Happiness is people

"When your aspiration is to lighten up, you begin to have a sense of humor. Your serious state of mind keeps getting popped. In addition to a sense of humor, a basic support for a joyful mind is curiosity, paying attention, taking an interest in the world around you. Happiness is not required, but being curious without a heavy judgmental attitude helps."--Pema Chodron, from Comfortable with Uncertainty

I saw a movie on Sunday night called Wendy and Lucy. It's a very simple story, starting with a girl and her dog on their way to start a better life in Alaska. I read somewhere that Michelle Williams, who plays Wendy, was very good in the role. And she was, very believable, heartbreakingly so. But god, was it a depressing movie.

I had posted last time that I wanted to try to lighten up, to laugh more, maybe see a comedy or read a funny book. Instead, I'm watching depressing indie flick #347 and reading a novel by TC Boyle, The Tortilla Curtain, about the battle between a California town's white, well-to-do population, and the immigrants coming illegally across the border. In Boyle's novel, no one comes out looking like a winner; certainly not the main character, who runs a Mexican off the road and then hands him $20 for his troubles. And not the immigrants--particularly the men--who sometimes prey on their own people. It's an absorbing story but definitely another downer. I came home last night, covered in sweat from my humid walk, sat at the kitchen table across from Mike, and basically just gave him a look of impending doom.

In my search for happiness and a life that's worthwhile, I've tried to reduce my "hooks"--shopping (Paris doesn't count), drinking too much red wine, eating cereal for dinner, trolling for the next "essential" beauty product, reading People magazine. Meanwhile, I'm trying to figure out what it means to be a good person, and how I can spend my time more wisely, open up more, and drop my snap judgments about people and situations. I'm trying to face the world without so much armor on.

But there's so much discouraging news out there. And without the hooks to distract me, the world seems so...harsh. I can see one of the reasons why people have children--or maybe it's just a perk that comes with the job--but if you're busy chasing around a little one or changing a diaper or yelling at your teenager, then you don't have time to think about much else!

I did do one positive thing this weekend. Despite having a nasty cough and cold, I went up to the family cabin in Maine over the weekend so I could see my New York friends Alina and Eric who were coming to stay with us. Originally, I was going to wrap myself up in my cocoon of soft sheets, and go through a box of tissues hacking my lungs out, scaring the cat off the bed, and basically waiting for Sunday night. But then I thought about something I read in Social Intelligence, a pretty good book by Daniel Goleman (despite the complicated brain studies.) He said that what makes people the happiest is relationships with others. That's pretty much it. Yes, you need the basics--shelter, food, clothes, the ability to pay your electric bill and have money left over for dinner and a movie. But once you've hit that baseline of comfort, it's all about being a part of a community, having quality relationships with people. You live longer and are more content if you have a close network of people in your life.

Now between my mucuous-laden cough and my gloomy worldview, I didn't think I'd be very good company for anyone. And the first night we were there, when I was quarantined to the bunkhouse to sleep alone lest I wake everyone up with my coughing and spewing, I wondered if I should have stayed home. At home there weren't ten thousand blood-sucking mosquitoes angling for a piece of me. There might be some old cough medicine in the bathroom closet under the beach towels and more pillows on which I could prop myself up. No one would have to look at me across the dinner table in my sad state. But eventually I fell asleep.

Saturday morning, I woke up late, expecting that everyone had already eaten Mike's delicious whole wheat buttermilk pancakes and were probably deep into the discussion of the day's plan. Surprisingly, though it was after 11, they had waited for me before eating. "Well of course we waited," they said. It was a small thing, but it filled me with gratitude for my thoughtful friends.
And by Saturday afternoon I was starting to feel slightly better--courtesy of Mucinex--and I was allowed to sleep in the big house with everyone else, and we ate Maine lobster and this Russian cucumber, dill, and tomato salad that Alina prepared, and we talked and laughed, even when we were in the midst of a swarm of bugs that surrounded us when we went outside to get in the car. If I had stayed at home, I would have sulked and sweated and thought of all the reasons why the world is a cruel place. But instead I spent time with my friends whom I love. At least I got that one right!

Do Make Me Laugh

"One of the key teachings of Zen is awareness, and laughter can be a tool to reinvigorate alertness to the present moment."--From the article "Lighten Up for Enlightenment" in the August 2009 issue of Ode magazine

Laughter is essential. I have been thinking about that, becoming more aware of when I laugh. Laughter prolongs life and helps people bond. Who doesn't like a person who can make you laugh? I once worked with a guy who used to paper my office door when I wasn't there with funny pictures: "Squiggy" from Laverne and Shirley--hand-drawn hearts around his portrait; John Travolta when he did the awful, unintentionally hilarious follow-up to Saturday Night Fever--Staying Alive; a picture of an innocent looking kitten that he colored an acidic green so it looked demonic, a zombie kitty more likely to play with a corpse than a ball of yarn. Since I worked from 10-6, I would come in later then most of my colleagues, and I would laugh at the discovery of each new picture on my door, one more outrageous than the next. He also had a knack for saying absurd things, and you couldn't help but laugh while you puzzled over what the heck he was talking about. He was a fun and well-liked co-worker.

I'd like to laugh more. People tell me I have a deep, hearty laugh ( surely a nice way of saying "loud".) My mother claims I inherited the laugh from her father, who died before I was born. I would have liked to have heard my grandfather's laugh, or ask him what made him laugh.

It seems that whenever I leave a job and get a farewell card from my colleagues, there is always someone who writes, "I'll miss your infectious laugh." Unfortunately, the person who writes this is usually someone who sat far away from my desk, which makes me blush thinking everyone in the office can hear me. But I also value that comment when I get it, because I usually think of myself as the serious, moody type, courtesy of my Scandinavian roots.

I'm trying to think about what else makes me laugh. People say Will Ferrell movies make them laugh, and I did like Anchorman but didn't laugh that much watching Old School. The British (and sometimes the American) version of The Office makes me smile, in a wincing, teeth clenching sort of way. Those old Airplane and Naked Gun movies do the trick because of the barrage of silly sight gags appearing in the background. My husband makes me laugh--sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. When I ask him how he's enjoying his book and he goes into a long description, punctuated by a knowing chuckle at some author's wittiness, I can't help but laugh--not at the witty author's remarks, but because of how much they've managed to amuse my husband. We often laugh at different things, though we both thought the French movie The Closet was hysterical.

I laugh at my mother's funny-looking animal knick-knacks. I laugh when my friend Tiffany tells me about her ridiculous boss. I need to learn to laugh at myself more (ie. lighten up.)

There are days when I feel that I haven't laughed at all, thinking too much about the state of the world, or the future, or my myriad faults. Not enough laughter, and your risk of future cardiovascular problems increases. Laughter really is good medicine.

What makes you laugh? I'm interested to hear.

Lazy Bones

"Laziness is a human trait. Unfortunately, it inhibits wakeful energy and undermines our confidence and strength. The first kind of laziness, comfort orientation, is based on our tendency to avoid inconvenience. We want to take a rest, to give ourselves a break. But soothing ourselves, lulling ourselves, becomes a habit and we become jaded and lazy. This particular brand of laziness can make us aggressive. We become outraged at inconvenience. Comfort orientation dulls our appreciation of smells and sights and sounds. It also makes us dissatisfied. Somehow we always know in our hearts that pure pleasure is not the route to lasting happiness."--Pema Chodron, from The Places That Scare You

Ever make a list of five things or less that you want to change in your life? Ever put it on the refrigerator, above the Belle Epoque magnets, and the clipped recipes, and that mini "Mile 0" sign you got from Key West that everyone gets in Key West? Did you make an effort to make small changes in your daily routine so you could reach those goals? Did week two come and did you "lose" the list, or slide it to the bottom of the refrigerator where it could easily be knocked off by the cat?

Change is hard, in particular when you're lazy like me. There, I've said it. It's not that I'm always lazy, or that I like being lazy (or even that I dislike it!) It's just a general truth about me. My laziness usually takes the form that Pema describes. I hate being inconvenienced and I like to take breaks. I like lots of time to daydream, read, or sleep. I prefer taking a cab to any other mode of paid transportation, which is a sore point between my husband and I. When I'm out past 9PM, I rationalize to myself that all the drunk and stumbling college kids will be on the train, falling down and throwing up around me. So I hail a cab, sit back, and enjoy being spirited away to my apartment. It's like this little royal treat I give myself sometimes.

Or when I cook. As I've mentioned in other posts, I love to cook, but I'm not so good at the cleaning up part. Somehow I manage to scatter bits of ingredients into a colorful mosaic on my kitchen counter. The dishes in the sink are piled so high that you would think I was preparing a meal for ten, not two. But do I clean up while I go along or afterwards? No. I put away any food that might rot or get swiped by the cat, and then I wander off. When I lived in Queens, I could never get away with this behavior because of the roaches. But in Brookline, the only thing that happens is I wake up in the morning and have to push aside a bunch of dirty pots to get to my coffee grinder. Or my husband does the dishes while I'm still in bed contemplating getting up.

When Mike and I were in Sweden a couple of weeks ago, visiting my relatives on my mother's side, I was amazed by how "together" they all were. Their houses were tastefully decorated (of course, they're Swedish, they know from design!) and not too cluttered. They all had ample living space and seemed very serene, even though most of my cousins have small children running around. House after house that I toured left me aching with envy, while at the same time in awe of my relatives. Not only were they neat and well-organized, but they were also hard-working (one set of cousins built this beautiful green-efficient house in the country.) But not SO hard-working that they seemed stressed. I can only speculate that they know how to manage their time better than I do.

Another blogger spoke about time, and how to use it. He talks about an epiphany he had--inspired by a quote from Vietnamese Zen monk Thich Nhat Hahn--that all time is actually "me" time, and that only he could determine what he wanted to spend his time on and what he would ignore. Saying that I don't have enough "time" to clean up, or to start a new project, or call a friend, or submit an essay to a magazine is nonsense. Of course I do. My husband likes this quote that I'm going to paraphrase here--everyone has the same 24 hours in a day. If I give up just 1/2 hour of laying around, I can keep the kitchen counter clear. If I cut one hour of TV watching, I can vacuum the apartment and dust off all the bookshelves. If I get up a little earlier in the morning, I could work on an essay to submit to a magazine or do a load of laundry.

There's also of course the Benjamin Franklin quote "A life of leisure and a life of laziness are two things. There will be sleeping enough in the grave." As much as I cling to a life of leisure, I might do well posting "that" on the fridge.

Enough Already

"We live in wondrous times, astoundingly fast times, Blackberry and instant-message times, humankind accomplishing a swelling tidal wave of feats that would have scared Leonardo DaVinci witless.

Almost every day I encounter people, who, like me, do not feel empowered by these abundant times. Some are mildly unsettled; others near to drowning.

Someone says, "The more they talk about being 'connected,' the more isolated I feel."

Author Maggie Jackson claims information overload is crippling our ability to think deeply; what matters is now veiled."--From Islands Apart: A Year on the Edge of Civilization

I've been away from the computer for two weeks. I returned to work to find close to 500 emails, and on my Gmail account, there were hundreds more, though many were email newsletters and store sale announcements, most of which I deleted without reading. I gravitated toward the few personal emails I had received. Those I kept.

I missed writing on this blog, but I didn't miss all the noise of commerce, celebrity gossip, news of wars and murders and abuse, the latest political harangues. I was blissfully disconnected. I didn't even have a cell phone. I heard of Michael Jackson's death on CNN World News, but didn't hear any of the ensuing details. Oh, and I heard from a frenchman that one of our senators ran away to South America to be with his mistress, but I didn't hightail it to the nearest internet cafe to read the latest developments.

I was in Paris for a week in a small apartment near Pigalle, home of the disappointingly-dinky Moulin Rouge and steps away from every food shop one would ever need to live a happy life and die smiling. I wanted to live in the moment, soak it all in, but even living my new, disconnected life, I found my brain racing with too many thoughts, my mind consumed with hungers. I had never been to Paris, and there was so much to take in, so much to sample, look at, experience, purchase. At times I felt like I had to go back to the apartment and close my eyes--that was how much of a sensory overload it was for me. If I was sitting at one cafe enjoying a cafe au lait and a pain du chocolat, I was thinking about what I would be doing next. When I went to one fancy department store and bought a charming little blouse for 55 Euros, I was already thinking about what other pretty clothes awaited me in the next store. If I was eating a Religieuse pastry, I was wondering what the Macarons tasted like. In the Jardin des Tuileries I was happily lounging under the shade, reading a book, my head resting comfortably and surrounded by beauty everywhere I looked. But I found it hard to just stay, to just be. Even in the best possible circumstances, I'm thinking about what's next.

So I was away from the information overload that is the internet, free to experience the real world rather than the virtual one--but I was still struggling with living in the moment because of my habit of wondering what I'd find behind the next corner. I was like a baby who doesn't want to go to sleep because he's afraid he'll miss something. Happiness is contentment, and I wouldn't be content until I had seen and experienced everything the city had to offer--which of course is impossible. Because contentment is about being happy with what you have in front of you, and I just wanted more, more. If I was happy now, would I be even happier at the next cafe, the next sight, the next charming boutique?

When I'm online, I want to be clued into every good site, blog, comment, essay, news posting, etc. that I can get my hands on. But disconnecting from the computer was not enough to control my greed--I also had to disconnect from my "monkey mind" of always wanting more, better, best so I could fully experience the great things that were happening to me in the present. It was incredibly hard to do, but by week two in Sweden I was starting to get it. I was thinking more clearly without all the distracting buzz in the background (no, the only buzz was coming from the biting flies that come out in summer there.) I was recognizing how fleeting my vacation (and time itself) was and so I tried to savor it a bit more. I came back from the trip more relaxed, refreshed, and ready to practice being present here at home.

I did it my way

"You can learn many things about cooking, about ingredients, cutting combinations, and procedures, but even more fundamentally you can learn to act on your own experience, outside of recipes, relying on your innate capacity to taste and sense and decide for yourself what you like. By this I do not mean following your instincts, which seems to me a rather amorphous concept, but being present, carefully observing the obvious, acquainting your palate with your palette."--Edward Espe Brown, from The Complete Tassajara Cookbook

This weekend up in the family cabin in Maine I volunteered to cook for my in-laws. The last time we were there, my husband's cousins were also visiting and my cousin Mikki and my mother-in-law did all the cooking while I sat back and enjoyed the spoils. I also enjoy cooking, and in the interest of proving that I'm not a princess expecting to be served all the time, I figured it was my turn to seize the wooden spoon.

I had brought an advanced reading copy of Zen chef Edward Espe Brown's new book The Complete Tassajara Cookbook. Ever since I saw the movie about him, How to Cook Your Life,
I've been curious to try some of his recipes. I'm not a vegetarian, but Mike is, and it wouldn't hurt for me to incorporate more vegetables into my starch and sugar diet. What I didn't remember about Brown's way of cooking was 1. he takes his time cooking, communing with the ingredients, which five years ago would have made me roll my eyes and dismiss him as a New Age weirdo, but now I think it's interesting. I find that when I'm in the zone, cooking can be very Zen-like. Oh, and 2. his menus don't have a central, meaty entree. Instead they're a balance of tastes, smells, and textures. So don't expect steak, mashed potatoes, and green peas.

Since my foot fracture, I've been spending the bulk of my time on horizontal surfaces. I couldn't believe how much I could sleep! I hoped that all the dozing would make my foot heal faster, but no such luck--I was still hobbling around in pain. I asked Mike to go out and fetch the ingredients for the menu I had planned for the evening: Potatoes Baked with Wine and Cream, Tomato Salad with Provolone and Fresh Herbs, and Asparagus Sauteed with Roasted Almonds. Having spent the bulk of his day working on computer virus protection while I was off in La La Land, he wasn't exactly thrilled to be chasing after fresh chives and sliced almonds. But he did it for me anyway, the sweetie pie, and then I set to work. Problem was, dinner was supposed to be at 6:30, and I was only getting started around 6:15.

No problem, I thought, we'll eat on New York time, which is anywhere from 8 to 11PM. And that was about how long it was going to take, I discovered, when I glanced down at the recipe for the potatoes and it said they were to bake for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, and then for an additional 20 minutes on top of that!

Taking a deep breath, I started on the potato dish first, cutting the medium red bliss potatoes into quarters. Although Edward Espe Brown espouses putting the recipe aside and just being present with the ingredients and how they're coming together, I stuck with the recipe. No way did I want to serve uncooked potatoes or greasy asparagus to my in-laws of just two years.

As I said, when I cook, the Zen part arises when I'm completely focused on the preparation. I don't like cooking with others because I get easily distracted and start to feel self-conscious about my methods. When Mike and I were first dating, we talked about all the dinners we'd cook together, jazz music playing on the overhead speakers as we diced and stirred together. But that's usually not how it happens. When I'm cooking, I often try to persuade him to watch Tank Overload or whatever other heavy artillery show he can find on Discovery while I enjoy having the kitchen all to myself. Mike has strong opinions on how things should be done, and I often fall short of those rules. That's because for me cooking (and most other learned skills) is trial and error...making a mess, cutting too much off, doing it the slow way until I learn the shortcuts on my own. In other words, doing it MY WAY. Mike has never complained about the results before (well, maybe that one time when I attempted chick pea curry...)

I remember one of the first times Mike and my mother interacted. I was throwing a holiday cookie-making party in my tiny kitchen in Hoboken. My choice of cookie were rollouts, and as I placed the cookie cutter on various corners of the dough, both my mother and my future husband seemed itching to say something. Before I knew it, they had seized the cookie cutter and were stamping away.

"You're wasting a lot of dough the way you're doing it," my mother said, "it will take forever if you do it this way. You have to cut them closer together." Mike echoed Mom's sentiment, and also was determined to remove the shapes from the floured surface before I inadvertently tore off a leg or an antler.

I was used to my mother hovering over me as I learned to cook, adjusting the flame under pots, adding a pinch more seasoning, securing lids. But now Mike was doing it, too. He had worked in kitchens before, as he's very fond of reminding me, and my mother has cooked dinner for our family almost every night for as long as I can remember. I felt trapped, doomed to the role of prep cook for all eternity because I would never be able to match their collective experience.

Back in Maine: As I was putting the potatoes in the oven, there were stirrings in the livingroom about when dinner would be served. I didn't want to tell the truth, but I whispered to Mike's mom, "The potatoes are going to take a while!" I didn't mind waiting--I wanted to taste slow-cooked food the way Edward Espe Brown intended, and would happily drink a glass of wine and munch on cheese in the meantime. But my mother-in-law is practical, extremely capable, and no-nonsense. She intervened, raising the temperature of the oven so the potatoes would cook faster. She told me, "No way is it going to take that long. These are small potatoes. I'll bet they'll be done in 1/2 hour!"

Again, it was like too many cooks in the kitchen. Though I knew she was probably right and I should respect her experience, I wanted to follow the recipe as it was written, cook the way I wanted to cook, even if it meant taking the longer path.

I cut the tomatoes for the salad and snapped the ends off the asparagus, all the while conscience of the fact that my new family probably thought I was crazy for making a meatless meal that took three hours. By following my mother-in-laws advice, the potatoes were ready in a little over an hour, not two, and we didn't have to eat at midnight. Of course, I couldn't resist reading aloud Edward Espe Brown's commentary on the menu, how it was "a picture painted with flavors." But even I had to laugh when I read "Potatoes baked this way have a marvelous earthiness...the flavor of purified, refined dirt." Hmmm. I hope nothing I ever serve tastes like dirt.

My in-laws were very polite and generous even though they were probably wondering where's the beef? For once I felt virtuous eating a meal of vegetables instead of white rice with melted Jack cheese (one of Mike's favorites.) And I felt a sense of accomplishment at turning a bag of produce into a meal.

But next time, I'm sending Mike, my in-laws, and my parents to a movie while I lose myself in cooking, Jennifer-style.

Life Happens

"We are told from childhood that something is wrong with us, with the world, and with everything that comes along: it's not perfect, it has rough edges, it has a bitter taste, it's too loud, too soft, too sharp, too wishy-washy. We cultivate a sense of trying to make things better because something is bad here, something is a mistake here, something is a problem here.

Everything that occurs is not only usable and workable but is actually the path itself. We can use everything that happens to us as the means for waking up. "--Pema Chodron, from When Things Fall Apart

I have a stress fracture in my right foot. Or at least that's what my podiatrist speculates. Mike said the same thing to me when I described my symptoms: sudden pain in the ball of my foot that shoots through my toes and the top of my feet whenever I walk (and sometimes even when I'm stationary.) My foot is tender and swollen and I limp like Laura in The Glass Menagerie.

Now I can't take my long walks--at least not for a while. I loved my walks, they got me moving after sitting and typing all day, they made me stop and notice my surroundings, the pretty spring flowers in front of people's brownstones, the med students rushing to the hospital for rounds, the older Black man who asked for change then asked me out, the Irish-looking man in the Red Sox jacket who sold me a "Spare Change" for $1 and called me "kid." I loved walking past the museum, especially the new entrance on Huntington that they just opened. I loved feeling competent and self-sufficient. No waiting for a crowded "T" for me! I would get exercise AND get myself home.

But I'm stubborn like my father, I wore cute summer sandals to walk in instead of sensible (read "ugly") shoes. But I had gotten away with this behavior before--why couldn't I again. I miss the feeling of being invincible, of feeling like nothing bad can happen to me, well, because I'm ME. I'll be the exception, isn't that what most people think when they're young? I won't get cellulite like all those other women in their thirties at the beach, exposing the dimpled flesh on the backs of their thighs for anyone to see. Ha! Guess what, I have cellulite on the back of my thighs now, and no amount of activity or snake oil "cellulite cream" has made it go away. I have healthy teeth and gums. I get a checkup every six months, I'll be fine. Ha! Next thing I know, I'm spending four Tuesday mornings in a row prostrate in the periodontist's chair, having needles jabbed in the roof of my mouth and leaving the office drooling blood, my lipstick unevenly applied because half my lip is numb. I can walk in cute shoes! Look at how far I can go! Ha! That first stabbing pain in my foot as I was halfway home Monday night was not a good sign.

So many things happen that we thought we could avoid. So many good plans go down the tubes. As we get older, I feel like we lose a little bit and a little bit more. We can't deny any longer that we're fallible. I will have to wear orthotics in my shoes going forward. At first I imagined that meant shopping for the types of shoes nurses and old ladies (and old nurses) wear. I was horrified. But then my doctor explained that orthotics were inserts to balance my tendency to pronate (roll) my foot inward when I walked. I took a deep breath. Then he put this black velcro boot on me and told me I would need to wear this contraption until my foot healed. No end date was mentioned. Did I say that I'm going to Paris next weekend? I'm going to have to hobble around the Louvre and the Picasso museum, stopping to rest for coffee and wine and croissants, before heading for the next sight. Actually, that doesn't sound too bad.

I had an image of myself that many women have who have never been to Paris--I will walk the streets in pretty dresses and skirts and cute shoes, and pause in charming bookstores and share coffee with a dark-haired frenchman in a non-touristy cafe. Well, my best friend Alina said I can forget about passing for a French woman ("If I knew how to pass, I would try" she said with a sigh. "They just have that something.") And I'm going to have this boot on so au revoir, cute shoes. And I'm married, so I can't very well sit with an anonymous french man with deep, soulful eyes. No, I will sit at a cafe with my husband who has big beautiful blue eyes and who knows more French than I do.

One day I'll learn that my fantasies are just that, and that real life is far more complicated and far more interesting.

I'm OK, You're OK

"Instead of your distress becoming all about you, it can become your link with everyone all over the world who is in the same predicament. The stories are different, the causes are different, but the experience is the same. This is our chance to come out of our self-protecting bubble and to realize that we are never alone."--Pema Chodron, from Taking the Leap

I think if we consider this quote as it relates to the Internet, it's a nice counterpoint to another post I wrote about the Loneliness of the Internet User. I've been giving myself a crash course on social media so I can figure out how to use it to get the word out about our books and authors. What I'm finding is that it can be beneficial to be a part of a niche group. People are sharing their stories, ideas, opinions, in ways that can reach more people, thereby helping them with whatever their problem is--whether it's what kind of skin cream to avoid or how to treat an eye infection. Sure there are plenty of critics and exhibitionists and liars--but there are also friendly, generous, helpful people on the net. Reading their stories and comments makes me feel less alone.

When I was in my late twenties, I went through a period of severe hypochondriasis. It was triggered by some minor health problems that appeared all at the same time, and then fueled by the free-floating anxiety I felt after 9/11. I remember around that time reading an article in O magazine about Michael J. Fox and how he first discovered he had Parkinson's disease when he noticed his thumb kept twitching. The mind is a powerful machine because soon my thumb was twitching, too! I felt pain in my chest, the moles on my back suddenly looked as big as saucers, and my glands were swollen to capacity. I went to several doctors, agonized over what they would find, and read statistics on cancer in young women to either comfort me or to confirm my worst fears, depending on the source. It was a very scary experience at age 28 to think you're about to drop dead at any moment. A trip to San Francisco with Mike that should have been a blast was dampened by my conviction I had Hodgkin's Lymphoma or ALS or whatever other disease I happened to come across in that month's women's magazine.

What helped me recover from this form of OCD was A. an excellent therapist and B. an online forum for hypochondriacs like me. The therapist wasn't cheap, but the forum was free. And rather than just sitting in a room once a week talking to a paid professional, on the forum I got to "meet" other people who had similar fears as mine. I was also able to talk freely about my problem--something that at the time I didn't feel comfortable doing with friends or family. Let's face it--hypochondriacs are often laughed off or just plain misunderstood. If you're thinking rationally, you know that the chances you have breast cancer at 29 are slim to none. Why get all worked up about a yearly exam? But if you've ever experienced health anxiety, you know it's not funny (well, it's kind of funny to me now, but that's only because I'm no longer afraid to touch my armpits because I might find lumps.) It's actually a pretty isolating condition to be a hypochondriac.

There were all types of fellow sufferers on the forum--those with a mild case of worry and those who posted over and over, frantically trying to convince the other users that their case was the fatal one. I was somewhere in between, but I remember those extreme cases helping me to put my own situation into perspective ("Sweetie," I wanted to type to one woman, "you're in the middle of adopting a child and you're probably really stressed about that and its manifesting itself in weird ways. I doubt that your headache is a sign of a brain tumor.") Reading how these people could not be reassured that they were OK made me realize that I wasn't alone in dismissing Mike's soothing talk that there was NOTHING physically wrong with me. And I also made a few friends, who commiserated with me when I talked about my protective rituals ("I just mailed a check to the Susan G. Komen fund. I have a sonogram scheduled tomorrow and you know, I need the good karma.")

I even met one of the women from the forum, an artist in her 40's, married with a daughter. She was exhibiting one of her paintings at a gallery in New York and invited me to come to the opening. Although we didn't have much in common besides our health anxiety and an appreciation for art, it was good to see that this healthy, vibrant, attractive woman struggled with the same irrational fears that I did. Shortly after our meeting, I gradually started feeling better, and I visited the forum less and less until I no longer needed it at all.

The Internet can be a place where false information spreads, annoymous posters incite flame wars, and shy people avoid the real world. But it can also be a refuge for people who are struggling with something they can't or don't want to talk about with anyone else but their online friends. Used the right way, the web can be a place of healing.