Look what Santa brought!

So, yesterday I wrote a rather pessimistic (read: really pissy) post about my struggle through this holiday season thus far.  I have been feeling like I'm always a step behind, not able to truly do what's necessary to get my house looking festive, wrapping gifts, giving out cards, etc. I know this mostly because of the illness that's been raging through my home in the last month.  Just keeping up with laundry and dishes and medications and doctors' appointments has been exhausting; that doesn't even count working and seeing family and on and on and on....

And then I read some of the great things that are going on in my friends' and family's homes for the season.  It struck me: I love Christmas, and I think a bit of a "sentimental journey" is in order....

When I was little, we lived in Lowell, MA, in a lovely little house near Callery Park.  Dad and/or Momma would take me to the park in good weather.  Christmas was a super-special time; we had an advent calendar (usually kept in the kitchen), we made lists for Santa, Dad played the piano when there was time and we sang Christmas carols, Momma baked treats in between Masses and working and taking care of GG and Katie (who were babies at the time), we watched "Charlie Brown Christmas" and "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" on TV when they were broadcast.  Christmas morning would come, and I'd run downstairs holding onto Momma or Dad's hand, with each of them carrying an infant on one hip.  The tree was in the living room, right near the hi-fi system, across from the spinet.  And oh the gifts and treats!  I remember tea sets and dolls (my very first Cabbage Patch Doll!) and dollhouses and clothes and a doctor's set, and always a stocking full of candy and fun things, with a "mysterious round object" at the bottom.  It was an orange.  It was an orange every year (an old family tradition), but every year I (and then GG and Katie and Chris) would wonder what that object at the bottom of the stocking was!  Momma would always try her best to hide her smile and laugh as we tried to figure it out, holding our stockings upside down and shaking them, watching it roll down and out onto the carpeted floor.

When I was seven, we moved to Dracut.  The setting was different, but the traditions were the same. By then, there were four of us kiddos; Christopher was the infant now.  We'd wait in our rooms on Christmas morning, calling out to Momma and Dad: "Can we go now?  Can we go to the tree now?  Are you up yet?" (Of course, my poor parents had probably only finished setting things up a few hours before, but they'd pull themselves out of bed and throw on robes and slippers.  Momma would immediately put on the kettle for morning tea for her and Dad while we took in the first sights of the decorated tree with all its gifts out.) Santa didn't wrap his gifts, Momma and Dad wrapped the ones from them, and we each had a stocking with a different Christmas "picture" on it; that's how we knew whose gifts were whose.

We'd always go to Pa Rocky's house for Christmas Eve.  Auntie Linda would cook, or when Pa didn't want her to work so hard, he'd order Chinese Food for everyone.  We'd see Pa and Auntie Linda and Uncle Frank and Sean and Evy and Uncle Tony and Auntie Maureen, soon followed by Nick and Sam and Jake as they were born later on.  We'd open gifts and play.  Sometimes Pa would put on a Frank Sinatra tape while the adults talked and drank coffee.  As we've gotten older, Pa has died, and we've turned our "Feast of the Seven Fishes" into a traveling tradition: one year at Auntie Linda's, one year at Auntie Maureen's, one year at Momma and Dad's.  Often the Leon Grandes would go to Midnight Mass if we could stay awake.  If not, we'd get ready for Mass after opening gifts the next morning.

For many years, we'd go to Auntie Antoinette and Uncle Bruno's house in Somerville (Momma and Dad both grew up in Winter Hill, and much of our family still lived there) for Christmas Day lunch.  There'd be the famous "Christmas soup" with little toasted dough balls to throw in on top with your grated parmesan cheese.  Then there'd be pasta and meats and all kinds of fabulous food. There'd be biscotti and S cookies and pizelle and cake and coffee for dessert. We'd see Nana and Eddie and get gifts from them, we'd see the Toppi cousins and Pa Cornelio (my great-grandfather).  I'd sit in wonder as I heard my Nana and Auntie Antoinette and Uncle Bruno speak Italian to each other and Pa Cornelio.  Listening to that beautiful language spoken so fluently and easily was its own kind of Christmas magic (of course, they were usually speaking it so they could talk to each other without anyone bothering them ;).... when I was really little, I didn't know that Uncle Bruno had come to this country at age 22.  I just knew that he and Auntie mostly spoke Italian to each other; I always thought SHE was teaching HIM Italian... LOL!  Quite the opposite).

Then we'd go to Nana Fitzgerald's over on Richdale Ave (also in Winter Hill) to see the Irish side of the family.  There were more gifts, and even more laughing..... TONS of tea and desserts and Dad would pull the decorations off the upright piano in order to start playing carols; everybody sang.  I have a distinct memory of Da singing once or twice, smelling of tea and cigarettes and aftershave. I can still smell it now.  Nana loves to sing, and still does every year with all of us.  I am very lucky to have grown up in a family (both the Italian and Irish sides) where everyone sings well; it's a tradition we've upheld at Nana's house.  Now it's Liam (the youngest of the 18 grandchildren) who pulls on Uncle Leon's sleeve and drags him over to the piano to begin our musical portion of the evening.

Another huge part of the Grande Christmas tradition was and still is holiday movies: "White Christmas", "Holiday Inn", "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers", "Muppet Christmas Carol", and George C. Scott's "Christmas Carol".  We live in different homes now, but use our smart phones to swap quotes and remember together until we're all in the same place for Christmas Eve and Day.  We've even extended our Christmas to the 26th; this is when we do our own personal gift exchanges while eating brunch and watching some of those same movies.

Finally, there are the Christmas decorations that my mother has put up every year that touch my heart.  Ornaments that we made as toddlers; one was just a plastic coffee scoop that I put a Christmas sticker in the bottom of at the YMCA preschool when I was four.  The sticker fell out and got lost years ago, but every year Dad insists that the plastic coffee scoop be hung on the tree, a reminder of our earliest years as a family at Christmas.  We've each taken our stockings with us as we've left the house, but we all insist that we will put an orange at the bottom for our children as they grow older.

There is one Christmas decoration that surpass all the rest for me.  It is a stone statue of the Baby Jesus in the manger with Santa kneeling at His side, red hat in hand as he pays homage to the child.  It has been the "picture of Christmas" in my head since I was four years old.  We were still living in Lowell then, and Momma would always put it on top of the spinet on the left side.  I'd practice for my piano lessons with Sr. Anne, looking at the baby and Santa, wanting to be as good as he and remember why we celebrated Christmas.

Memories continue to flood my brain as I type; I'm sure there are more that my siblings and cousins will remember as they read this post.  What this walk down memory lane really shows me is how wonderfully blessed I am.  That even though there are demons knocking at my brain's door, even though there's a pile of dishes in the sink and my tree isn't up yet, I am the luckiest girl in the world.  Now Connor and Luca (Chris and Katie's sons) are here to join us for our traditions, and Uncle Paulie and Auntie Lulu will hold them close and spend too much money on them and I will sing at Mass and hug and kiss so many family members this week.

Above all else, I will keep in my mind's eye the picture of Santa kneeling in front of the Christ Child.

I wish everyone a Blessed Christmas. 

When that gingerbread feeling turns to shit....

WARNING: General ranting ahead.....

So it's Christmas again with its tinsel and trees blah blah blah happy blah blah sacred blah blah fellow man.

Well, what do you do when you'd rather stab your fellow man in the throat with a nice ol shard of glass than wish them a "Happy Holiday"? Do you stay inside and keep yourself to yourself? Do you try to go out little by little, hoping you won't commit rageful homicide?

What does one do when no one can seem to do anything right, including yourself? 

What do you MEAN you don't know where my sheet music is????

What do you MEAN the insurance won't pay for this medication??? It costs $200!!!!! 

You catch my drift. 

I am taking my medication, keeping all my doctor's appointments, taking stock via journal each day, and yet, I just want the world to go away. I am trying to keep my urges to cut at bay.  My husband is so ill, and I'm doing everything I can think of to make him better, but it's not enough.  It's just never enough.  I am not enough.

For me, the next few days will require patience, the "Glad Game", and PRNs. 

Here's hoping....Merry Fucking Christmas. 

Wishes...

Well, I guess we all have them, right? I remember an interview with David Duchovny back in the "X-Files" days; he said "My Dad used to say 'If wishes were wheels, my grandmother would be a trolley!'" LOL

I have many wishes. I wish I were 100 lbs lighter. I wish I were a world-famous opera singer. I wish it didn't take practically a US Army unit to get me out of bed in the morning. I wish I were a better cook and housekeeper. I wish God had given me body capable of having children. Mostly, I wish I were a better wife to my wonderful husband. 

I know part of the reason I wish this particular last wish is because my rape history sticks like a bad dream that just won't go away. Unfortunately, it wasn't a dream. I work at "forgetting", which is silly. I work at "processing", which I am learning is a life-long process. The typical rape victim issues and thoughts plague my brain on a regular basis: "I wish I hadn't worn those clothes...", "I wish I had not been so stupid & gullible...", "I wish I'd fought harder...", "I wish I hadn't panicked when his hand went around my throat..."  Wishes, wishes, wishes....

Well, Laura, none of these things will go away. You don't know his name, so you can't report it, even now, 15 years

later. 

What I can do is work hard. I can work hard at remembering to take my medication every morning. I can work hard at my therapy sessions. I can work hard at being honest and not shoving "things" to the back of my head. I can work hard at being the best wife, daughter, sister, and aunt possible. I can work hard to keep myself educated about the "fall-out" from this kind of trauma, especially combined with a bipolar diagnosis. 

And so now I will turn my wishes toward myself and my hard work. I have a strong brain, and it can take it. 

My wishes for a better existence can become a reality, starting today.....

Grateful for so much...

I often use this blog as a place to grieve over what Bipolar disorder has taken from me, or to face what I must deal with because of said disorder. 

Today, I want to take time to appreciate all that I have and am afforded because of, or in spite of, this illness. 

I have amazing family and friends, who check in with me on a regular basis and do the best they can to make me feel better. They include my husband, parents, siblings, singing friends, and even management of singing groups. They are all kind, curious, and understanding. Yesterday I was at a rehearsal. The conductor made me laugh while I had coffee in my mouth, and I ended up spraying it all over two people next to me. One friend was completely understanding and didn't think twice about just cleaning things up and not worrying about it. The other singer didn't really know me, so she was furious and gave me a ration of shit. I apologized profusely, but that didn't matter. She bitched me out, even though there wasn't much of anything spilled on her. She was really angry, and was pretty vicious yelling at me. My manager saw this, and texted to ask what was wrong. I told him, and he told me not to think twice about it. I couldn't help it; I started to cry. He saw this and made sure he gave me a hug and told me there was no reason to worry. He talked to me until I felt better, and made me laugh. He knew what I needed. There is another manager I work with who does the same. They both understand the nature of my illness, and try hard to make me comfortable no matter what. 

It's much like my wonderful husband Paulie, who can tell when I need a hug and kiss, versus when I need a good laugh. He does whatever is necessary to make me feel just a bit better. After last week, where I felt that 6 slashes on my left wrist was the only answer, these people have made it a goal to see that I'm not taking myself or life too seriously, and that I can still find joy in everyday life. 

I am so grateful to all these people, and that will not stop. As I said to a friend today, I should probably say something "Boston sarcastic" now, but I can't think of a thing. I'm just humbled and grateful to everyone. 

Hopefully I can make all these people proud. 

Star Trek & Robin Hood & Romance Novels...Oh my!

Today is July 20th. It's a Monday. I'm back home after a great vacation down the Cape with my family, getting ready for a typical week ahead. 

Unfortunately, my chronic illness has been rearing its ugly head for the last few days. I've been livid, agitated, sad, weeping, confused, and everything in between. All I want to do is sit on my couch, watch television, and go out for a cigarette once in awhile. There's house work and food shopping to be done, and I can't even think about it right now. 

Paulie and my family are wonderful, as always. They tell me they love me, make sure I take my medication, and text encouragement and cute videos when they are able. 

Tomorrow is Tuesday July 21st. Dad will take me to McLean for an ECT treatment. It just can't come soon enough. Although I loathe general anesthesia, I know that I will feel myself again after the procedure. Or so I hope. There's always that fear in the back of my mind that this time the ECT will stop being effective, that the crying and the agitation and the rage won't stop, and that the wanting to cut myself will push itself to the front of my brain, and spill out onto my wrists. 

The "distress tolerance" skills that I've been employing the past few days have been watching episodes of Star Trek:TNG, the BBC Robin Hood (yay Richard Armitage!), and reading romance novels. They help keep me focused on "fun things", even when this illness is trying its hardest to kick my ass into freaking out, or even hurting myself. 

Paulie and I had a talk this morning. We just kept saying "This is a chronic illness; it's going to do this once in awhile." 

And so I ride this wave, pray that ECT will help me tomorrow, and keep my thumb hovering over the Netflix remote, swapping between the USS Enterprise and Sherwood Forest......

Calming the seas...

As many of you may or may not know, I am a devout Catholic. Now, this isn't to say that there aren't a few things the Church could update their stance on, but that's for another blog post. Suffice it to say, I attend Mass every week and pray daily. Sometimes it's the Rosary, and sometimes it's simply an extended period of time where I pray to those saints who I feel I am in tune with. 

Last week, I was at Mass, and the gospel was the one where Jesus is awakened in a sinking boat, calms the seas, and admonishes the apostles for their lack of faith, assuring them He will always be there to "calm the seas", metaphorically speaking. The priest then gave a sermon on the idea that Jesus is always there, calming the seas and "making everything ok". I couldn't help it. I started to cry.

If Jesus is always there, calming the seas, why has my life been such a turbulent disaster in so many ways? Why was I always bullied as a child? Why was I raped in college? Why do I have this fucking disease that doesn't allow me a real career, or more than a few months outside a psych ward? Why has my body been made so that I cannot have children? I was furious, and find that I still am. 

When I talked to Paulie about it, and he is far more intelligent and religiously inclined than I am, he said "But that's not what the gospel meant. It's telling us that Jesus will always be there to watch over us and help us as is fit, not that we'll all have perfect lives."

I understand this, and I even talked to my therapist about it. She's Jewish, so we don't often talk religion, as we don't quite see things in the same light, but she said something that struck me: "Laura, Jesus is calming the internal seas of your soul as He can. It's not about justice in the outside world. It's about inner peace." I accept that, and know that that is what I must work on next. 

The thing is, and anyone with a chronic illness might say this, it's not just about "letting yourself get better". It's about constant hard work. I have been working my ass off since age 15. I work daily at mindfulness, emotion regulation, and so forth. I must remember to take my medications and supplements every day. I must look at the world in as positive a light as I can. I must pray daily. I must attend weekly therapy sessions. I must have shock therapy on a regular basis. Oh, and I must also live my life as fully as I can as well. 

I still take voice lessons on a regular basis, I work a few days a week, I do the laundry and the dishes and wash the floors and dust and vacuum. I attend functions and see my family and friends. I sing when I can. 

I suppose what I am ultimately saying is I'm looking really hard for Jesus in all of this, and trying to see what waters he's actually calming. I'm tired. I'm still working my ass off, but I'm tired, and so is my husband and family. 

Am I in the wrong boat? Am I looking in the wrong place? 

I simply feel abandoned, and I wish that God would give me some sort of sign that this is really what my life is supposed to be. 

Maybe I need to change boats, or I'm simply not looking hard enough, but I am so very tired....

"Life is a banquet....

....and some poor sons-of-bitches are starving to death!"

This is a quote from "Mame" that my mother often quotes when I'm not doing well, or turning in on myself, becoming more depressed. 

Lately, I've been feeling FANTASTIC, as the combination of shock therapy, medication, and vitamin supplements has really been working for me. 

I have been praying to the Blessed Mother and St. Dymphna (the patron saint of mental illness) to keep this streak going. While there's been a "bump" here or there I can say with much confidence that I've been doing well for awhile.  And thank you to the "many-faced god" for that. ;) (I'm only kidding, Paulie!!!!)

This blog post isn't so much about "profound discoveries" or the like.  This is really just a place to say "THANK YOU" for all the good I've been feeling in the last bit of time.  Thank you to Paulie, and my family, and my friends, and the strangers who say "hi" when I greet them in the grocery store.  Thank you to the store clerks who share pleasant small talk with me while I buy a few items.  Thank you to the priests who have told me how happy they are that I'm feeling better.  Thank you to the St. Michael Parish Choir, who treat me with dignity and respect and fill me with laughter each week.  And thank you Biggy, for your constant prayers to the Little Flower.  (She's pretty sure that's the real reason I'm feeling so much better. ;) )

I thank you all for following this journey of mine, and don't mind any good thoughts, vibes, or prayers you send my way as I try and continue this journey of "feeling good."

I'm determined to belly up to the banquet of Life, and refuse to be one of those starving sons-of-bitches!!!

Thanks, Momma.  I love you.

Who Am I?

Of course, the first thing I want to do is sing "2-4-6-0-1!!!!!!".  Ahem.  OK, now that my Les Mis moment is behind me, I'll get to the crux of things. This post was begun when I was in McLean, being held for suicidal ideation.  So this will go from feelings of a month ago to present day. I hope it's not too hard to follow. 

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I'm in the psych ward again, and this time is different.  Well, they're always different, but this one is really kicking my ass.  I have a lot of suicidal feelings, and the staff here are trying their very best to keep my body and soul in one piece.  God Bless them for it.

I've been struggling big time with the idea that my life is really for naught, that aside from my amazing husband and great family holding me up, I've done shit with my life.  I try to get pleasure and fulfillment from my job and relationships, but my brain is telling me that I should put it all aside and just kill myself.  This is the disease talking, and as my sainted husband always says "Don't believe the lies."  I'm doing my best to follow his advice.

Tonight, a counselor asked me "Who do you think you are?"

The answer is complicated.  Well, yes, thank you Captain Obvious, but what IS the answer?

The answer is I don't know.

The answer is that I'm still trying to figure it out.

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Now I've been out of McLean's Short Term Unit for about three weeks, but I've been going there two to three times a week as an outpatient for ECT, or electro convulsive therapy. I have now had 16 treatments this go-around...so far.

The wonderful news is I feel really good from the treatments. The not-so-great news is I have to go under general anesthesia every time, so my body has physically been through the ringer. I am very fortunate to have amazing family and friends who are willing to drive me to each and every treatment. Since I must go under anesthesia, I am not allowed to drive, and I usually end up sleeping off the meds the rest of the day.

Each session is the same. A nurse brings me to a waiting room with a stretcher. I hop on and she places hot packs on my right hand and arm, to help the anesthesiologist find good veins for the IV. My blood pressure and pulse are checked, and once the treatment room is ready, I'm wheeled in. An ECT doctor, anesthesiologist, and nurse are all present. An IV is begun, and I quickly lose consciousness. I wake up in a recovery room sometime later, and there I must be monitored for at least 45 minutes. Then a doctor meets with me, verifies that I am sufficiently recovered, and sends me home. 

So lately my brain has gone back to the question of two months ago: who am I? What I have decided for the time being is that though I may not be particularly proud of what I've become, I am a work in progress. I am a person who is feeling a little better with every passing day, and I can make the best of each moment. 

For example, I decided this week that I have not gone and seen my sisters and friends in NYC in ages, so I am taking the end of this week and weekend to do just that. I will walk the streets of New York with my head held high and my brain ready to have the most fun I can. I can't wait to see all my friends and family in the big bad city. 

I am going to have another treatment on Tuesday, but then I will board a bus on Thursday and take the big bad city by storm. I may not know exactly who I am, but I'm going to have fun while I figure it out.

A passing Thursday afternoon...

My Thursdays are kind of awesome. My good friend has a bookstore in downtown Concord (come see us at Barrow Bookstore!), and I get to come help out for the afternoon. Today as I was sitting and waiting on customers, the following came to me as a little spurt of creativity. Hope you enjoy, gentle readers. 

Untitled 

Snow like eyelashes escaped,

A door to keep it from me,

Surrounded by well-meaning paper,

And all I see is the probability. 

The probability of the slush on the ground,

The probability that the door may open,

The probability that some bit of dust will keep the paper company. 

Snow that smiles as it falls,

The door that stalwartly stands,

The paper questioningly waiting,

And all I taste is new beginnings. 

Untitled Poem

Hello, gentle readers. I almost never write poetry. When snippets pop into my head, they feel false, and I can never tell if they are truly poetry or just my brain's attempt at lyrics. The following came pretty fast and flowing last week in the hospital, so I thought I'd throw it up here and see what it looks like on this page. 

I think it's safe to say I'm letting my 17 year old self out for a minute, but there you have it. 

Enjoy???

Untitled

Moments so deep they won't subside,

Breaths full of anger and shame,

Pulling & stretching, breaking & searching,

Nowhere to hide but inside the flame. 

Ribbons of pain stream through the trees,

They catch the light of my tears,

Razors cut paths through memory,

Flesh tells stories out of school. 

Take this hand and know its truth,

Let it guide you down the hall,

Each room you pass shows something new,

Something closer to the fire I know. 

Happily Ever After?

Hello, my gentle readers. Here we are again, at the beginning of yet another year.  Funny how that seems to happen at the end of every December, eh?

Whilst we are all in the midst of discarding the old and pushing toward the new, I have thought a lot in the last few days about how I'd like this year to go. I've perused my former posts about the new year. Once I was going to divest my home of all the clutter. Once I was going to charge full-steam ahead into a life without mental illness. As you may have guessed, these "resolutions", such as they were, didn't quite come to be. My house is still a treasure trove of memories past, and I'm still as crazy as I was last year.

This year I am discarding resolutions and their ilk. Each day must be taken as it comes. I was speaking with my great-aunt last week during Christmas festivities. She has terrible emphysema, and is on oxygen 24 hours a day. She said to me "Laura, you and I are not so different. We need to roll with each new day. There are some days when we feel great and can get things accomplished. There are others when we just hang on for dear life." 

I have had some "hanging on" moments in the last week or so. I've also had days where I was able to accomplish things. My Auntie is right. This really is the best way to go. 

Tomorrow I work at the library and see my Nana in the evening. I will take Friday as it comes.

Saturday I have an appointment with a new doctor, an integrative psychiatrist who combines functional and traditional treatments to cater to an individual's psych needs. He's written a great book that Paulie and I have both read. We are really encouraged by his philosophies and success rates. I will take Saturday as it comes.

Sunday I will sing at Mass and see my other Nana and my Dad for some breakfast afterwards. I will take Sunday as it comes. 

To me, this different way of seeing the world and my responsibility in it means that every day is January 1st.  Every day means new possibility, both good and bad. I am ready to roll with each new day, as Auntie said. 

Here's to a whole year of January 1sts.