently surfaced on his birthday to call him Babe and post a telling salutation. She and I are not acquainted. Devils don’t care who’s been introduced.

I tell her she can have him. I pass judgment on her character. I condemn her to the rubble.

By the time the demon scuttles off, content to have ravaged all reality, she – neither suspect, nor person of interest, according to him – has blocked me. And, given her higher than my level of social intelligence, already gathering her covy of girlfriends to further condemn me to the pit of the Hades by which I have already been entertained.

OCD is a killer. All demons are. They don’t care how many Friends you have on Facebook, or see out, or hoard in, or keep in your pandemic bubble. By the time you’ve been wreaked with the havoc, you’ll lose friends you’ve never even met.

Get thee behind me, Lucifer. You may be son of the morning, but that sky is as red as a sailor’s warning. I’m staying out front, on my wire, scoping you out. My life, and the diminishing few humans who remain in my real and/or imagined realm, depend on such vigilance.


Obsess on that.






Copyright 12/16/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, the afflicted, whose name appears above this line. No copying, in whole or part including translation, permitted. Sharing only by blog link, exclusively and directly; no RSS, either. Thank you for hanging on.


The Love Chapter.


Today was Lance Barclay’s funeral.

Funerals, as a rule, are generally less well attended than are viewings, unless the deceased is a close friend or family. But, this memorial, a good thirty minute commute – practically a day trip for the locals in this town – was packed.

The Girard Unitarian Universalist Church is one of the Great Lakes region’s original “underground railroad” hubs. Maybe its spirits have infused the space. I’d wager something is influencing those small, close quarters complete with tiny balcony, because those who occupy its congregation are some of the warmest, most well rounded, most open minded and forgiving of humans you’d ever hope to meet.

Among them, Lance was a star.

The impact of his life really gelled at the moment I realized his death. Perhaps, because many of us had no idea he’d been fighting cancer at all, this element of surprise was a catalyst, of sorts. Whichever being the case, I found myself drawn and determined; Saturday morning long since having ceased to be my earliest rising, I nevertheless vowed to get to that church on time.

Historically, the drive had been, for me, the prohibitor – especially during our forbidding winters; for this reason, at least in large part, my attendance at the Girard UU had been spotty. But, the single person apart from its minister, Rev. Charles Brock, most welcoming toward me, whether I were there to present a musical offering or simply to join the collective, was Lance. Always smiling (always smiling), he engaged me in conversation. He attuned. And, unlike those whose training in proselytizing could be knee jerk, his interest was genuine.

But, most of those already seated as the gong sounded at my arrival were strangers to both the congregation and me; yet, I found myself entering with a former colleague and seated beside another, neither of whom knew the other. This was the first aspect of Lance Barclay worthy of note; he’d been everywhere. The man had been a devoted member of numerous well established organizations dedicated to service. He was a Son of the American Revolution. He’d held a leadership position in service to the mentally ill. And, together with his adored wife, he’d raised his beloved family.

The funeral began with a greeting and a congregational hymn, and then the reading.

Noting the reading’s address – I Corinthians 13 – I marveled privately. The “Love” Chapter. Wasn’t this reserved almost exclusively for the sacrament of marriage? Certainly, my own wedding, all those years ago, had featured the verses – front and center, just ahead of the vows and behind the parade of handmade gowns lovingly sewn by my mother.

Rev. Brock preambled with the pre-existing theme of the previous month’s homilies. Eros – Philios – Agape…….and, then, he began to recite the 13th chapter of I Corinthians.

“Love is patient….

and kind……..”

I sat. My coat was russet, faux suede, a stand out amongst the Navies and blacks of the appropriately attired. The remaining spot on the pew which had been offered me bore two, hand sewn cushions which met just where the halves of my body separated. I squirmed over the void. The small bag holding the tiny African violet for Bernadette, his widow, next to my oversized Sundance bag filled the space at my feet.

“….love is not jealous

or boastful

or proud

…..or rude……….”

Allan the organist’s forehead was just visible over the top of the music rack, in the tiny corner of the sanctuary facing the room. I looked at Lance’s face, painted in striking oils, his smile ever present now in portrait.

“It does not demand its own way.  It is not irritable, and it keeps no record of being wronged.”……..

My heartbeat, particularly unstable back in the ’80’s especially during marching band season, pricked inside my chest. I looked over at Rev. Brock, head bowed over his New Living quote of the Scriptures, and back up toward Lance’s face. His image was a backdrop now for the youngest of two daughters, both of whom had presented so beautifully a litany of his many words of wisdom in remembrance. I watched as she kissed her child’s forehead.

“It does not rejoice about injustice, but rejoices whenever the truth wins out.”

It was clear, now, why Rev. Brock had chosen to read this chapter. Lance Barclay had embodied the love of Christ as received by the Apostle Paul in his letter to the Corinthians. There wasn’t a single blot on his record as either a responsible citizen, a father, or husband. He had lived a life utterly and completely above reproach.

“Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance.”

A sigh of ten thousand mornings and nights escaped from deep within me. I knew, then, what had compelled my attendance at this man’s funeral. Looking back over so many attempts at accomplishment, at professional contribution, at earnest effort, at production as a single, responsible woman in the world of the performing, visual, and teaching arts, I had failed completely at the one, divine directive. I’d been impatient, unkind, jealous, proud, boastful, and rude. I’d demanded my own way, quite irritably so, and had kept a record of every transgression against me. I had failed at love.

Lance Barclay’s gaze followed his family, friends, fellow parishioners, WWII veterans, and colleagues as they filed outside for his full military honors. The three (merciful) gun salute, the American flag folded triangularly and presented to the family, the single bugler’s Taps, and the lone piper’s “Amazing Grace” filling the early spring air, feathered now by fine flakes of snow. We stood. Then, the piper turned, and retreated, allowing the strains of the hymn to diminish across the portal that opened into eternity…………….

We were flooded.

I was infused with it. That grace! A vow to live love at all costs filled the blood in my veins. Seventy seven chapters closed in the life of Lance Barclay; another day in the life of those to whom he left his legacy. A new love chapter, ready to begin, just across the next horizon.





© Ruth Ann Scanzillo  3/5/16  All rights, in honor of Lance, Bernadette, Nicole, Martine, and the rest of their loving family, reserved. Thank you.










Justin Bowersox.

There had been thousands of students. After calculating the plus or minus nine hundred each week for the final fifteen, and the two high schools prior, there were at least four. Four thousand children. In twenty five years. All of them, calling me by my name.

Statistically, I would not know how many people we recall vividly, as we pass through life. I do know that there are always stand outs. In my life, Justin was one of them.

The classroom right next to mine, in the basement level at Perry, was for Emotional Support – a fairly new designation, since I’d been alive, for children who, for one reason or another, needed help with coping skills. Looking back, I probably should have used my energy, if I were to spend any of it in public education, as an Emotional Support teacher; as it stood, I was next door, in the music room.

Thankfully, the E.S. students, so called, were mainstreamed for their “specials”. This meant that Justin would enter my classroom whenever his age group was scheduled to have music class. And, this was how I got to know Justin.

Unlike some of the children who joined other groups for music, Justin was never disruptive in my classroom.  He spoke little. When he did, there was a certain urgency in his quiet delivery, a purpose, as if driven by a need. Justin always knew what he wanted, and what he needed to do. I often wonder now how many people ever asked Justin what he needed.

Perry School had several percussion instruments. Made small enough for children, there were hand drums and shakers and woodblocks, and at least two rosewood xylophones available for use. Here was where Justin found his love; every time he had the chance, Justin would get the mallets and play the xylophone.

In fact, I began to notice how much Justin needed to play the xylophone.

The day he could be heard, on the floor of the hallway, held down by a muscular instructor, screaming intensely, I determined that Justin, whenever he needed to, would play his xylophone.

And, during the lunch hour, I would let him sneak across from the cafeteria to play. I’d told him that, whenever he needed to, he could come on over.

Speaking to the instructor about Justin’s need to play, I’d been met with the customary reminder that there was protocol involving “these children” that should be followed. This was why I told him he could come over whenever he wanted to play; I’d sought official permission, but was out of my league in this regard within the American public school system.

Nobody could get Justin to private percussion lessons, either. According to my memory, he’d been a resident of the local home for such children and, apparently, there was nobody on staff who could either transport him or cover the cost.

But, there was something else, as well. At one of the music classes during a day when Justin was present, he seemed agitated. I walked over to him, and his words as they sprang forth were startling; he expressed the desire to end his life. I recall sitting down, right then, hearing him out, persuading him regarding his value, trying to show love and understanding. After several minutes, we came to terms about this – he, deciding to dispense with his desire as expressed, and me telling him to always remember that he was cared about and valued.

I remember this happening on a Friday. Saturday, both the memory of the exchange and concern for Justin troubled me; I contacted the school principal at his home, and told him what had happened. Amazingly, my boss reprimanded me for failing to immediately bring this to the attention of the school administrators, while it was unfolding. In fact, he would raise this issue at my subsequent evaluation, giving me a low numerical score.

But, Justin continued on after that day, and I recalled no further expressions of such desperation from him. He played his xylophone until the time came when I no longer saw him at school. I can’t remember when that was, but I did eventually move to a different building – albeit reluctantly – when the site pairings changed, and Justin moved on to middle school.

Two years ago, I was pulling up to the curb from one of my frequent trips to the whole foods co-op. The renting families across the street in the flat had several older boys this season, often outside working on cars, and I noticed one of them whom I hadn’t seen before on a skateboard. Lifting my groceries out of the car, I greeted him. In a moment whose effect cannot be carried by words alone, he spoke to me. He said: “Aren’t you Miss Scanzillo?”

It was Justin.

He was visiting his cousins, who had moved in across the street!

We threw our arms around each other. He was tall, in his twenties now, and told me he was doing fine. He’d been working. I assured him he could come visit me, anytime. And, I might have cried a little.

There had been so many former students, since, with whom I had reconnected. I’d watched them, via social media, getting married, raising families, becoming successful adults. This past Thursday, while perusing the local online newspaper, I saw it. Justin’s name – in the obituaries.

In a rush, I was weeping. Reading that he’d reached the age of 27, that he loved music first of all, and that he’d passed as the result of an accident, I made note, the date of his death having been a month prior, to attend his memorial service scheduled for today.

Entering the funeral home, I was confused. The undertakers did not meet me at the door. The viewing rooms were shut. A gentlemen saw me, and approached. No; there was no viewing today for Justin. The newspaper, inexplicably, had printed the announcement a week late, and I had missed his memorial; it had taken place last Saturday.

My emotions could not be identified. What was I feeling? Had there been a time warp, and I’d missed the memo?

Today is the day we mourn the horror of the terrorist attack on Paris. Today, we have visceral disturbances in our vision of hope for the future. We fight images of blood, and body parts, our consciousness pummeled by massive screams amidst explosive chaos.

In addition to his music, Justin loved extreme sports. The undertaker’d said his accident had happened out of town. I hope Justin flew into the air on a skateboard, his body releasing his soul to the heavens before it fell to the earth. I hope he escaped this life swiftly and painlessly, without assault, without anguish, without terror. While we all must die, I am thankful that Justin lived, even for a little while. Unlike the monsters who seek to horrify our better selves, Justin was an earnest, sweet, caring, gentle, and compassionate human being. Dare I say he deserved to live.






© Ruth Ann Scanzillo  11/14/15

All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line; sharing permitted by written request.