Decisions, decisions....

Here it is, folks. That obligatory end-of-the-year blog post. That moment when you, gentle reader, put up with a hefty helping of musing in the hopes that we will all learn something by the end of it, even if that lesson is simply to avoid Laura at the end of the year. 

2013 blew big honkin' chunks for me. My husband had heart surgery and, thank God, is doing well since that procedure. After 3 years of relatively good mental health, I was thrown a big helping of madness. I had no control over my brain for large periods of time. Every time I tried a new remedy, that bitch Medicine threw her head back and laughed heartily. My relationships were strained, sometimes to their limits. I drove myself to many hospitals and outpatient programs. My husband and other family members drove me when I was too out of my mind to drive a car safely. I discovered a naturopathic nurse practitioner who is trying to sort out my body and mind on the cellular level. So far, so good. The last few months have been better than the first nine, and we'll leave it at that for now. 

So now comes the end of the year, when we try to make our lives better. Wipe the slate clean and start anew. We make decisions every day. What am I going to wear? How much cream should I put in my coffee? What are we having for dinner?

I've made a lot of them in the last 365 days. I decided to stop teaching for now. I decided to continue working at the library. I decide to keep living, even when suicide truly felt like the only feasible option. I recently decided to stop shoving my emotions to some dark corner of my brain, and have started a dialogue with other rape survivors online. I want to make a go of being honest with myself and take a road previously left alone. I avoided it at all costs, praying that my mind would somehow fix itself, even after admitting what had happened to myself and the world. I'm now starting to see that talking about this with other people who have had the same experience is the right way to go. There is so much pain out there, but there are so many strong people who are healing themselves as they heal each other. I am lucky to know them.

I am making decisions now. I have decided that a writing life is one I must choose. My thoughts explode from me so often, in the form of prose, poetry, lyrics, and blog posts. There's no turning from them now; they are a crucial part of my psyche, and I am giving myself permission to explore them at full force. Of course, right now I'm sitting in a pool of my own AAAHHHHH. I can't seem to do anything long enough to make headway. I want to be that careless, messy girl who looks around at her cluttered living room and sees the result of hours of good reading and writing, of SOMETHING DONE. Instead, I've been in the same position on the couch for the last 3 hours, reading Doctor Who fanfiction on an iPad, and none of the laundry is done. My creativity sits stagnant while the crumbs of gluten-free crackers I've just eaten look up at me with disdain.  As the year closes, I shall nudge them under my couch with renewed fervor, and continue to pile books next to me, writing at every chance I get.

I have decided that I will not let my anxiety in life rule my consciousness. I will live outside of my brain and body, continuing to speak my mind in an honest way, while taking leaps of faith and courage. (I can just see my husband cringing at this thought: "Oh God, what's she going to do NOW?") There may be an MFA in Writing in my future. I may take up teaching again in the new year. I may go to the moon. Who knows? All I can say for now is that I am trying to take 2013 by its throat, throw it over my head into the dumpster, and start living again.

Here goes nothin.

This one time at Fenway...

Last month, there was a trend on Facebook. Amongst the cat memes and political ravings, people started to mark each day with something they are thankful for; people, places, things, whatever. I joined this brigade of folks giving thanks, and it struck me: why not show thanks for a memory? We all have them. We have these moments or hours or days that sit in our brains, a little happy place to which we can go when we are having a terrible day. This is one of mine...

I sing in a chorus for a big orchestra in this particular city; we'll call it Boston. ;) Last September I was asked to be part of a group of 16 singers that would perform the National Anthem at the season-closing game for the Red Sox. To say I was excited is sort of an understatement; I was jumping up and down in the middle of a grocery store, screaming.

I immediately texted all my family. It was the 100th season at Fenway, and there were all kinds of special things planned for this game. I was beside myself. The Red Sox are well-loved in my family. I can remember so many wonderful days spent in and around Fenway Park, or even sitting around the television at home, watching games, cheering and groaning together.

After this extraordinary invitation, I got even better news... MY DAD WAS GOING TO SING AS WELL!!! The day came, and we arrived at the ballpark in all our concert dress splendor. After ushering the group of us up to the offices at Fenway, our escort showed us to a room where we could rehearse for a little while. We waited to be brought down to the field for sound check. As we were waiting, my friend Joy hissed in my direction: "Laura, get out here right now!" I walked out of the room, into the main office area, and there was Pedro Martinez, walking past us and smiling a greeting. He asked a few of us "What are you guys doing tonight? You're all dressed up!" Someone said we were singing the National Anthem, and my big mouth couldn't resist: "There's still a spot open. Come sing with us!" He laughed and started to sing in an operatic voice, la-la-la ing down the hallway. 

Then we lined up and started our journey down to enter the field for sound check. As we walked the first hallway, a tall dapper gent stood by and my friend Joy and I said hello. He began to chat with Joy, and it took everything in my power not to squeal...she was having a lovely conversation with Carlton Fisk!!!!! I answered a question or two as well and we happily went our own ways. By now I had perma-grin on my face and was floating past pictures of every Fenway great my mom and dad had ever mentioned. We made our way through the tunnels into the stadium, and I just kept looking back in line to my dad, gesturing wildly. Oh my God this is actually happening! Dad smiled at me every time. 

Stepping onto the turf at Fenway is a religious experience. There. I said it. I would defy any fan to say they don't feel differently when they walk out there. The lights, the bright green of the grass, the murmur of the fans gathering and finding their seats are all things we are "used to", but they gain a new level of intensity when you're staring at it from home plate. It's amazing that those baseball players can get any work done! 

There were 20 chairs lined up behind home plate. THEY WERE FOR US.  Because the National Anthem was a part of extended opening ceremonies for the game, we would be watching the rest of them after we sang. While I tried to push my leaking brains back into my head, Dad and I spotted a friend: Dick Flavin! He had just performed in a show with us earlier that year, and was both a part of the opening of the game and announcing batters for the night. We had a great little reunion and got a few pictures with him on the field. Then Dad and I took a picture together at home plate. Tears welled in my eyes as a friend snapped that photo. I was about to sing at Fenway with my dad!!!

We sat, soaking in the park. Adi and I sat staring and grinning at each other like idiots every few minutes.  Then it all began. We filed into our formation between home plate and the pitcher's mound, got our starting pitch, and sang the National Anthem. I remember wanting to mark every moment, and so I stared into the crowd, at the other speakers and officials on the field, at our manager, at the few empty seats, and once in a while, at the conductor. (Sorry, Bill!) When we got our final cut-off, I let the cheers wash over me. Now, let's be clear: they weren't for me. They were for the beginning of a night to remember at the greatest ballpark in the world. And I was there, just as excited as every last kid sitting in the upper bleachers with their father.

From then on out, we were immersed in a sea of Fenway legends. Every living Red Sox great was there, and we were watching them up close. I swooned when Nomar was called to the field, cheered when Dick read his Fenway poem, and screamed as the honored guests all threw first pitches to the current Red Sox roster. Adi and I laughed when Carlton Fisk was called to the field, and Joy shrieked recognition of her chatting buddy from earlier in the evening. I texted Momma when Jim Lonborg began waving to the crowd, her childhood hero standing in front of me. 

Once the opening ceremonies ended, we were shown to our seats just under the Coca-Cola sign. Dad and I enjoyed yet another game at Fenway together, decked out in Boston gear over our dress clothes.

I have been lucky enough to have many amazing experiences in my life, and lots of them have been whilst surrounded by family. But when the car won't start, I'm not feeling my best, have a bad day of singing, or generally just need something to pick me up, I say to myself "There was this one time at Fenway...."

The Ugly Kid

When my brother got married, I was so excited for the day.  We all looked like a million bucks, and we were going to have a great party!  We took loads of pictures, sang at the top of our lungs, and saw loads of family and friends.  My 90 year old great aunt danced everyone else right off the floor.  It was amazing.  Then we got the pictures back a month or so later.  I started to click through the photo album online, and my heart nearly stopped.

"Who is that ugly girl?" I thought.

My family is full of "the beautiful people".  My sisters look like Italian models, and my brother is the handsomest guy at most parties.  I never thought so much about how I "fit in".  I was just the oldest sister of this crew.  Now here was the evidence staring me in the face.  Without even thinking about it, my brain starting singing "One of these things is not like the other...". My odd face and bloated body were the sore thumbs in every picture of the family.  I actually started to feel badly that I was wrecking my brother and sister-in-law's wedding pictures.

Gentle reader, please hear me.  This is not pity time.  This is not the time for "Oh, no, you're pretty too!" Please... I do not say these things because I'm looking for a handout of compliments.  I am telling the TRUTH.  That is the point of this blog, and all that I write here.  It's honest.  I'm not a pretty lady.  I have a face (and body) for radio.

This has stuck in my head for a long time as one of many separating factors in my family.  I am a rough, blunt woman, in appearance and nature.  My family is one of poise, grace, and intelligence.  People constantly remark on my wonderful father and mother, or my amazing siblings.  They are beautiful on the inside and out. I am so proud of them because they are everything that people say about them. Their beauty is more than their outer appearances.  They have a beauty and truth to their insides, in the way that they treat people and live their own lives.  They are so good at saying the right thing, to me and to others.

I don't always say the right thing.  I don't know how to dress.  I don't do my hair and makeup often. I sing too loudly, laugh even louder, make jokes that no one gets, and love all those nerdy things that make the attractive & popular crowd shake their heads in a bewildered way.  (Example: My sweet 16 was a sleepover at my house where we renamed all the Chinese food to the names of Star Trek: The Next Generation foods.  We food-colored Sprite to rename it "Romulan Ale".  The next morning, everyone had Earl Grey tea and croissants, just like Jean-Luc Picard.  This is still possibly my favorite party EVER, rivaling my own wedding.) My whole life, I have wished that I could match up to my family a little bit better.  I have wished that I could be a little more graceful.  I often hope that I will wake up one day and I won't have to check my loud laugh and big personality at the door; I wish that they would just go away, and I could be smart-talking and all-knowing like Gina, clever and cutting like Katie, or witty and to-the-point like Christopher. I wish that I was prettier and wittier so that I could make them as proud of me as I am of them.

I am currently seeing a naturopathic nurse practitioner to treat ailments, and have been for about two months.  My body is adjusting to a diet of no sugar, gluten, dairy, or artificial sweeteners of any kind.  I'm taking in a lot of new information about my body, the vitamins and minerals that run (or do NOT run) through it, and what I have to do to make things better.  It's frustrating and interesting and confusing.  But through it all, I find myself ravenous for the healing words that this NP has to say.  Yesterday, she said to me: "You do not have to expect anything, Laura.  Don't expect yourself to lose a certain amount of weight in a certain amount of time.  Don't expect to have a certain mineral or vitamin completely replenished in your system right away.  You must RELAX into healing.  The body self-corrects.  You must let your body do that without any yelling, screaming, or expecting from yourself." She has somehow found a way to cut through all the bullshit in my brain and give me permission to not be more than I already am.

Today, I am trying.  I am trying to stay relaxed.  I am letting my body tell me what it needs, and responding accordingly.  I will not expect anything of myself, not hold myself to too high a standard.  I still hope that these diet and vitamin changes will bring me closer to health.  There is still a small corner of my brain that wishes I were prettier, but I will change where I want the pretty.  I want the pretty on the inside of me.  I want the pretty to be shown in how I talk to people and how I love them.  I want the pretty to be seen in how I handle my life and what I am given.

I may still be the Ugly Kid, but I'll strive for that beauty on the inside, just like Gina and Katie and Christopher have.

Words, words, words!

Random thoughts in a blog post are sometimes the most telling....Or they're just super-annoying and I don't know any better.  Either way, I am going to complete a blog post today.  There may be rhyme and reason to it, or you may all shake your heads and click away.  Let's see, shall we?

I joined a writing group.  I decided it was time to get off my blogging ass and do some writing in another forum.  I sometimes have delusions of grandeur in which I see myself writing a memoir of sorts.  People like memoirs.  Especially when people swear and tell secrets and make them laugh and cry.  I've done all those things in the last 20 minutes, so who knows? Perhaps a memoir is something I could manage.... someday. 

So, yes!  The writing group.  It is filled with interesting people living their interesting lives.  Some of them enjoy writing dialogue. Some enjoy descriptive paragraphs.  Some enjoy screenplay.  I have no idea what the hell I enjoy.  I felt like such a jerk walking into that first meeting, copies of my work in hand, a couple of pens in my pocket, and a big notebook to light my way.  EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN THE ROOM pulled out a laptop, and my head fell into my hands. When we had a 20 minute "free writing" session, I got through approximately 5 pages of writing.  Everyone else had a piece to rival "Les Miserables".  So it may be time for me to buy a laptop, or it may be time for me to recognize that writing comes to everyone in different ways.  For most, it's via high-speed internet.  For me, it's the pony express. 

I love to write.  Words make me happy.  I love the way they feel coming out of my mouth.  I love the way they caress or assault my ears.  I love to hear them in different accents.  I love to spell them, and I love to see them on the page.  (Why thank you, Dr. Seuss, would you also eat them in a tree? Ugh. As I said before, this is random thought time.) As a child, I used to sit in my room and read books until my eyes crossed, and then I'd pull out a ratty notebook with hearts all over the front.  Those hearts had my name joined to every crush I had; Laura Riker and Laura Picard were particularly popular. That notebook held all my most precious prose and poetry.  I wrote biblical epics and World War II short stories.  I wrote poetry that would make even Emily Dickinson weep. No, really, it was that bad. The poor woman would have sobbed herself right into an epileptic seizure. 

As I read and then wrote lovely words, my real world fell away, and I was the beautiful, intelligent, and graceful girl I always wanted to be. I was the princess the Prisoner of Zenda came to rescue.  I was Jo March, writing and running and having great adventures with her sisters.  There were no bullies in my writing world.  The mean girls couldn't get me there.  The kids that picked me last could not come near me.  The practical jokers, the nicknamers, and the shamers all stayed away. I was the creator of worlds.  

As I continue to fight this well-known bully called Bipolar I Disorder, I find myself longing for those days.  I remember the comfort of the weight of a book or notebook in my hand.  I remember asking my illustrator uncle to create a cover for one of my short stories.  It was GORGEOUS, and something I treasure to this day.  I remember taking my notebook and pen wherever I went, like a sword and scabbard.  Books and writing were trusty companions, and ones that I continue to cling to now.  I read whenever I have the concentration and focus.  Some days it's only a page or two, but sometimes it's whole books.  I am starting a new adventure in nutrition and supplements as Western medicine continues to fail me, and so my pile of "to read" has turned into a mix of vitamin education, diet theory, and Chinese medicine. I journal and take notes and make lists, words flowing forth in as many forms as I can stand. 

I am going to continue to go to my writing group, armed with a crappy notebook.  With a head full of stories both real and pretend, I will conquer my fears and shortcomings and make them all into a suit of armor. I love to write. And there are no bullies there.

Vignettes Part I

Hello again, gentle readers.  The following is the first of a few vignettes I wrote whilst at Emerson Hospital for another bout of med changes and "staying safe" this month.  All names have been changed to protect the innocent/guilty.

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Carl throws a stress ball across the common room, hitting Blake in the shin.  They're talking about all the ways you can make alcohol and drugs from household items.  They have a case of what Bob would call "the spin drys".  Guys come in for 3-5 days because their wives, bosses or families beg them to get clean.  They dry out enough for the physical effects of their substance of choice to wear off, claim Jesus as their guide, and go right back out and use.  They have no intention of quitting, they just want to make their families happy, or keep the money coming in.  Blake has already managed to ingest Purell to try to stop his tremors and hallucinations.  In his mind, the ethanol in a hand sanitizer would be better than sobriety; all hand sanitizer has been confiscated from the unit.

Carl has taken to Blake and a few others who are all trying to dry out.  They laugh a little too loudly, proclaim their love of the Patriots, Red Sox, and Bruins a little too vehemently, and know everything.  All exclamations have at least one "fahhk" in some part of speech.  They are frightened little boys, wearing their fathers' jerseys and expressions, trying to be just as brave.  When their knowledgeable statements and information are questioned, they are almost always wrong, and they bluster through all the reasons why.  Their glasses weren't on, they thought you said the '77 Sox lineup, not '87, and that bitch nurse gave them the wrong med at the window this morning.  These are the guys who tell you who REALLY killed Kennedy, but can't remember their son's birth date.  Their tales come forth through gravelly, smoke-filled cords.   

I ask one of these gentlemen why he's so angry.  He says "I'm not angry at nothin'. Nothin' bothahs me anymoah." This is the same gentleman who thought Purell would make a good mixer.

It seems to me that I sometimes see these sober men for the last time on earth.  They are walking and talking ghosts, who won't ever be in this corporeal and sensitized state again.  Alcohol and opiates will numb their pain, desensitize the body, until they sleep forever.

"And now, the end is near...

And so I face the final curtain"

My Pa Rocky was a huge Sinatra fan.  He was such a big fan that we played "My Way" at his graveside on the day of his funeral. That song wasn't just one of his favorites; it was a mantra by which he lived his life.

Pa's life was not an easy one.  He came from a small town in Calabria, Italy. When he was 12, he and his father came to the United States, to work and raise enough money to bring his mother and two brothers over.  They lived in an apartment building in Boston, working hard, eventually bringing the rest of the family to America.  When Pa was 15, his father died.  Now he was the head of the family, supporting his mother and two young brothers.  School had been out of the question for a long time; now his life was about family and work.  Childhood was out of the question as well.

The years that followed were not easy either.  There was joy in his marriage and birth of his three children, but heartache in his divorce and strained family relationships.  He continued on his own path, not worrying about consequences, but being true to himself.  Even if no one liked his answers, they were his own truth, and he would not give up.

I find myself thinking about Pa a lot these days, these days that are shaky at best.  He did his utmost to make his own decisions on his own journey.  He was strong and stubborn (some would say to a fault).

I am making my own decisions now.  I have thought about giving up music.  Last night, I was scheduled to sing the Verdi "Requiem" at Tanglewood.  About an hour before the performance, I began to sob uncontrollably.  A dear friend and my manager both rubbed my back and comforted me and told me not to worry about singing, just to take care of myself.  My husband and mother said "Put tonight behind you.  It's one Verdi performance." But how many nights like these must I put behind me?  How many times can I start to lose my mind and let everyone pick me up off the ground, sobbing and wondering why I can't just get swallowed up by it?  How many people must I disappoint?  How many times will I prepare for a concert and then go through such a roller coaster in my brain that I question my own perception of reality?  In the span of one hour, I went from urges to cut myself, to determination to do the concert anyway (sobbing during silence be damned), to a simple and utter despair.  I don't know if I'm manic, hypomanic, anxious, depressed or psychotic.  I keep taking the pills, and taking the pills, and coping and coping and coping.

I want to try to slow the creeping unrest in my heart.  I can't stand to be around more than two or three people at a time.  Going out in public makes me fearful.  I worry that people I don't know will be angry, talk out of turn, or won't be quiet in a movie theater or at Mass.  These things make me feel actual fear!

And so I feel an end is near, and I face a final curtain of sorts. Is this the end of a music career? As I rehearsed the "Requiem" this week, I could not help but weep while I sang.  I am mourning the career that might have been.

I have had regrets, but I will have to do this my way.

Joyful Girl

"I do it for the joy it brings,

Because I'm a joyful girl.

Because the world owes me nothing,

And we owe each other the world.

I do it 'cause it's the least I can do,

I do it 'cause I learned it from you."- A. DiFranco

When I was a little kid, I loved to make friends.  My parents tell me that when I was a toddler, they looked up from their blanket by the ocean to find that I was traveling from blanket to blanket nearby, babbling at the people there, and eating their food.  (Who doesn't love a buffet?.... ahem....) But I was so happy just to be talking to people and learning new things.  I would walk up to children in a park or at the beach and say "Hi, I'm Laura.  Wanna be my friend?" It just seemed like the right, comfortable thing to do. It was another reason that performing felt so natural.  With one song or monologue, you could communicate with a room full of people, asking them all to be your friend.  How does one become this way? How did I learn about being a joyful girl? The best answer I can come up with is two words: my mother.

Momma is a joyful girl.  But don't you DARE let her hear you say it! She carefully guards her curmudgeonly status, like an Ebenezer Scrooge who tricks Fred into thinking she's still horribly grouchy even after the three ghosts have come and gone. My mother is like Auntie Mame and good ol' Ebenezer and Julie Andrews all rolled up in one.

Momma grew up in a huge house with six siblings, a mother, a father, a grandmother, a grandfather, an aunt, an uncle, a cousin, and seven other aunts and uncles and cousins' worth of family going through the doors as though they revolved.  My grandmother told me once "When your mother was born, the world turned on its side.  Your aunt Eileen took to that child in a way I had never seen a person take to an infant before.  But that was your mother's influence on everyone she met!" When she was still small, they realized that she loved to sing and was quite good at it.  And so she began to perform in little variety shows, for ladies' luncheons, and summer shows in town.  She was a shining star, someone who everyone cherished and delighted in watching perform.  She was smart, accomplished, and had a 1000 watt smile. Momma had everyone wrapped around her finger, and that's ultimately because she was a joyful girl.

"Everything I do is judged,

And they mostly get it wrong, but oh well.

'Cause the bathroom mirror has not budged,

And the woman who lives there can tell

the truth from the stuff that they say,

And she looks me in the eye and says

Would you prefer the easy way?

No, well then ok, don't cry."

I had the privilege of having my mother as a music teacher when I was a kid.  I remember learning lots of songs with her, at home and school.  I remember seeing her laughing with a class full of kids when we would make all the silly noises and sing silly lyrics that came with her songs.  I remember her acting out the story of the very first "Surprise Symphony". I remember her baseball unit, marrying her love of the Red Sox with her love of music. I remember her wrangling group after group of us in after-school choruses and shows, putting us all in the right spots, running our lines over and over again, and smiling her 1000 watt smile while she conducted. She is so joyful when children work hard and sing beautifully.  How could we do anything but that, with her smile and laugh cajoling us along?

Momma is another female role model in my life, made of steel that's overlaid in humor and joy.  She has raised four children (one of whom is out of her mind), worked full time for 30 years, hosted parties and rehearsal dinners and sleepovers, and done it all with a wonderful dose of hilarity and sarcasm.  If sarcasm were currency, Momma would be the richest woman in the world.  But this is not to say that she is nasty, or exacting.  Momma's sarcasm is the kind of self-deprecating humor that she has honed carefully.  Momma has a great sense of perspective (learned from my Nana), and wants all around her to know that they are of value, greatly loved, and should NEVER take themselves too seriously. Through the sarcasm, Momma is a devout Catholic who believes in the inherent good in people.  She believes in doing good deeds when no one is looking. She believes we owe each other the world.  

When I am at my lowest, I go to Momma to pick me up.  She finds some way to make me laugh and take stock of the real situation.  Often, she can talk and joke me right out of a bad mood.  When my brain has been too far gone for that, she'd put her cup of tea or coffee down, look me right in the eye and say "Well, now we know what needs to happen.  Let's go...".  Off we'd go to the hospital, and as we'd wait in the ER, she would find joy and humor in every small thing, rubbing my hand in hers and using her sarcasm to get me laughing even through my madness and tears.  

When I think of Momma, I think of the Ani DiFranco song quoted above. Momma is my "woman in the bathroom mirror" who does not budge.  She is my compass. When I think of what I should do next, or how I am perceived, I see Momma in front of me, encouraging me, never letting me take the easy way when the right way is hard, and being the joyful girl with the 1000 watt smile.  I think of how she never expects anything of the world, but wants to give and give and give, with her performing, with her friendship, with her sarcasm and love of life. She has said to me "Life is just messy, Laura, but we need to be like Auntie Mame, and belly up to the banquet!!!"

When I grow up, I want to be a joyful girl like Momma.

But What If I Can't?

I am many things, one of which is a singer. I've sung for as long as I can remember, which for me is 2 or 3 years old.

My first musical memory is of my father standing me next to the piano and teaching me the song "Dites Moi" from South Pacific. Dad played, I sang, and an obsession was born. I can still hear the 4 bar piano intro in my head, V to I, in staccato chords. Dad would play the first note of the melody at the end of the 4th bar, so I knew where to start. But I didn't need the help. I couldn't HELP but know where the song started. It just made sense. It couldn't be anything else.

My love of music grew and grew, from a tiny spot in the center of my little body to the ends of the earth. Momma and I would sing songs from Disney movies and Broadway shows. I knew the words and melodies to every rock song Dad played with his band (I can still feel the foam microphone cover on my cheek as I sat at his keyboard during rehearsal breaks). My Fisher Price record player played everything from John Denver and the Muppets to the soundtrack of "Pollyanna" to Michael Jackson's "Thriller"-- a 4th birthday present from Dad. 

My family likes to joke that I started my "stage life" when I was negative 6 months old. Momma was pregnant with me during a run of "Trial by Jury", a G&S operetta. How could I help but love the theatre? I knew it before almost anything else!

Then when I was 6, I began piano lessons. I had been sitting at the piano "pretending to play" for so long that Momma and Dad knew this was the next logical step. My piano teacher was a little Italian nun with whom I had a love-hate relationship for the next 12 years. She was a part of the Irl Allison Guild; this is an organization for which you must play an "audition" every year in front of a judge, and receive an annual award commensurate with the material you present.  (Translation: If you don't screw up your songs too badly, you get a medal.) I loved these auditions because it was an adrenaline rush like no other.  You sat precariously on the edge of a piano bench, willing your hands to do what you'd worked so hard at all school year, in front of an audience. Then you got to do it AGAIN for a family recital in June..... now my obsession for music included the thrill of live performance.

And so it continued, with piano recitals, stage shows, choral concerts, band concerts, musicals, Pops concerts, Tanglewood concerts, Symphony concerts, more stage shows, TV tapings, movie soundtrack recordings, and on and on and on.

Last year, I came to a violent curve in my musical road.  I was onstage, and suddenly the feeling that I always cherished, that sense of "right" that music and performance gave me, was slipping away.  It turned to panic and rage.  My blood pressure skyrocketed, I broke out in a sweat, and I had to sit down in the middle of a performance.  My wonderful flying feeling from music was crashing and burning in front of my eyes. I tried to brush it off, as a simple flexing of the nerves, or a hypomanic episode.  But it keeps happening, and happening, and happening....

Since then, I have had a few other close calls and cancelled performances.  Two weeks ago, I was singing for a Marvin Hamlisch Tribute at Symphony Hall; we were doing all numbers from "A Chorus Line" with the original Cassie..... holy shit!  This is what young Broadway fans dream of!  How exciting!  But for me, it turned sour again.  I couldn't enjoy it.  I was so bogged down in sadness and anxiety that I had to actually keep myself from sobbing whilst another soloist sang "Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows".  I COULDN'T SING FUCKING SHOWTUNES WITHOUT CRYING. As the 2nd evening of performance progressed, I made a decision.  That night, I would go home, get settled in for the night, and kill myself.  This was it.  Music held no beauty for me anymore.  I sang and felt nothing. What was the point? What will happen to me now?  My sublime comfort in all the chaos had been music, and standing on a stage singing as though the devil were chasing me. It was gone. And soon I would be.

I managed to remember my promise to Paulie and cling to life until the next morning when I got help from my therapist... into another hospital. Now, I can get through the day without wanting to die, most of the time.  I tried hard not to cry for that week in hospital, and the week thereafter when I thought about the fact that I may never be able to perform again. I can't find my fire. I can't find my love of this precious gift that was given to me when I was 2 years old, standing next to Dad at the spinet in the living room, right along the stairs.

I listen to music and sing along softly to the radio. I sing jazz as fiercely as I want while doing the dishes.  I can't practice.  I'm trying hard to keep my chin up, knowing I do have some musical obligations.  My conductor at the Hall is being gracious and wonderful and letting me try a few weekends of Tanglewood this summer. I am determined to find my sublime comfort again, in the memories of a toddler singing in French with her father......

.....but what if I can't?...........

Coming Out of the Dark?

Sorry, gentle reader, but I'm on a mental health kick. I find it fascinating to watch my brain fluctuate. Hope you don't coming along for this ride of random thought.

Sitting in my sister's apartment in Astoria, I am listening to an old Gloria Estefan song. "Coming out of the dark/I finally see the light now/and it's shining on me".

I have been doing pretty well in the last few weeks. I am beginning my life "again". There are voice lessons to teach, books to catalog, a husband to fix the house with and just love!, as well as family and friends to see.

But I am struck at how this time around is different. I am not sitting around waiting to feel better, bemoaning my terrible mental health. I am not asking for another pill to numb things. I am working even harder through my emotional upheavals. Self harm urges and disappointments are being faced head on. I am even stronger than I was before. I am stronger BECAUSE of the dark. The bright moments of my life are made better when looked at next to the dark.

No one says "That one glaring spotlight is beautiful." They say "Look at those stars" or "What a pretty night". The darkness is what makes the starlight stand out.

Sorry, Ms Estefan, but I refuse to come out of the dark. The dark is where I live and die. It is how I will choose to exist, amongst shining stars.

Life on the Inside: or, How to Take a Shower in Fifteen Minutes or Less

When one is on a psych ward, there are at least 2 constants: crazy people, and "checks".  Checks are the constant "checking on" every patient throughout their day.  One staff member per hour walks about with a clipboard, making sure that everyone is safe and accounted for EVERY 15 MINUTES.  They bang on every closed door, including the bathrooms.  A running joke amongst "serial patients" is that if you get REALLY good, you can get into a bathroom, shower, change, and leave before someone comes banging down the bathroom door, insisting that you scream out your first name, last initial over the sound of running water whilst you scrub your hair.  It's like a guillotine that comes out of nowhere, blasting your last dignity; a hot shower where, for a short time, you can forget that you are so crazy you live in a locked space.

Life on an inpatient unit is a real lesson in diversity and similarity.  It's a study in opposites, and how they co-exist.  In this particular case, everyone is here because "coping on the outside" has become impossible.  We are a danger to ourselves and others.  How we handle this ranges from sleeping 20 hour a day to running around the halls in socks at all hours of the day and night, making signs for "those that are not aware of how things work" and refusing all medications.

We squeeze stress balls and wrap ourselves in hospital blankets.  We talk to each other about the "good old days", when we used, drank, cut ourselves.  We compare scars and "The Lists"; lists of the hospitals we've been to, lists of the restraints we've been subjected to, lists of the drugs the docs have "tried out" on us.  We eat far too much, sharing candy and treats visitors have brought us.  We are from the city, country, suburbs.  We live in mansions, ranches, split levels, apartments, group homes, and cars; mental illness is the Almighty Equalizer.

I have watched as a young man cried into the shoulder of an elderly woman, finally accepting his addiction.  I have been the recipient of a piece of candy and a smile from a Hells Angel who loved classical music as much as I did.  We are a beautiful and highly dysfunctional family.  We scream and yell and laugh and cry and try to be "normal".

Today I am reeling; mania has taken over my life in a very real way.  I am inpatient now, trying to mix meds and coping skills into a kind of "cocktail" that might work. 

Mania has made me angry, violent, and frustrated.  My mood is labile (Holy understatement, Batman!) and I find myself getting into arguments with friends and family for no "good" reason. I cannot sit in a group for more than 15 minutes without having to leave.  I have a nasty twitch in my hands if I try to stay any longer.  I find myself pacing the halls, biting my nails so I don't scream at nothing and no one.  I shake violently just trying to keep my brain from leaking out my ears.  Sitting in a group starts to give me a glimpse into the life of Bruce Banner.

Up until yesterday, I would have said that I continue to have great faith in the medical profession to get me through.  Now my feelings are mixed.  While speaking with a doc on Tuesday, we discussed the medications I have taken in the past.  One of them is Depakote; I took it from about 1998-2001.  The doc immediately interjected "Well, I would never put you on that again; it obviously already did its worst." When I asked what she meant she told me that Depakote has been shown to cause PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome).  This is the condition that prevents me from ever having children.  Now the truth comes forward; the very medication that was supposed to "help" me ripped away one of my biggest dreams: motherhood.  The Brahms "Lullaby" plays over the loudspeakers here as I write this, indicating a baby has just been born.  Everytime it plays a bit of my heart bleeds faster. 

And now here I sit, at the end of a little twin hospital bed, writing on a tray table, begging God and all the saints and angels to come and bear a little grief and mania with me.  Maybe if they do, I can finish this latest of life's showers in less than 15 minutes.

The Descent...

On Monday, I went to my bi-weekly voice lesson.  I had a great time working on lots of musical theatre repertoire, and my teacher is a gem of a human being.  The lesson began with him taking one look at me as I approached his front door and saying, "Honey, talk to me..."

How do I respond to this invitation?  "Oh, I'm fine, just deep in thought!" "Oh, don't worry about me, I'm just trying to remember the lyrics we have to work on today!"

No. I looked him square in the face and said, "I think I'm losing my mind."

I haven't been using social media very much in the last few days.  I haven't been working, singing, reading, eating, sleeping, or anything really in the past few days.  I have been too busy trying to keep my brain inside my head.

I am manic.

Now, gentle reader, when I say manic, I do not mean the little hypomanic "blips" I've had in the past.  I mean that I am completely off-my-rocker.  I am not quite hallucinating yet, but every bit of my concentration is going toward not hurting myself/anyone else, as well as anyTHING else.  Last night I actually had to physically stop myself from getting out of bed at 11pm to smash every inanimate object in my living and dining rooms.  I had never felt so strongly that I NEEDED to destroy everything there.  Why?  Sure beats the shit out of me.

I have spent entire afternoons this week sitting on a chair and NOT cutting my arms to ribbons.  It takes all of my energy to finish sentences.  I have never been this manic in my life.  I have been anxious, or depressed to the point of self-harm, but this is brand shiny-new.  Paulie sat with me on Monday as I hung onto his sweatshirt in the living room and sobbed over and over again "What's happening to me; WHAT IS HAPPENING?!?!"

Possibly the biggest KICKER to this entire shitty ball of wax is that I had my husband drive me to an Emergency Room on Monday night.... and they sent me home. I'm not crazy enough.  I had no "confirmed plan" of suicide that night, so "Medicare won't pay for any kind of inpatient treatment.  And don't bother telling me now that you're suicidal.  It won't work."  It was then explained to me that there were people waiting 3-5 days in the same emergency room who had not gotten a bed in a substance abuse facility yet.  There were waiting lists for every hospital and program in the area.  I wasn't getting in anywhere.  They told me to go home and talk to my therapist the next day; that she would have MORE luck of getting me into a facility THAN A HOSPITAL WOULD.

So now I sit at home and wait.  There is a facility in my hometown that is able to "talk to me" on Tuesday.  A psych hospital that is quite popular and rhymes with "LeClane" has a 5-week wait to just TALK to me for an intake, never mind get me into a program.

Paulie is being so good; he sits and tries to keep the demons at bay.  I speak in half-sentences and bewildering metaphors, and rail at anyone who will listen to my tale of woe.

Now begins my spiraling descent into uncertainty and insanity.....Hello, old friend.

The Little Dolly

The past weeks have been a little dicey, as my last post indicates.  My husband has not been well, and to make matters more difficult, I have not been well.  The flu came at me twice, and I swatted it like an annoying insect twice.  A few days of rest and fabulous chicken soup (made by said husband) seemed to do the trick in both cases. Paulie needed a trip to the ER on Saturday, and so flu symptoms were quickly forgotten as we headed over to LGH and took the time to get the thing diagnosed (a post-surgical kidney infection... GAH!) and treated.

Now, the past few days have been restful without any effort on my part; a rehearsal here, a few lessons to teach there have been the extent of them.  There are probably a million long-term projects I could be working on, but for now I can't think of a single bloody one.  There is a new novel on my coffee table, a bag of junk food newly procured from the convenience store, and a few scratch tickets (purchased from the winnings of my Christmas stocking tickets).

This is a new experiment.  I will attempt now, with great trepidation, to not do anything simply because I have the time.  I will not do anything on PURPOSE!

Ah.... there it is...The Voice of Reason: "Laura, you have so many things to get done.  You don't work a full-time job.  You don't have a house full of people to take care of.  Get out there and do something!!!" The voice of reason usually sounds like my father, which is inherently unfair, given that my father is NOT the kind of person to push anyone else.  He's simply the hardest-working person I've ever met, and so when I don't think I can work, his voice sounds.

My father is the person who worked 3 jobs while attending college full-time, and then continued to work at least 2 part-time jobs while working full-time once he graduated.  He married, had 4 children, and made us all feel like the most special people in the world, all the while teaching a full school day, gigging at night, and oh, yeah, getting a Masters Degree as well.  In the summers when he wasn't teaching, he added another job to the docket.  He painted houses, worked in offices, taught private lessons... he did whatever it took to make sure that we were provided for, both physically and emotionally. He's a bit of a demi-god in my book, and one whose shoes will not be filled.... EVER.

So, of course, here comes my guilt.  As people in the biz might ask: "How do you follow that?"

I dunno.  I guess I'll stop trying.

The more important thing about my father that I truly wish to be, much more than a hard worker, is a supremely kind and generous person.  My father finds a way to make every person in a room feel special, for whatever their strengths are. He remembers names of spouses, children, family, and friends.  He asks about jobs and accomplishments. He sometimes touches their arm when he talks to them, so they know that they are his sole focus.  When someone cries he hugs them, rubs their back, asks what he can do.  He passes a guy asking for money on the street and always has a one or a five on him to give. Sometimes they want to talk.  He does that too.  He's the guy who makes sure that people have what they need, and always DEMANDS that no one know about it; therefore I'm not going to tell you about any of those things either, just that they happen.

When I have been at some of my very lowest points, my father has been there.  I remember being rushed to the hospital for a suicide attempt, and my father wasn't home at the time.  When I came to in the room I'd been assigned, it was to my father's arms around me.  I immediately started to cry and ask forgiveness.  Dad just sat there on the side of the bed, holding me and telling me it was ok.  That I was his Little Dolly, and I would be fine.  He told me to "take it easy" (his favorite phrase), to take my time feeling better, and not to worry about a thing. While I still have moments where I'm sure that I'm disappointing him to the point of pure frustration, I also know that he loves me more.  It's awe-inspiring and scary and comforting all at the same time.

So now, 13 years later, I'm choosing to take another page from Dad's book.  I'm going to try my very best to be as good as I can to people (a life-long pursuit, especially for one as snarky as I am!!!), and at least for tonight, I'm going to take it easy.