"Have you ever fired your gun up in the air and gone 'aarrr'?"

"Punch. That. Shit!"

"Fire up the roof...."

"Bring the noise!"

*********************************************

These lines (all quoted in one of my favorite films; can you name it?) are delightfully metaphorical as well as timely, given the date. You're feeling brave, you have a goal to accomplish, and it's time to go out there and get it done. 

Every year brings joy as well as obstacle...and 2016 made sure it did its duty: my beautiful nieces were born, I gained a brother-in-law as well as a nephew, my bipolar disorder brought me further into the land of mania, I lost my therapist of 11 years, started two novels, gained a piano, lost a few friends, stopped working for a major orchestra, started working for 3 different groups surrounding my mental illness, etc. In short, I seemed to leave one world behind, and have begun to forge my own new one. Thus, I have some goals for the 365 days ahead. 

I am going to learn to play the guitar, as I have wanted to do since I first saw Ms. Ani diFranco blow everyone's minds via "Living in Clip" in 1997. I think 20 years has brought enough life experience and clarity to start that journey, eh? 😉 

I am going to complete some musical projects I've tossed to the back burner for a few journeys of the sun. I dare not speak them aloud, lest they vanish into dust upon utterance. 

I am going to build a website that incorporates my writing, music, and advocacy lives. 

Finally, I am going to complete at least one of the novels I've begun.

Lofty goals? Probably. Impossible goals? Nope. 

“Little hand says it's time to rock ‘n’ roll…”

My Rosa

I am reading a book by Mark Shriver entitled “Pilgrimage”. It's a biography of the current Pope, Francis. In its beginning chapters, Shriver details Pope Francis’ earliest days in the Catholic faith. He was heavily influenced by his grandmother Rosa. She herself was a devout Catholic who taught him to pray and taught him to live and work for the good of others. As I read these pages, I cannot help but think of the Rosa in my own life. Her name is Eileen Dillon. 

Eileen, or “Biggy” to the family, is a devout Catholic. She was born in February of 1917, the third of nine children. In her own words, she had a childhood of “love, prayer, and the beautiful Mass”. She worked tirelessly her entire life, helping her family in all things, and retired in her 80s. She lives in an apartment in Somerville now, and continues to live a life of prayerful observance. 

Eileen became “Big Eileen” when my grandmother named her second child after her big sister (Nana is the ninth of the Dillons). Over the years Eileen became “Big Eileen”, then “Big E”, and by the time I came along in 1979, “Biggy”. Though we are separated in age by 70+ years, our lives together have been far closer. She has become one of my most staunch supporters, but really, helping others is simply a part of her nature. 

Biggy is the woman who hands whatever money she has in her pocketbook to a homeless person on the street, never questioning what it will be spent on. And don't you dare question her! 

Biggy is the woman who finds out a family is in need and gives them everything they could need or want. The only requirement is that they never know where the help came from.

Biggy is the woman who hears that you'd like to go to a certain place, or see a certain thing, or are just feeling down, and she pops you in the car and you're off to that place! (I have personally found myself in NYC and Ireland, just because Biggy heard that I'd never been before.)

But most importantly, Biggy is the woman who believes that God, through intercession by the saints and the Blessed Mother, can heal all wounds: physical, emotional, and spiritual. Her intense devotion, to the Blessed Mother in particular, is something that will always be ingrained in me. 

When I was a little girl, my parents prayed with me every night. Sometimes when Biggy would babysit, we would pray the rosary together. I can't remember who first taught me to say the rosary, but I will never forget the importance and solace of it. My parents, aunts, uncles, and older family each hold a corner of my praying history, but Biggy is a little different than the rest. She explained stories of the visitations by the Blessed Mother in detail. She showed me all the good the Blessed Mother has done on our behalf. She always reminded me to bring my trials and triumphs to her as well as God. She and my Dad taught me about the children at Fatima. Biggy told me about my birth date, the feast day of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, and how important the day is in the family as well as the religious calendar.

When my mental illness began to skyrocket in my 20s, Biggy would write me cards reminding me to continue to pray to the Blessed Mother. She would send medals, Mass cards, and her own wishes for my improved health. In the last 2 years, she has begun to pray to St Therese (The Little Flower) every day for me. She said to me recently “I have great hopes for the Little Flower; she will intercede for you!”. I have begun praying to her as well as my standbys: Our Lady of Mount Carmel and the patron saint of mental health, St. Dymphna. 

Biggy is not a quiet person when it comes to her faith. She will tell you exactly what she thinks and why she thinks it. While we don't always agree, we absolutely respect the right to each other's opinions, and enjoy talking over all things faith & religion. Her faith knows no end, and her fierce devotion creates in her an incredible warrior for Christ. 

I am so grateful to Biggy for her guidance and example. When I am feeling my most desperate, and can't seem to find my way in my prayer and beliefs, I think “How would Biggy handle this?”and push through, begging the Blessed Mother & The Little Flower to give me a hand. 

Biggy and I make each other laugh a lot. When I call her and we chat, I realize that not only do I have a lot of respect & love for her as a great-aunt, I genuinely consider her a friend. She is an incredible confidante to me. She is the kind of woman who gives gives gives, and makes sure she gives you a healthy helping of opinion as well. She is the woman who heard that I loved Thomas Hampson and then brought me to see him play Don Giovanni at the MET, in the front row of course. She is also a person will listen to me and remind me of the good that the Lord can do, if we only stop long enough to take that good in. 

So on this Christmas Eve, I shall say my prayers and send my personal intentions up to my God, Blessed Mother, and saints. And I shall thank them for Biggy, my own Rosa. 

Why Can't We?

I wanted to keep going as if the election didn't affect me. I wanted to just keep loving and living. I wanted to take a page from Anne Frank, and believe the best in people. But that's not what's needed. 

What's needed is stark truth.

Our stock market has closed higher than ever this week, but there is a young child sitting at a rickety table in the middle of a tiny apartment who will not eat this morning before school. 

The leaders of our nation speak of what the United States of America once was, and what it should be, and what it can be, but there is a man who fought valiantly in Vietnam who will sleep on the pavement of Tremont Street tonight. He has nowhere to live, his country has abandoned him, he screams with the torture of PTSD every night, and his addiction to alcohol keeps him out of every hostel and shelter. 

We talk in our comfortable living rooms, CNN blaring, about how the world needs to be a better place, that people need to love each other more, but when someone asked you for a dollar to buy a coffee this morning, you passed by as if they didn't exist, angrily muttering "They'll only spend it on drugs."

My family here in the United States hasn't been here very long, less than 100 years. When they came to this country, people they didn't know lifted them up, gave them a job, turned a blind eye to status or ethnicity long enough for them to make a few dollars and start their citizenship process. My grandfather and his dad slept in the basement of an apartment building in the North End. They could stay there as long as they kept the furnace going. My grandfathers and uncles fought for this country, my grandmothers and aunts suffered great hardship and did their part in keeping our country's economy going; they were factory workers, maids, and secretaries. They worked in factories and scrubbed floors into late life, never asking for a thing except a safe place in which to raise their children. My family taught their children that the United States was an incredible place to live, the very best, and that loyalty to it was of the utmost importance. They fled fascism and dictatorship to be here.  How would they be treated today, in this United States of 2016? Would they be called "micks" and "wops", as easily as the words "spics", "towelheads", and "gooks" escape some lips now? Would they be tormented for wearing mantillas on their heads to attend Mass, as people mock women in hijabs now? Would their heads hang a little lower as people hear them speak in accented voices, and yell at them: "You're in America; speak American!"

I can hear some of you now: "Are we running a country, or a charity?" "Why should I have to help anyone else besides myself?" "Why can't people just pick themselves up without help from others, or from the government?" My answers are we are running a community, of law and of charity, of good things for all.  We should help because our hearts and brains tell us that it is what must be done.  People have different strengths and abilities, and people CAN pick themselves up, but they may sometimes need help.  Help them, and they will one day help you.

I will no longer try to simply wish all things be fair and equal.  I will fight for it.  I will fight for EACH and EVERY person's right to live a life of freedom, a life free from fear, a life where they will have what they need.  I will not just do this with words.  Words are too simple.  I will do this with action, with time, with whatever small amounts of money I can spare, and with a voice that will not be silenced.

As a nation and as a species, we have a duty: to REMEMBER WHERE WE COME FROM, REMEMBER OUR OWN FAMILY HISTORY, and act accordingly.  Many think we've lost, that we are no longer capable.

But why can't we?

November......

I see the gilded mirrors
and feel their glaze spill over me.
The tv flickers, and I spill into its story.
When will the gilding touch my heart?
How shall I justify the flicker of my conscience?

Pickwick Papers, Swiffer Dusters

Like anyone in the world, there are tasks at which I do NOT excel. At the top of the list? Dusting. I learned to dust as a kid with a surgeon's attention to detail, as my mother suffers from terrible allergies. Once I was old enough, I was taught to complete the tasks that would normally send Momma into an asthma attack. So, I can dust like a pro. I just hate it, and there's nothing that can be done about it. I have chosen to believe that dust can act as a protective layer in the home, and should be removed less frequently than originally assumed. 

On another side of my brain, I am gearing up to dive into Dickens' "Pickwick Papers" once again. The last time I read it was in high school. This is a similar challenge for me right now. I NEED to read it in order to take part in discussions at my Dickens Fellowship Meetings (go Greater Boston chapter!), but I don't know if I can handle it. Dickens' use of language sometimes overwhelms me, and I hate that, but there's nothing that can be done about it. 

Both of these tasks seem particularly difficult because I am flying frantically and awkwardly through a manic episode. I am able to speak in sentences (usually). I am able to complete tasks (most of the time). 

What scares me is how debilitating mania can be in my brain. There are people out there who love it; they are efficient, creative, even euphoric! I am simply furious to an unseemly level, and my head feels 20x too small for my brain. I want to punch each and every person I see in the face. I snap and speak out when I would usually ignore the ridiculousness of others.  Nobody's done anything to elicit this reaction (most of the time). My brain is simply out for blood. 

I am categorizing mania as another "task at which I do not excel". Imagine you're sitting in a room with three people talking to each other, a radio playing music on a loop, two TVs powered up (each showing different programs), while reading a book and doing a crossword puzzle. All at the same time. 

That's my brain on a normal day. Mania is when the volume and brightness on everything goes to 11, and I feel as though it taints everything I say and do. 

These are the times when I ask why I've been abandoned by God, or at least why He decided that right NOW was a great time to sneak out back for a cigarette. They say everything happens for a reason. Or, at least they did, before I ripped their throats out with my fucking bare hands. What reason could there possibly be for creating this malfunctioning person, unless there isn't any God, and I'm just one of those items that's supposed to be on the clearance table at Ocean State Job Lot because it didn't come out right?

For the moment, I have no answers. All I have is frantic, ALLCAPITALLETTERSWITHNOSPACES thinking. And the knowledge that I have to keep dusting my house, and reading "Pickwick Papers", and having manic episodes......I hate it, but there's nothing to be done about it. 

Ritorna Vincitor!

My title today comes from one of the most famous arias in Verdi's "Aida": essentially in the first act, the Egyptians welcome the return of their beloved warriors, but the Ethiopians aren't as thrilled....must be that whole enslavement deal. Regardless, warriors & victors are celebrated, and I'm feeling a bit "Radames-like", returning for my 19th year to the BSO's summer spot. 

I'm currently in a favorite place on the Tanglewood campus. Amongst the mobs of music devotees (and rich snobs who wouldn't know a Chopin etude if it clobbered them over the damned head), there is a quiet place on the back porch of the Visitors' Center. It attracts cool breezes on muggy days, and is shade from the glorious skin-frying sun (I got all the Irish genes on that front; if I even look at a picture of a sunny day, I burn.) This is my current view: 

Not too shabby, eh? The Stockbridge Bowl is almost a sky-matching blue today, and the greens out here are...I don't know....even MORE somehow. The air smells fresh, the music floats from the Shed, and all is right with the world. 

It makes for an interesting and relaxing place to write. Words trip along, and I skip down the path they provide. Most of the time it's nonsense that I don't even give a second glance, but the Stockbridge Bowl/Berkshire Mountain view today made me stop and take notice of my own scribbling.  

I've had a decent run of things the last few months. After my time at McLean in May, I set out once again and started to work on music. I started to write a bit more each day. I started to take an even more vested interest in library work. I began to collect information on MFA programs. I also began to talk in even more depth with my doctors, and held them accountable for answers. It's annoying as hell to watch people with practically 10 years of school and even more years of experience shrug their shoulders at you, but I'm not going anywhere. I'm in this thing called life, and I'm in it for keeps. 

Now that doesn't mean there haven't been bad days. There are days when I cry, days when I scream, days when I'm so frustrated with my bloody limitations that I could punch someone in the throat (don't worry: Paulie's throat is intact). There are days when I would like nothing more than to drag a blade across my skin, knowing that my messy brain would thank me for the relief of it. 

I've struggled astronomically with my memory. Names, dates, songs, quotes, and events have simply been erased.The last 10 years are mostly gone. I'm still struggling with olfactory hallucinations, everyday, multiple times a day. Same with the visual hallucinations......And I can't remember if I've blogged about this before, so you'll forgive any repeats, yes? Everyone loves reruns!

I look at the beautiful scene before me now, and I remember that it has its own kinds of bad days. Days of rain, days of terrible wind, days of snowstorms and ice everywhere. Days when people throw trash on it, dig it up for no good reason, or try and pollute it in some way.

But in the summer, I can come to this bench......

.....to this view......

.....a score in one hand, coffee in the other......

.....and declare this one of our good days. 

Ribeye Steaks & Pine Needles

In this blog, I try awfully hard to be truthful; I believe being truthful in hopes of being helpful is one of the only reasons a person should put their thoughts out into the world. Maybe this will help, maybe this will hurt, but by God it will be truthful.

I am a member of the hordes who cannot believe the story that's come out of Stanford's campus this past 7 days.  Last year (January 2015), a woman was raped while unconscious behind a dumpster.  Her rapist was a Stanford student (the survivor was an older sister of a current student). He was quite literally "caught in the act", chased, captured, and held until police arrived on the scene.  The woman he raped had no knowledge of her attack until she came to in a hospital bed, nurses extracting pine needles from her hair. She learned further horrifying confirming details via police reports and the Internet.   She described this entire experience in a heartwrenching "letter" to her rapist, read aloud at his sentencing.  She experienced what so many survivors do: depression, anxiety, fear of crowds & public places, guilt, shame.

The reason this 2015 rape is now in the media is because of the recent sentencing of the perpetrator.  He was given SIX MONTHS in a county jail, with probation following.  He must also register as a sex offender (this is standard for anyone who has been convicted of multiple sex crimes).  The maximum sentence that he could have been handed for the THREE felonies he was convicted of in this case was 14 years in a state facility.  Instead.... 6 months.  

Adding insult to injury, his father also sent a letter to the court, asking for leniency for his son in sentencing.  In this missive, he details his son's depression and anxiety since the incident.  He talks about how his son no longer enjoys his favorite foods (most notably, ribeye steaks) and that he is no longer a happy kid.  He states that "20 minutes of action" should not be held against his son. No, I'm not kidding.  No, this is not from an article by "The Onion".  This is REAL.  ALL OF IT.

I am not a person who likes the word "trigger"; it's been mocked and overused in the media for so long now that it immediately conjures the words "you might be a big baby, so we're covering our asses" in my mind. But they are real. Triggers, at the heart of trauma, are things that provoke a response in a person. Different people have different triggers, ranging from olfactory and auditory cues, to the inability to be in certain places, watch certain movies, or read certain books. Once triggered, a trauma survivor may cry, hide, become depressed, feel anxious, or even go into a full-blown flashback.  That means their brain is literally showing them their trauma again, via every one of the five senses. They re-experience their trauma. Well, I was triggered by this rape reporting. I felt afraid. I had intrusive thoughts. I could physically feel my attack. I could smell my rapist's cologne. I could hear his voice. And then.....I felt pure rage. I am angry, ladies and gentlemen. 

I am angry because what happened to this woman at Stanford was wrong, and her attacker got the proverbial "slap on the wrist". 

I am angry because 97% of sexual assaults go unreported, maybe because survivors are afraid, maybe because they believe it was their own fault. And sentences like Brock Turner's are the reason why survivors don't report. Cases like his are not just the tip of the iceberg, but a drop of moisture on the tip of this colossal iceberg we now refer to as "rape culture".  

When this society hears the word rape, the first thing they ask is "Well, what were you wearing?" "Was it dark out?" "Were you walking alone?" "Did you have any alcohol beforehand?", and so on. I was personally so "in tune" with and aware of this response that I didn't report my own rape. I immediately questioned whether it really happened the way I remember. I knew no one would believe me. No one could possibly think that an overweight, ugly 20 year old would be attacked in that way....I wasn't pretty enough to be raped! I must have led the guy on. I must have had too many cocktails. I must have somehow lured him into a quiet space without any people around so he could put his hand around my throat and force sex on me. My being a member of this society and its "rape culture" made me BELIEVE that I CAUSED a person to rape me. Folks, I've done my share of partying in my lifetime, and I've seen people get absolutely obliterated on alcohol, but they somehow managed to NOT RAPE ANYONE. Alcohol and pretty dresses and flirty talking don't cause rape. RAPISTS do. 

I didn't report my assault, and to this day I am furious with myself, just another facet of my recent blooming anger. I feel I've let women down all over the world. I am a part of that 97%, and it's egregiously disappointing to me. But now seeing the Stanford rape case end the way it has for the rapist, I'm furious at the system as well. I throw my hands up and scream at the television "Well, why would anyone bother reporting rape if their rapist isn't going to be punished?!?!??!" I'm furious at all the people who think that girl must've lied. I'm furious with the judge who felt that the "impact" prison would have on this rapist meant more than the terror, anguish, and triggers this survivor will carry for the rest of her days. While every person is different, I can tell you that these feelings don't fade with time. I was raped 16 years ago, and the thoughts and flashbacks still make me nauseous. I cry sometimes for "no reason".  I suddenly feel scared in a public place when there isn't an apparent threat. This is trauma. This is the terror that never leaves you. I never suffered from claustrophobia until I was raped; now I have a great fear of enclosed space, being buried alive, of things touching or wrapping around my throat. This is what my rapist has left me with. 

When will we learn? When will we stop allowing rapists to walk away with little to no punishment? When will we as a society say that there is never a "reason" for rape, except that a person was attacked by a rapist? When will we show the generations of men & women to come that we stand with them in their time of need, that we will stand up for right in the face of anything? When will we hold ourselves accountable?

When will we no longer need to be so angry?

Strike Up the Band!

I was putting groceries away. It was innocent enough. But the silence in my house was suffocating, almost deafening. I suppose for a musician it would be, wouldn't it? Anyway, I popped open iTunes and clicked on a favorite singer. 

And the tears started falling....

Really, Laura, why would Sara Bareilles make one cry? But the answer came swiftly behind the question: music holds too many memories. 

Hootie & the Blowfish songs shuttle me right back to the music festival I went to with Chris Thomas. We laughed and had a tremendous day. BareNaked Ladies toss me into a dorm room in Boston, dancing with my friends, smoking too many cigarettes and drinking too much coffee. Musical theatre of any kind makes me a 7 year old, singing next to Dad at the piano. John Legend's "Stay With You" or Three Doors Down's "Here Without You" deposit me into the firm embrace of my wonderful husband. 

Sara Bareilles's songs push me into the driver's seat of my Toyota Corolla, as I still hung desperately onto dreams of a singing career; driving to and from voice lessons, coachings, auditions, and gigs. Her "Vegas" was my anthem: I was "gonna quit my job and move to Vegas, see my name on a palace marquee." Silly, silly dreams....

James Taylor's "Shower the People" makes my heart swell and my palms sweat a bit; don't come in too early, Lau! You're singing backup for James Taylor AND Sting, dammit! Don't screw this up!

Amy Winehouse finds me, ironically, in rehab. Or at least in the hospital. How many mornings did I wake up listening to "Back to Black", chin jutting out defiantly, inviting the world to please fuck off?

The final fanfare of Verdi's "Four Sacred Pieces" takes all the air from my lungs, makes my heart race uncontrollably. I see Seiji Ozawa looking up at me, his left hand lifted to me, cueing my solo. 

Bill Nighy singing "Christmas Is All Around" seats me at the computer in Paulie's house (now ours) before we were married, navigating the Internet and a brand-new fairy-tale relationship. God bless the pair of them, Paulie and Mr. Nighy. 

These days my listening devices all seem to spew Melody Gardot, Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, and Lily Allen. What will they "save" into my brain's fragile hard drive? I sigh, take another sip of coffee, turn another corner, turn another page of another book. 

Strike up the band........