"Pray for the grace..."

In times of great stress, I find myself hearing my grandmother's voice.  She is a woman of unbelievable strength, now 83 years of age, still driving, working and living a full life.  She raised 7 children while taking care of her own elderly parents, and loved her husband more than anything in the world, though he was alcoholic.  Now do NOT misread this; he was wonderful and sweet, but she was the woman of steel who made ends meet and kept the world going when others could not.  She is well-read, and a devout and prayerful Catholic.  When Da died at the age of 59, she was a rock and a symbol to whom we could all look for strength.  I can still see her at Da's wake, tall (to my 8-year-old self) and kind and quiet, speaking in a low, soft voice to all the friends and family who came to pay their respects.

I hear her voice speaking to me, with so many wonderful phrases of hope and strength that she always kept on the tip of her tongue:

"Laura, in the Light of Eternity, what does this matter?"

"Laura, pray to the Blessed Mother; she always hears us!"

"Laura, pray for the grace to understand what this means.  It always means something."

And so hear I sit tonight, weeping over my keyboard, hearing Nana Fitz's voice and praying for grace.  Dear God, I am praying.

God has been good to me.  He has brought me through much, and given me Paulie, who I love more than I could ever actually explain.  Paulie has, thus far, seemed to come through cancer treatment very well, but now we are faced with more health obstacles that have come to light through this surgery.  Every time I feel as though I have a handle on the "medical overview", it changes.  I have just finished taking Paulie's blood pressure--high, and with an irregular heartbeat.  I walked over to the bureau, put the cuff and stethoscope inside a drawer, and burst into tears.  When will the end of the worry come?  Why couldn't God do this to me instead?  I'm strong; I can take this.  Don't make him, God.  He's already taken care of me; let me take this for him instead.  Please, PLEASE!

And then, again, I hear Nana: "Laura, pray for the grace."

When I was young, I thought she meant grace in a lady-like sense.  That I could somehow pray for the delicacy to see things as a young lady, and not muck things up like my rough, blunt younger self. Maybe to be less emotional, more rational.  Now my rough, blunt older self sees that praying for grace is really praying for a steel skeleton.  It's praying for the grace of wisdom.  It's praying for a rock-solid center, so that you can look to yourself when there may not be any others close at hand.  It's praying for the grace to be broken in so many places that they all calcify as they mend, and make you rough, blunt, and hard as iron.

I'm praying, Nana.  I'm praying.

Ending a cycle of silence

This day feels like it was a long time in coming.  It's an impossible thing to write; I almost don't want to look at the words as I type them.  I may even be looking down and typing by feel right now because I can't believe that I'm doing this, but I am ashamed.  I am ashamed that it has taken this long for me to publicly admit something that should not be shaming.

I am a rape survivor.

Good Christ, I actually looked at the screen while I typed that, and now I'm nauseous.

For some of you, this post is over.  You'll click away now, with a comment about how needy that poor Laura is; she had to write about "that kind of thing" on her blog.  What a terrible thing, and what a messed-up girl she must be for admitting something so publicly.  Maybe you're right.

But I'm pissed at myself because it took me so long to talk about this.  I am ashamed of the fact that I could not, until now, say those few words above without feeling like I was going to vomit, and that everyone I knew and loved would hate and abandon me.  So I just never said them.... but the time has come for this cycle of silence to END.

The truth is I WAS raped.  And then I did something completely STUPID.... I blamed myself.  I was the idiot who went to that place.  I was the moron who dressed in a "cute" way that night, in hopes of meeting a nice guy.  I was the absolute cretin who didn't fight.  I was the shamed individual who said "No one will believe me; it's my own cross to bear."  What a Catholic!!!!  I was raped and then I FELT GUILTY ABOUT IT.  I went ahead and did every single thing one is told NOT to do in a situation of violence.  I kept my mouth shut.

It took me almost 4 years to admit to anyone that it had even happened.  At one of my ER visits, a nurse asked if I had a history of sexual violence, and I found myself saying "Yes."  She looked up from her clipboard, her eyes asking for more information.  I then blurted out "I was raped when I was 20."  I couldn't believe my own ears.  I had kept it a secret for so long, it didn't even feel like I was the one speaking.  A tailspin of self-doubt and loathing promptly began.  I must have been wrong.  Maybe I made it up?  I'll just keep it to myself; I'm imagining things.  And then I found myself telling Paulie... and my parents... and a few other family members.  Whoa.... that shit really happened.  But I wasn't going ANY further than that.  Because people don't talk about that stuff.  It's off-putting and makes one look like they just want sympathy, right?

Now, 12 years after the incident (the rape, Laura, call things for what they are!!!), I find myself more sensitive to blatant justifications, jokes, or a generally flippant attitude toward rape and sexual abuse.  The past few months have been particularly painful, with no real reason in sight.... and last Sunday night, I lost it.

Audra MacDonald won a Tony award for her role as Bess in "The Gerschwins' Porgy & Bess".  She took the stage, and began to give a lovely heart-felt speech about how grateful she was to the world of theater.  She thanked her leading man, Norm Lewis....and then said that she enjoyed being raped every night by her "Crown", Philip Boykin.

Did she truly mean that she enjoyed even a pantomimed sexual assault?  Absolutely not.  Did she make a bit of a mistake in putting things quite that way?  Yes.  Was it her fault?  No, it was a whacky way to say "thank you" to a fellow cast member because she won a huge award and was excited. But I was livid, and everyone in the room with me knew it.  I ranted and raved about her behavior, and blathered furiously on Facebook.

I calmed down and asked myself "Why does this particular transgression bother me so much?"  Later that night, I started to get my answer: "This will continue to bother you until you get serious about it.  You need to take a stand, Laura.  Be an adult and do the right thing."

And so I think it's time.  I think it's time that I join the ranks of those who don't "take it" or "hush it up" anymore.  It's time that I do the right thing by every person who has been sexually assaulted, and speak my mind when I don't like something I hear, become publicly involved in sexual injustice and abuse.  In short, I will use my big mouth for something good.

If even one person comes across this odd, disjointed blog post, and decides to report a rape or assault, it's all worth it.

I'm through with silence.

Crazytown: A History, Part III

Hello again, gentle readers!

The following is the third and final part of my "Crazytown" series for Dr. Brown's class.  *waves at everyone!*

***Before we pick up with the story, I wanted to take a brief moment to talk about family history, which is a HUGE part of most people's journey in the psych system.  If you've been diagnosed with a mental illness, chances are pretty good someone else in your family has been as well (or there's someone in your family trying to struggle through life without help!).  The first time I went to McLean Hospital (which I will get into shortly), the doc admitting me asked about my family history.  After I spoke for a few minutes, she said "You, my dear, are what we like to call 'genetically loaded'". Huh-HA! Another layer of frosting on the cake.  Much of what I had been feeling my whole life was also felt by others in my extended family, in varying forms, on both sides.  Those feelings came in the form of Bipolar Disorder (or Manic Depression, as it was called in the old days), Generalized Anxiety, Alcoholism R/T Anxiety, Clinical Depression.  We are a delectable buffet of DSM-IV morsels.  And let me be crystal-clear on this: we are one HELL of an awesome family.  We are creative, passionate, hard-working, zany, practical, hilarious, serious, wonderful people.  Some of us do a bit of "better living through chemistry".  And I wouldn't trade a single disorder for the world.  It is part of what makes us US!***

So, after 3.5 great years of Emmanuel education, I started working for Emmanuel in administration.  I had a fantastic set of bosses, and great co-workers.  My depression & anxiety & PTSD(?) seemed to be managed very well with some therapy and occasional medication.  For awhile I wasn't on any meds at all.  I had one bout of depression that was fairly serious, but short-lived, and with the help of smart people, I got back on track.  I met the most incredible man in the entire world (now the most incredible husband in the world), and we began dating.  "It was heaven in two and a half rooms..." (OK, no, we weren't living together.... and what is with all the "Chicago" quotes this week?)

BUT, I was traveling from Dracut to Boston to Dracut everyday, and that was getting tiresome.  When I heard about a full-time music position at my home parish, I jumped at the chance to interview.  My degree from Emmanuel was in Voice, Theatre Arts, and Speech Communication.  I had graduated Cum Laude with Distinction in the Field, and really felt ready for a change into full-time music work.  Boy, was I in for it! The job itself was not difficult at all.  The pastor at the church was a loving, wonderful man, who probably tried to please people a little too much.  Well, we were alike in that!  We became good friends, and I loved playing and singing for the parish in which I had been raised.

This is when my depressed brain decided to take a big detour.  I was seeing a therapist here and there, but not consistently.  I had not taken meds in a year or so.  Suddenly, one Sunday, I finished playing Mass for the day, went home, and was determined to kill myself.  I didn't have a black-out, but in the blink of an eye (or so it felt), I was suicidal, and my parents rushed me to the hospital.  I was there for a week or so, given that I had not had help in a long time.  I had to quit my job at the church, and my life started a very disgusting slide downward.

That was 2004; for the next 6 years, my life was filled with hospitalizations, medications, changing therapists, an engagement & wedding (yay!), and eventually, my qualifying for Social Security Disability Benefits.  I tried for almost 2 years to hold down a job, and I tried every kind of job I could think of, but no dice.  The cutting that I had experimented with as a teen became far worse, and after a while, it was the only thing I could do to keep myself "present".  In reality, my brain was crying out for help, and I was so miserable, inflicting physical pain was the only thing that made sense. Finally I applied for Social Security, and was accepted on the first try (apparently, this doesn't happen a lot)... I was so crazy, even the government was eager to help!

In this time, Emerson Hospital introduced me to a course of "talk" therapy and skills called DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy).  It is a marvelous program, integrating CBT and Zen mindfulness.  I was enrolled in a group near my home, and began to learn a LOT about how I handled people, places, my own emotions, etc.  The group and therapists were super-helpful, and I use the skills to this very day.  At this time, my diagnosis also changed from the Anxiety, Depression, PTSD mix to Bipolar II Disorder.  In short, my more-downs-than-ups could be explained as Bipolar II, and would also be the umbrella that included anxiety and the weird black-outs I had.  Score one for the DSM-IV!  

In the medication arena, I was miserable.  The doctor who saw me through the DBT program had me on 13 different medications.  He kept adding something every few days, and it felt as though he was trying to hold back a dam by sticking his fingers in the leaks.  I was a zombie; my friends just looked at me with sad faces a lot of the time.  I managed to get married in there somewhere, and it was a beautiful day, but overwhelming in some ways, since I was so bogged down in psychotropic drugs.  I eventually went to McLean Hospital for treatment.  They took one look at my med sheet, and ripped the thing up in front of my face: "We are starting fresh!", they said.  Hallelujah!  They have a program on their campus called the Women's Treatment Program, and it is probably the most fantastic psycho-therapy program I've ever been involved with; they mix residential and day patients into a very tight schedule of therapeutic groups and individual sessions.  I met incredible women at WTP, and there are some with whom I am still in contact.  Being at McLean was one of the first times that I realized that beautiful, smart, strong women had mental illnesses, and they could still function.  I had been so drugged and not working for such a very long time, I figured the brilliance of my academic youth was a fluke; I was just a dumb crazy person.  McLean was a much-needed boost of confidence and therapeutic help.

After I married, I continued to try to volunteer a bit here and there, and I was still singing with the BSO (this fall will be my 15th season!!!).  There were more hospitalizations, and there was even more drug-swapping.  I had found a level-headed therapist (who I see to this day), and we were really frustrated by my constant feelings of suicidal ideation and depression, accompanied still by a bit of cutting here and there.

Finally, my psychopharmacologist (read: M.D. you see for meds, but not therapy) convinced me to try ECT.  Electro-Convulsive Therapy is what the general public would lovingly call "shock therapy".  In the old days, they basically plugged you into a wall and flipped the switch.  This is NOT the way it is now.  I met with the doctor at BI who would do the therapy, and we agreed I was a good candidate (I was now deemed to have "therapy-resistant Bipolar II Disorder").  I attended 12 treatments over a period of 3 months.  The routine was simple; you showed up at the clinic, they threw an IV in your arm, put you under with anesthesia, and then induced a seizure of the brain with electrodes.  I didn't find it too difficult, and Paulie was awesome about driving me everywhere without complaining (you can't drive for the entire time you're in treatment).  I thought I was feeling better, and the treatments were over.  But God had other plans.  In a few months, I was back in the hospital again, and more medications were being fiddled with.  I was at McLean at one point, and they offered to try a second round of ECT after consulting with the doc at BI.  Then they came back to tell me I couldn't have another round; when a patient is given ECT, they induce a brain seizure lasting between 10-30 seconds.  The BI clinic could never get more than 3 or 4 seconds out of me.  Survey said????  I HAVE A THICK SKULL.  If I wasn't so depressed at the time, I probably would have laughed my ass off.  At least my parents felt some validation from the doctors regarding their stubborn first-born.

Then in November of 2009, I made a decision.  I was done.  I was done with the hospitalizations, the treatments, I was dddooonnnneeee.  Stick a fork in me, people!!!  By January of 2010, I had taken myself off of all medications (with a doctor's reluctant supervision), with the understanding that the second I started to feel iffy, I would go right back on something.  I took myself off of the 4 or 5 meds I was on at the time, and talked to my therapist. She agreed to see me every week, sometimes twice a week, so that I could get some time under my belt without the use of medication.

It's now been 2 years and 2 months since I took any medications for my Bipolar II disorder.  I am a woman with a mental illness who may never work full-time, but is able to hold down fulfilling part-time work.  I have the very best kind of supportive spouse, an incredible family, and lots & lots of friends from all my walks of life.  I have had good, bad, and ugly days.  Most of my days are good.  My therapist is one of the most kick-ass, awesome people I've ever met in my life.  She is understanding, but not afraid to call me out on things.  I have a folded up prescription for Lamictal sitting in my wallet at all times, in case the brain really goes into a nose-dive.  There are days where I would like to hurt myself, but I don't, and I haven't used any drugs to get me there.  I use skills, a therapist, and support systems instead.

My mother has always impressed upon me that life has so very much to offer, but I must be present and engaged to enjoy it!  As she has always quoted to me: "Laura, life is a banquet, and some sons-of-bitches are starving to death."  I hope that I can continue to live up to this invitation to the show, and try to enjoy myself along the way.

Crazytown: A History, Part II

"Welcome back, suckers!" (Property of Kander & Ebb ;))

**Reminder: This "history" of sorts is for Dr. Brown's Intro to Psych class.**

When we last saw our weeble-heroine, she had graduated from high school.....

I attended Boston University as a Vocal Performance major for approximately 5 minutes.  OK, OK, I jest; it was a whopping 11ish weeks.  I was one of 23 said voice majors, and we were all great singers.  We were also scared out of our minds.  We were all going to be the next Renee Fleming, Thomas Hampson, Jerry Hadley, etc.  I had a ton of classes, memorization, and requirements to keep me busy.  When I entered BU, I was told that I needed to pass a "functional piano requirement" (music majors call it "Funky Piano").  I said "Aha!  I will get out of that class easily!  I'll wow the panel with a difficult piece, and they won't make me take Funky Piano at all!"  Once again, I was wrong.  The panel thought I had great talent, and told me (YES, THEY TOLD ME) that I was now a piano minor.  I would take weekly lessons with a Grad Assistant, and I would be required to pass juries every year.  Oh, goody.  Ugh!  Another huge requirement was added to my plate. (P.S. That piano Grad Assistant was a total bitch, and I hated her with a passion to outlast most others.)

Another issue at school quickly arose.  My theory professor was nuts.  No one was even passing our class, much less getting a decent grade in it.  He would sit in front of my unfinished homework and write a big red "F" on it before I even had to pass it in.  I was going to him for extra help!  To quote him: "There's no way you would ever do this correctly, so I'll save you the trouble."  At the end of October, when I was starting to get really depressed, he said to me "Your voice teacher tells me you're depressed.  Well, I suggest you go to bed approximately 30 minutes earlier every evening.  Then you won't have a problem getting up in the morning."  I didn't kill him where he stood, and to this day, I am extremely proud of myself for that feat.  Anyone who has ever had, or known, anyone with depression knows that sleep-deprivation is not the problem.  The fact that you would rather stab yourself in the face than get out of bed is the problem.   !!!!!!!

Then, another issue.  My voice teacher heard breathiness in the middle of my range, and told me I'd need a larangoscopy to see what the problem was.  I was sent to the most celebrated ENT in the "biz" at the time (all the Boston folks know who I mean; he fixes pop singers), and he told me "There's nothing wrong; just keep singing."  My teacher then told me that HE WAS WRONG, and that I had bowing in my vocal cords: "My dear, you will never have a middle range."  UM, WHAAATT??!?!?!?!?!?!

All of this combined into a completely mind-blowing depressive down-slide.  In the course of a few hours in the middle of November, I lost my mind for the first time.  I was pacing in front of my dorm room window, scratching and slapping my face, trying to figure out what I would do instead of a music career.  My psychiatrist had already upped my Zoloft 3 times in the course of 6 weeks, hoping for the right dose.  I would alternate between not taking Xanax for a week or so, and then taking 3-4 in a 24 hour period.  It was like sucking on tic-tacs for all the good it did me.  I wanted to die; there was no way out.  So, after another punch to the face, I grabbed a razor.  I did not try to commit suicide, but cut myself a few times.  That made me feel better, but I knew it was bad, and I got one of my roommates involved.  She helped me call my family, and I was taken home "for a week of rest".  I saw my psychiatrist everyday for a week, and tried to go back to school.

That week, I had my first "black out".  Those who are familiar with PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), or dissociation, have heard of these.  We usually hear them referred to in relation to heavy binge drinking, but they can happen when your mind has simply had enough, and refuses to let you see/hear/experience anything around you.  At the end of my first "black out", I found myself on the top of a wall overlooking the football stadium.  I cannot honestly tell you I really wanted to jump, but not knowing how I got there was enough for me to get down, call home, and start to get my things together.  I left BU.  I couldn't continue in this fashion.

I was still trying to continue on a life path without hospital care.  I would see my psychiatrist every few days, and he thought that I could probably go back to school (at BU or elsewhere) after some time at home, not worrying about deadlines or schoolwork of any kind.   It worked for approximately 6 weeks.  Then I tried to commit suicide for the first time.  It was another black out, but I came out of it having taken an entire bottle of my anti-depressants (by now, I was on Wellbutrin and some short-acting benzos for anxiety).  I was taken to the hospital, and the doctors sent me to Emerson Hospital to be treated for a suicide attempt.  I was there for 9 days.

If any of you have seen the movie "It's Kind of a Funny Story", you actually have a pretty accurate view of what it's like to go into a hospital for depression.  Including what the typical set-up is and the plethora of people from different walks of life you meet. (I swear I could write a book about them alone, and I might someday!)  The people at Emerson, on the whole, were wonderful.  They wanted to help, and they started by trying to find the right diagnosis for me.  I had already been diagnosed with GAD and Depression, but now they added PTSD.  The problem was I did not have a trauma that really pointed to why I would black out.  This would become a symptom that totally confused every professional I came in contact with.  I had been teased and bullied as a kid, but there was no one ALL-CAPS trauma in my life (like rape or physical abuse) that would indicate the pain necessary for my body to check out like it did.  After an intense amount of therapy, I was sent home.  And I went back in a few weeks later.  And a month after that.  And a few weeks after that.  All for suicidal ideation and attempted suicide.  I felt like some kind of ticking time bomb that kept malfunctioning, but never actually exploded. My psychiatrist (who I had been with for 4 years now) actually had to be let go because so little progress was being made.  I needed a fresh set of eyes, and I got them in a wowsah of a psychiatrist.  His idea of "helpful advice" was acting like one of the 2 men in the balcony on the Muppets, but he made some great points.  I ended sticking with him for the next 3 years.

In the midst of all that, I knew I needed to get back into school.  I didn't like anything as much as reading and learning about things, or better yet, singing about them!  Around the suicide attempts and cutting, I applied to a few Boston schools, and was accepted to most.  I went with my dad to take a walk around Emmanuel College, and I fell in love.  The school was on a small and enclosed campus two blocks from Fenway Park.  (Or as I would say it, Fenwayy Pahhk.  Dr. Brown will say it for you guys if you're nice to her. ;))  It was a college run by the Sisters of Notre Dame, near and dear to my mother's heart, and the people on campus were lovely.  I saw some other schools the same day, but none impressed me like Emmanuel.  My voice teacher at the time knew the voice teacher at Emmanuel (St. Louise!!!) and got me an appointment with her.  I enrolled for the next fall semester.  I would be "a year behind", but I would be in school in Boston again!  I was thrilled and terrified.  My depression/PTSD/whatever-the-hell-they-were-calling-it-now hadn't gotten any better, but school seemed fun.  I blacked out and attempted suicide again right before Emmanuel Move-In Day, and even then, I stayed in the hospital for a few days, mellowed some more, and convinced the hospital docs that school was all I needed. I packed my fan, comforter, pillows, and mini-fridge, joining the ranks of Emmanuel freshmen.

The first Emmanuel weeks were rocky.  I did end up in the hospital again right around Thanksgiving, but thankfully (ha!  Get it... thankfully??? *groan*) I was quick to recover from the latest black out, and somehow came out of it before I attempted suicide again.  The next few years were incredible, some of my favorite thus far!  I met an incredible and diverse group of women, and they became my very closest friends to this day.  We call ourselves the ASPs (no, I won't tell you what that stands for).  This group is close-knit and fiercely loyal.  They made sure that I knew when I was acting like an ass, and when I needed to take care of myself.  They sat with me when I thought I would relapse, and they rejoiced with me when I had great triumphs.  In those 4 years at Emmanuel, I faced great adversity in my personal life, but I also had wonderful successes.  I began to sing for the Boston Symphony and the Boston Pops in their chorus, and was asked to be a soloist a few times.  I met my voice teacher Louise, who is a great mentor even to this day.  I traveled to Europe and Asia, I met read amazing books, had fantastic conversations, and learned and learned and learned.  My depression seemed to blend into the background.  I knew it was there, but I didn't let it define me.  I graduated from Emmanuel a semester early, but stayed on as an employee after classes finished.  I had a great job, great singing opportunities, and a fantastic group of friends.

Who knew that a job with the Church would turn the tables 180 degrees on me?

..... Part III to come.

Crazytown: A History, Part I

To the readership (all 5 of you):  The following is a series of posts I am creating for an Intro to Psych class that is currently studying abnormal psych (HELLO to Dr. Brown's class! :))  This will be mainly a history/day-to-day series of posts, focusing on my history of illness, diagnosis, and experiences with the psych system.  ENJOY! *just add sarcasm and stir* ;)

When I was 15 I was stung by a bee in Spanish class.  This was the beginning of a (literally) death-defying journey into mental illness.  How could a fluffy, voiced-by-Jerry-Seinfeld kind of character start this all off? Well, I was also on an NSAID for pain/swelling (something silly, an infection or something), and felt like my entire life could fall apart at any moment.  I was a sophomore in high school, and was fighting a whole lot of crap in my brain.  I was a pretty typical teenager.  I had crushes on boys, did way too much homework, and thought that I was the most disgusting thing that ever traversed the face of the earth.  I was fat, I was ugly, and I was a geek.  I loved Star Wars, Star Trek, and The Three Stooges; every boy I liked either didn't look at girls when they spoke to them, or thought of me as the troll that came up from the DHS woodshop to go to school each day.  Bullying (or "survival of the fittest") was the name of the game in my high school.  I received my portion, just like most...... Well, a bee stung me, I was on a big honkin' NSAID, and all of a sudden, breathing was a problem; it sounded like my throat was closing. It started during that Spanish class and didn't stop for HOURS.  I even imagined that I was dying at one point.  A quick trip to the ER started a doctor’s visiting circus.  I saw ENTs for possible blockages to my nasal passages and throat, I had laryngoscopies, and finally…. many allergists and neurologists later…. it was decided that I suffered from panic attacks.  WHAT?!?!  ME?!?!?  But I’m so together!  I get perfect grades, I’m taking piano and voice lessons, I’m a tour guide at multiple museums, I write for international institutions…. THIS IS NOT HAPPENING TO ME.

That’s what the “responsible” part of me said.  And you know what the rest of my 15 year old body did?  Freaked out even more.  I was eating all the time.  I would take food from the cabinets in my house and hide it in my room so I could eat without my parents getting upset.  I couldn’t stop thinking about dying.  I would hit myself in my room.  I would look for ways to cause the physical pain that matched the emotional pain of my mind. (This particular trend would continue for years to come, and eventually turn into full-blown cutting; for now, it was a once in a while thing, and happened seldom during high school).

During those high school years, I went to a psychiatrist on a bi-weekly or weekly basis, depending on how I was feeling.  He was kind and understanding, and knew that I was doing WAY too much.  That panic-attack/throat closing thing was now diagnosed a "psychosomatic symptom of stress and anxiety".  I took Xanax as an anxiety PRN, and some low doses of Zoloft in order to keep the depression at bay. At the time of my first panic attacks, I was on two different sports teams, played piano, played trombone in 3 groups, sang in another 3 groups, was in all Honors classes, and worked at multiple museums as a tour guide and children's program volunteer.  I cut back on my activities, did a few less honors courses, and started to take things at a bit of a slower pace.  I was ok for awhile.  I still felt a lot of depression closing in, but there were a ton of bright spots, and I didn't want to give in yet.

Then the end of senior year hit.  I was, of course, taking on way too much again, and hey Laura how about if you apply to 10 different colleges and do interviews/auditions at all of them?  By then, I had decided I was going to major in vocal performance, and most of the schools I applied to needed to hear me sing, as well as interview me.  My grades were fabulous, and two of my classes were AP classes, so if I scored well in the tests, there were 2 less college courses I had to take.  I was working really hard now to save myself later, right?  RIGHT?

Wrong.  My Zoloft was jacked up again, and instead of taking Xanax (which I had all but stopped taking), I was put on Klonopin.  A word to the wise: Klonopin makes Laura act like a mean drunk.  I got into a fistfight in the middle of my high school cafeteria (over my prom seating, because THAT's really important in the grand scheme of things), and was physically removed to the nurse's office by a few teachers.  (I really hope I didn't punch any of them by accident! No one had any visible bruises.)  After I had come off of the Klonopin stupor (almost a full 24 hours later!), the psychiatrist put me back on Xanax, and encouraged me to take it easy.  Yeah.... ok, dude.  Have you seen my schedule?  Which super-important thing should I NOT do first?!?  There was no way I was giving up ANYTHING.  I loved doing it all.

So I graduated from high school in the top ranks of my class, with great grades, a ton of accomplishment.  I was off to BU with a diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety and Clinical Depression, a bottle of Zoloft, and dreams of singing at the Metropolitan Opera.......

.....Part II to come soon! :)

Crab Walk

When I was in elementary school, there was one thing I loved to do in gym class: the crab walk.  You essentially walked on your hands and feet, facing the ceiling, with your hands and feet taking equal body weight.  Since I've always had a great center of gravity (read: huge ass), this was easy for me to do.  Kids couldn't make fun of my lack of athleticism, or pick me last for a team.  I rocked the crab walk, and I enjoyed myself!

This past week, I had a meltdown.  A good old-fashioned, "holy crap what do I do now?" freak-out.  When I freak, I usually cry for long periods of time, and then sleep for weeks.  No, not kidding.  My body retreats like Hitler from Russia.  Just gets the hell out of Dodge and into bed for huge periods of time, getting up to go to the bathroom and eat once in a while.  The reason for this particular delve into Hell, using my 20/20 hindsight, was two-fold; I was taking on way too much at once, and I was losing my voice because of it.  I still don't have my voice back completely, and it's cost me a few gigs. I had to pull out of a concert run in the middle of the performances, after I'd already worked my ass off, and then take myself out of a couple more before I worked my ass off again and figured out my voice truly couldn't be pushed anymore.  The emotional and physical toll of the past few months has been too much to bear, and my voice forcefully took the vacation I was unwilling to give. To quote Mr. Whedon: "Grrr.... Arrrgghh".

What is interesting to me is that when this was all going down, I was still kind of in control....OK, maybe not at first.  Crying hysterically in front of friends and family, and then in front of BSO management, is probably what most people would not deem "in control", but let me do a comparison for you.

In my spectacularly crazy years, I would have pushed myself to do the performances anyway, wailing and gnashing my teeth in the downtime.  I would have completely "stripped the gears" of my voice, and then I would have landed swiftly in an ER, because I pushed too hard, and was ready to jump off the Tobin.  An alternative scenario is that I would have pulled out of the performances, and then ended up in an ER because I disappointed people, including myself, and was ready to jump off the Tobin.  (I wish I was being facetious.)

My brain cannot handle "bowing out" or "saying no" to anything.  As I walked to the Hall on Thursday night, I had to convince myself with every step across Mass Ave and down the stairs at the stage door that I would not do bodily harm to myself just because I had to bow out of a gig. (*clomp* You will NOT hurt yourself, *clomp* you will NOT hurt yourself.) The thought of disappointing colleagues, friends, family, people-I-don't-even-know-but-who-expect-me-to-do-something is paralyzing and so enraging that I would rather die.  That is the nature of my illness: Step 1, take on too much, Step 2, have to pull out of something/ say no to someone, Step 3 figure out how not to hurt myself over it.  Stupid, eh?  Welcome to my crazy-ass brain. Population: 1 ridonkulous girl called Laura.

OK, so I took myself out of performance #1 of last week's gig, tried to do a bit more anyway, failed, and then took myself out of everything for a few weeks in order to give my voice the rest it needed.  And I'm here typing this blog in the comfort of my own home, and not a psych ward community room with internet access, because I stayed relatively "in control". I had a horrible crying jag, but did NOT let my body retreat.  I can't sing right now, and it sucks not to do the thing I love most in the world.  I lllloooovvveee to sing.  But I also enjoy sanity.  I am functioning as an employee of 2 different institutions, cooking for my husband here and there (God Bless Pinterest), and keeping the rest of my life going.  As a very very very very super-smart friend said to me, bewilderment in her voice: "You're taking care of yourself. Why would that ever be wrong?"  Stupid Laura wants to answer: "Because I've let people down.  Because it's now proven that I can't do it all!"  Slightly-Less-Stupid Laura is now going to answer: "Oh yeah, that's true.  I guess this decision is the best thing for the moment."

Stupid Laura wants to see this as a huge step backward in the journey toward a healthier brain.  Slightly-Less-Stupid Laura is going to see this as a bit of crab walk.  Because I rock the crab walk, and I'm going to enjoy myself.

Making lemondrop martinis out of lemons....

On Tuesday and Wednesday of this week, I had a fantastic experience.  I was fortunate enough to sing as a part of the Tanglewood Festival Chorus at Carnegie Hall.  We performed Beethoven's "Missa Solemnis" with the Boston Symphony Orchestra and four fabulous soloists.  It was our very own JO's Carnegie conducting debut, and he was wonderful.

My sisters and some other friends were able to come out and spend some time in NYC with me.  I drank FAR too many Long Island Iced Teas, and generally had a splendiferous time.  Traveling with Ms. Adi was a real treat; it's not too often that you meet a true kindred spirit, and that said spirit loves Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home EXACTLY AS MUCH AS YOU DO.  That is true gold, friends, and only one example of her fabulosity.  But I digress.

I get in my front door and start opening mail.  There's a letter from Social Security, and I have to call and speak to them to try to get some information straight. I have been on SSDI since 2005, getting some income and Medicare benefits on a monthly basis.

Then comes the blow: I am losing my disability benefits.

Now this is completely within the rules of the program.  With the recent addition of a few more voice students, I officially make just over what is allowed while collecting benefits, and it's time for SSDI to help out some other folks who truly need the service.

Of course, that's not what my brain said when it happened.  I started crying hysterically, and totally freaking out.  "What will I do when I get sick again?  My Medicare will be taken away; can Paulie add me to his plan? But it's the middle of the year!  What will I have to stop doing?  What bills can we eliminate?  Do I have to start dropping TFC stuff if I can't afford to drive back and forth and park and AHHHHHH!!!!  Blahblahblahblahblah******white noise********.........................".  I basically thought in capital letters with no spaces for about an hour.

Then my wonderful logical husband came home, and I told him.  His response?  "Good!  We knew that would happen sooner or later.  That means you're getting better!"

Oh yeah.  I'm getting better.  I'm able to consistently make money.  I'm not quitting jobs every 2 seconds because I need to go into the hospital again.  I'm not wearing long-sleeved shirts in August because I cut the hell out of my arms the night before, and I don't want the public I'm working with to see them.  I'm not running into the bathroom in the middle of the workday to "add on" to my handiwork.  I'm not begging God to take me at 3am.

As of April 1st, I will have worked at my local library for 2 years, and I now have 12 voice students.  There are even a few more getting ready to start.  I sub for some friends at churches, and I've recently played some great theatrical roles.

When I finished calming down, I did the other thing that I do really well: I decided I must be "productive" and started planning my life away.  Once again, my knight in shining pharmacy technician armor came to my rescue.  He assured me that we would still be financially OK without my benefits, that I could take on a few more students if I liked, and that I should never give up TFC. He is adding me to his insurance plan.  He even asked if I would consider going back for my Masters Degree, since I've wanted to for a long time, and didn't feel ready before. He reminded me that just because I'm not on SSDI anymore doesn't mean that I suddenly have to work 60 hours a week.  I am still a woman living with bipolar disorder, and will never be able to handle a huge workload, unless I feel like hanging out in the common room of a psych ward with no shoelaces again.

These are my realities.  I had an awesome few days, followed by a big shock to the system, and you know what?  I'm going to be fine.

It's been a really long time since I've said that, and it feels bloody marvelous.  Hand me a bottle of Grey Goose because I'm taking this big fat lemon and making a fantastic martini with it!

Keeping it real... and a request for help.

Good morrow, gentle reader.

I had a bit of a health scare the other night in the middle of a singing gig.  It sucked.  My heart started racing, and wouldn't stop.  I had to sit in the middle of a piece, and let it finish without me.... BLARGH!  I followed the good doctor-on-call's advice, and was seen by my PCP today.  After some excellent test results (YAY!), but an abnormally high blood pressure still lingering (BOO!), we talked about how I'm going to lick this trend.  And so, it's time to face some facts, and I'm wondering if I might get some help from my larger family/community on this one.

You may have already read about my fight with food.  It's ongoing, and sometimes I feel like I'm doing ok with my choices.  But this is different.  There are two things I must do right now, and one will be far more difficult than the other.

1. I must stop drinking so much caffeine.  I drink about 3 large iced coffees a day.  That something like 60+ ounces of a caffeinated beverage, and that doesn't count the Diet Pepsi with Lime that I sometimes have with dinner.  My car kinda just pulls into the drive-through of Dunkins without even thinking anymore.  The good news on this front is that I can counter this by having 8oz of caffeine in the morning, and (because I love the taste) do decaf the rest of the day, within reason.

2. I MUST COMPLETELY QUIT SMOKING.  I know, any singers reading this (and anyone with a health conscience ;)) just totally freaked.  I picked it up when I was about 18, and though I've had "patches" of not smoking, I've never been able to quit completely.  At my worst, I was up to almost two packs a day.  Right now I'd say I have 3-4 on a bad day, and none on a good day.  It's embarrassing and bad-for-my-voice and a ridiculously unhealthy thing, and it must end.

This is the part where I ask for your help.  I must be held accountable by everyone around me for this to work.  I'm looking for cheerleaders of any and every kind.  Send me your horror stories about smoking, health info, atta-girls, anything that will help me keep on the path while I completely quit.  It will be difficult, but I'm hopeful that with all of your help, I will do it, and it will stick.

Thank you, my friends.  Here goes nothin'.