"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.
**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.
Hi Laura! My name is Emily, and I'm in Dr. Carrie Brown's psych class this semester. Your blog is AWESOME! You have a great sense of humor, and I think you're a really brave spirit.
ReplyDeleteI'm a musician too: I'm a music major at Agnes Scott, and I sing in addition to playing the guitar and ukulele. I wanted to ask you if you ever tried music therapy for your symptoms? (I want to be a college music theory professor, but music therapist is still on the table if that doesn't work.)
Emily
Hi Emily! Sorry I'm just getting back to you now; it's been a hectic few days. Thanks for this kick-ass question!
ReplyDeleteCongratulations on choosing music as your major!!! It's such a great field: challenging, exciting, and rewarding! :) I love music so very much, in just about every form, and love that I can work in the field. I hope you will feel the same way.
For myself, music therapy is a strange and challenging thing. My parents are both music teachers, and all the kids in my house (myself, 2 sisters and a brother) are musicians as well. We grew up with it; it's in our bones! I love this about my family, but there is an aspect of "work" that comes with something in which everyone in your household strives to excel. At Emmanuel, I even took a music therapy class, and thought about a career in it.
I have found that I do not experience the same "therapeutic" results in music as others do. While it brings me great joy, there is a part of my musical brain that doesn't "shut off". For example, in my music therapy class, our professor played Pachelbel's "Canon in D". 99% of the class found this soothing in rhythm, melody, and its "familiar" nature. I was the 1% that was driven crazy. While others relaxed, I was picking it apart in my head, anticipating entrances and analyzing every last note. The music that many people find soothing is actually engaging my brain. (I know, what an obnoxious "musician" thing to say, but it's true I swear!)
That said, I do think that I do a form of "music therapy" of my own, in that when I am severely depressed or anxious, there is music I have learned to stay away from. Singers like Sarah McLachlan, Fiona Apple, Bonnie Raitt, and others of a similar vein seem to make me even more depressed. This could be because of the "sad" nature of a majority of their material. I'm not entirely sure, but when I start to really get depressed, I start trying to rock out to music that is more upbeat, and usually a bit flippant (Sublime's album "40 oz to Freedom" comes to mind). :)
I have also found that when I'm getting hypomanic, or on an "upswing", I need to stay away from Western music altogether. You might have seen my response to your classmate in one of my other posts. When I'm hypomanic, music will NOT stop in my head; it goes and goes and goes on a constant loop. Sometimes it's a long piece, like the Mozart "Requiem". Sometimes it's just 2 bars of an art song I'm working on, and it won't stop. It's distressing, and so I turn to meditations; speaking, sounds of nature, "synthesized" music that has very little beginning or end, to try to tune the other music out.
I hope that's not too much info (I could talk the handle off a pump, I know). But I think your question in an awesome one, and quite observant of you!
Thanks, and best of luck with your musical pursuits! Please, always feel free to contact me with questions from someone in the field, who attended a school much like yours! :)
Laura
Hi Emily! Sorry I'm just getting back to you now; it's been a hectic few days. Thanks for this kick-ass question!
ReplyDeleteCongratulations on choosing music as your major!!! It's such a great field: challenging, exciting, and rewarding! :) I love music so very much, in just about every form, and love that I can work in the field. I hope you will feel the same way.
For myself, music therapy is a strange and challenging thing. My parents are both music teachers, and all the kids in my house (myself, 2 sisters and a brother) are musicians as well. We grew up with it; it's in our bones! I love this about my family, but there is an aspect of "work" that comes with something in which everyone in your household strives to excel. At Emmanuel, I even took a music therapy class, and thought about a career in it.
I have found that I do not experience the same "therapeutic" results in music as others do. While it brings me great joy, there is a part of my musical brain that doesn't "shut off". For example, in my music therapy class, our professor played Pachelbel's "Canon in D". 99% of the class found this soothing in rhythm, melody, and its "familiar" nature. I was the 1% that was driven crazy. While others relaxed, I was picking it apart in my head, anticipating entrances and analyzing every last note. The music that many people find soothing is actually engaging my brain. (I know, what an obnoxious "musician" thing to say, but it's true I swear!)
That said, I do think that I do a form of "music therapy" of my own, in that when I am severely depressed or anxious, there is music I have learned to stay away from. Singers like Sarah McLachlan, Fiona Apple, Bonnie Raitt, and others of a similar vein seem to make me even more depressed. This could be because of the "sad" nature of a majority of their material. I'm not entirely sure, but when I start to really get depressed, I start trying to rock out to music that is more upbeat, and usually a bit flippant (Sublime's album "40 oz to Freedom" comes to mind). :)
I have also found that when I'm getting hypomanic, or on an "upswing", I need to stay away from Western music altogether. You might have seen my response to your classmate in one of my other posts. When I'm hypomanic, music will NOT stop in my head; it goes and goes and goes on a constant loop. Sometimes it's a long piece, like the Mozart "Requiem". Sometimes it's just 2 bars of an art song I'm working on, and it won't stop. It's distressing, and so I turn to meditations; speaking, sounds of nature, "synthesized" music that has very little beginning or end, to try to tune the other music out.
I hope that's not too much info (I could talk the handle off a pump, I know). But I think your question in an awesome one, and quite observant of you!
Thanks, and best of luck with your musical pursuits! Please, always feel free to contact me with questions from someone in the field, who attended a school much like yours! :)
Laura