March 19, 2017

Why am I here?

Like so many, I ask this question nearly daily, and the answer never seems to fully form itself. Am I a witness to the mayhem? Am I doing enough to quiet the fray? Am I a source of bother rather than help? Do I even have the necessary skills to do anything at all?

Today, I am choosing to put my best voice forward, for myself and the world. I sat at Mass this morning and listened hard to the readings. They were a call: a call to me to come to the forefront and speak, but more than that, a call to ACT.

Why am I here?

I am here of my own volition. There are times in my life when I thought "Time to go; I'm done."  There are times when I attempted to end my life. There are times when I wanted to end my life, but sought help instead. I am here because I CHOSE to be. I am seeing more and more now that my life is truly MY CHOICE. God gave me this life again and again, and he gave me the free will to choose to take it up again, even when my brain was encouraging me to refuse.

I have been given and chosen life, and now more than ever, people need to know that they are not alone, that they have choice, that they are called to live their own choices.

March 30th is World Bipolar Day.  In sight of this, I encourage everyone to do as I am doing, in educating themselves about Bipolar Disorder and ALL mental illness. Let's stop being afraid and start a conversation. Let's show people they are not alone in their journey.

Let's speak, act, and show the world why we are here: to love and help each other. 

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.....

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.

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. 

Rain, rain, go away.....

..... come again another day.....

Here I sit in the middle of the Occupational Therapy room at Emerson Hospital, waiting for 1pm to arrive.  I have been here now for 3 weeks, and it looks like I'll be here for at least 4 before I'm allowed to go home for good.

1pm is when Paulie is coming to pick me up, and I have a pass home for 6 hours.  We are going to Momma and Dad's, where the rest of the Grande clan will be waiting to have a nice visit.

The interesting thing about this stay in the hospital is that I have some memory loss because of all the ECT treatments thus far, so I'm not sure exactly how my life will pick up again when I'm home to stay.  I know that I want to sing a lot more, as well as write, and that my thoughts will take some time to come back together. I have a sneaking suspicion, though, that this will all be for the better once I'm home, especially with the results of the ECT.  I feel like a million bucks the day after each treatment. The day of each treatment I don't, and I know that's because the medication they give me to sleep makes me depressed that day, but once it's out of my system I feel great.

I suppose there isn't much more for me to say.  I'm excited to see my family, and I'm hopeful that the treatments will continue to make me feel well and things will improve more and more.

Little Laura wants to play, Rain rain go away....

My t-shirt

Another post, this time an assignment from my writing group:

My t-shirt is light, even featherweight.  It defies the laws of gravity.  The most stunning thing about this is its light weight even amongst the solid, even heavy things that comprise it.

The basis of this shirt is nothing more than the light golden threads of love.  They are incandescent, yet wholly grounding and a foundation of all I need.  Those ethereal strands give way to nothing, and are infused with more.  Purple threads are those of my belief in God, and all he has done for me.  I feel his unconditional support through everything in those silky purple strands.  Threads of red are of my fiery passion for life and all it has to offer.  It's time that I wear them to their fullest potential, and allow them to hold me up amongst the gold and purple.  Then comes the color blue, the true blue of my family and friends.  They are threaded closely to the gold everywhere, as their love and support shine forth, practically rivaling all in their path.  

There is a path of brown throughout, the dull brown of bipolar disorder.  The strands are confusing, zigging this way and that, with no direction, almost trying to pull the shirt apart.  And yet, the gold and blue and purple and red all fight and keep that shirt going strong.  It's the one shirt I have for the rest of my life, and it needs to stay together.  The brown cannot tear it, though it may try.  

There are other colors as well; the pink of hard work, the yellow of my nephew's smile, the green of my wonderful husband and his constancy in the face of life and all that those brown strands try to throw at me.  There are even black strands of suicide, but again, the rainbow of all that I have makes sure that they are thin and flimsy, never truly making a strong bind anywhere.  They never connect.

My t-shirt is complete. It knows the joy of success and love, and the hardship of illness and heartbreak.  It is completely me, with all the brilliance and dullness of a life lived.  

This t-shirt is my song of life, and I shall sing it.

What's Next?

Anyone who watches "West Wing" knows that one.... what's the next thing to be tackled?  Who needs to be taken on?  How do we claim triumph over the next set of obstacles?

These are the questions I ask myself in a hospital room in Concord, MA.  By now, I figure I've lost at least half my reading audience.  I figure this mostly because I write about THE SAME SHIT OVER AND OVER AGAIN.  But I can't help it.  This is the stuff of life that eludes me, and I will continue to write about it until it makes sense. I swear, I'm not trying to bore anyone.  But this is the course of my life.  If you're bored with the monotony of hospitalization after hospitalization, can you imagine how I feel?????

I ask "What's next?" because I (and a team of highly-trained specialists) have come to a conclusion: Laura is very good at being bipolar.  Laura is also very good at singing & acting in high-pressure, high-level musical productions.  What Laura is NOT very good at is doing both at the same time.  Since kicking bipolar disorder to the curb doesn't seem to be in the cards right now, I am taking a hiatus from performance.

The thought of this makes me nauseous. This is not "ok, go do this difficult thing without a net".  This is "you've been doing this difficult thing without a net since you were three years old, now just fucking stop". The idea of it brings on waves of depression, devastation, confusion.  I feel like someone just pulled a rug out from under me and told me there was a floor to walk on, so just go do it.  But the floor is covered in tacks & nails.  How the FUCK am I supposed to walk across this new floor?  I don't need a net, I don't need a map; I need feet of steel.

I know that there's nothing telling me not to sing EVER.  I'm allowed.  My throat works.  I remember the notes and words and rhythms.  I just can't do it in front of anybody for the foreseeable future.

AND I AM PISSED.

I have some thoughts.  I won't stay away from music.  I'll continue to take voice lessons.  I'll continue to work on my piano playing (when the titanium screws in my right hand don't give me too much trouble), and I am hell-bent on learning to play the guitar.

But this feeling of not singing feels like someone is trying to pull my heart out of my chest... through my right eye socket.  It's a ripping and tearing that I can't even get my brain to comprehend.  I need some steel plates in my head and heart to go with those feet.  I need to walk across that floor.  How the hell am I going to get across that floor?

What's next?

A Reflection

But that's what these all are, aren't they? Reflections of a mind that is usually aware of itself, and sometimes on another planet.  Today, I'm somewhere between the two... and here's why....

Today is my 35th birthday. A birthday is always a time of reflection.  What has happened in the last year?  What has happened since I got to this planet?  Am I leaving it in a better place than when I showed up?

I'm not sure.

Everyone who reads this knows the struggles and battles I fight.  I am a woman with Bipolar Disorder.  I am a talented singer, writer, and hopefully a loving person of my friends, family, and fellow man.  But I am also a person who sometimes finds it easier to cut her own flesh than make it through the next five minutes.  

It's been 10 days since that happened. 

I'm proud of myself for that. I also dread the next time. Because I'm not foolish enough to think that it'll never happen again. I can only pray that I'll stave off the feelings for a long while. That I'll keep doing my nails and wearing bracelets and dreaming of the "scar tattoos" that I will never get. 

I am starting another round of partial hospitalization. I am hopeful, as always, that I'll fill my arsenal with more tools and weapons against the worst parts of the disease. 

I am starting to lose hope that the naturopathic care I'm receiving will do anything good for me. I ended up in the ER last week with a whopping part of gastritis. After they gave me morphine and at least 4 different stomach medications, they told me I might have the beginnings of an ulcer. I was instructed to discontinue my supplements by my naturopath. Now I feel better. Many thousands of dollars and supplements and ten months later, I find it hard not to throw inanimate objects randomly. I'm so angry. I feel a fool once again. Just like after the failed TMS and the failed ECT and the myriad of failed medications. 

I saw a new medication doctor last week. He was brutally honest, and I could have kissed him for it. He said "Laura, after reading your chart, I thought a mess would walk into my office. You're not a mess. You're a high-functioning person with a chronic illness, doing the best she can. I don't have a magic pill, or even a lot of ideas for you yet, but if you continue to be open-minded and use your tools, including the hospital, you will live well with this disease." 

It's all I can ask for. It's all any of us can ask for. To go forward and live to the best of our ability, whatever that is. 

So am I leaving this world better off than when I was brought into it? Am I doing my best? I hope so. I hope for better futures. I hope for things like peace and harmony in the world. I hope that the Red Sox will stop sucking. I hope that we will find a way to stop hurting each other and ourselves. 

I hope. 

Best Days

On my best days, I walk to work.  

My walking commute to the Parker Memorial Library is ridiculously short; driving, it's obscenely brief. I usually drive because I go to Dunkin Donuts first.  Anything worth doing well is worth doing with an iced coffee in one hand.  I take the mile and a half ride down to my favorite drive-thru, order a large iced black with extra sugar, and easily fly back down the street to the library. As I drive back, I feel a momentary sense of pride in ordering a coffee with no dairy, and then an equally-timed sense of guilt for ordering it with extra sugar.  I always forget my Stevia at home. 

Anyway, there are days when I walk to work.  In those brief minutes, I breathe in the air as deeply as I can.  I notice things like the brands of cigarette butts I pass in my travels, or the way a soda can has been maimed and tossed to the side of the road. I hear the cars passing by on Route 38; motorcycles make the most interesting and annoying sounds.  Sometimes I imagine a helmeted head turns and watches me ambling past the hair salon and dance studio with a TARDIS messenger bag slung over my shoulder and a travel mug of iced coffee in each hand. (The days when I walk are the days when I made my caffeine fix at the house...and those mugs are small, so stop judging the number!)

The other day I was walking to work, making my usual observations. I suddenly realized that I was ignoring the bigger problem.  It's a problem that follows me around, just like my friend Bipolar.  It's like Bipolar has this annoying kid brother who always tags along, and his name is Self-Harm.

Self-harm is exactly what it says on the tin: hurting oneself.  It comes in forms as diverse as the people who engage in it.  Some people burn themselves, some people cut themselves, some people hit themselves with objects, some people scratch themselves to the point where the skin begins to redden and even open. Some people pull out their hair, some people bite or pick at their finger and toenails until there's nothing left but the bleeding.  People generally engage in this behavior because they are so upset, frustrated, depressed, or anxious, they cannot think of another way to fight the growing explosion inside.  There are all kinds of different names for people's various preferences.  I'm a cutter.  Cutting my skin (usually on my arms) is horrible and wonderful.  I do not know how to describe the feelings that come before, during, and after this action is taken. 

Walking to work the other day is what made me realize that I can't describe the feelings, and that I'm focusing on anything BUT those feelings because they scare me.  

That's it.

That's the punchline.

My own feelings around self-harm are so conflicting and confusing that I don't know what to do about them.  I just keep going to my therapist and talking about it.  That's all I can do.  That's all ANYONE can do.

On my best days, I walk to work. Perhaps enough trips past the hair salon and dance studio with a TARDIS messenger bag slung over my shoulder will begin to provide answers.  Maybe I'll stop ignoring the feelings and explore them instead.  

Perhaps all of my days ahead are my best days.

On my best days, I walk to work.  

May Is Mental Health Awareness Month

"I feel like I can fly.  I feel like I could write until the end of time.  I feel like I am worth nothing.  I feel like cutting my skin is the only way to stay in the moment.  I feel like I am the best, worst, and only person on the face of the earth.  I feel like I do too much.  I feel like I will never do enough.  I feel like I am a role model to all those who seek the truth.  I feel like if you listen to me, you will only hear lies.  Don't listen.  Don't look at me.  Don't pay me any mind.  Please see the hurt.  Please see how I am lying.  Please see what I cannot tell you...ever.........."

The preceding is what goes through my mind in about 15 seconds on any given day.  This is the thought process of one person with Bipolar Disorder.  It usually happens about 100 times a day, a few times every hour.

Now add guilt.  Now add anxiety, nausea, sweating, shaking.  Now add the voices of 10 other people, all shouting at the same time. Now add visual hallucinations.  Now add screaming parents, spouses, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, enemies.

Now try to work a job "just like everyone else".  Now try to clean your house, cook your meals, do your laundry, tend to your children, socialize with your friends. Now try to accomplish your dreams.

Seems a little difficult, doesn't it?

The next time someone says they're anxious about something, or they don't know if they can make it out to meet you for dinner, or they just don't know how they're going to get through the day, don't get angry or annoyed.  Don't sigh and think about what a drama queen they are.  Don't try to tell them that "it's all in their head", because IT IS ALL IN THEIR HEAD AT THE SAME TIME.....and it's not going anywhere. Just read this post.  Read it again and again until you start to see what it might be like for them.

And just love them. The only thing people with an illness want is a little love and support.  Just give them that much....and know you make all the difference.

Birds flyin' high, you know how I feel....

Sun up in the sky, you know how I feel...

Two Thursday afternoons ago, I was given the go-ahead to pack my bags and go home from the psych unit. One quick clip of the scissors, one donning of a winter jacket, and one elevator ride equalled no difference between me and Joe Schmoe walking past the gift shop at Emerson Hospital. 

Each time I walk out the front door of a hospital after a psych stay, there are different emotions attached. Sometimes, I want to turn around and bang down the door, begging them to let me back in. Other times I practically run out screaming, giving them the finger. Sometimes I saunter out, cocky and ready. Often I bite my lip, trying to remember how to walk, talk, and function without a psych counselor watching my every move. Each time I swallow hard and beg that God will let it be the last one, that I won't need the hospital anymore. That I will have licked this bloody illness once and for all. 

This time is a whole lot different. When I started to come down from my manic highs and finally stopped climbing the walls, I thought about God more and more. I thought about the Lenten season, and how this is a time of prayer, fasting, and giving. Often, as Catholics, we have this idea that we should NOT be thinking of ourselves, in fact anyone else BUT. I want this time to be different. 

I am realizing that feeling like myself is ok. I am realizing that the prayer, fasting, and giving can be for myself and others. I am realizing (finally?) that God means me too! when He speaks of His children. I'm included in that number. He didn't say "everyone except that loon over there in the corner". He said ALL. I am encouraged by this ever-expanding feeling in my gut that even though I won't be well all the time, I'm allowed to enjoy it when I am. I'm allowed to pray for myself as well as the world, I can fast from being needy and afraid of myself, and I can give to myself when I give to others, whether I'm giving money or time or just a simple smile. Look out Clairol, 'cause I'm worth it too!!! 

There is a fabulous staff at Emerson Hospital's psych unit, but one gentleman stands out in my mind. We were having a "check-in" conversation (one per shift required), and I mentioned my desire to stop coming to the hospital, that I wanted to be able to handle my illness without it. He said "Laura, I think that's the wrong approach. You are battling a chronic illness, and sometimes that requires hospital care. It is never a defeat to come here. I like to think of this place as just one more stop on the journey. Everyone has to pay attention to their own needs in order to be any good to the Universe at large. Keep paying attention, come here when you need to, and know you are doing the world a favor when you do." I was blown away by his words. Never in my life did I see this as a necessity; it was always just my human failing to have to admit defeat and let doctors & nurses sort me back out. But what if, just like praying, fasting, and giving to myself and others, hospitalization was part of that journey?

What if Lent can be more than just a season for me, but a way of living always? What if I could pray, fast, and give my way to a sense of freedom?

It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me.....

And I'm feeling good.

Damaged Goods

I'm not sure if it's poignant or just incredibly cliche that TV and film lead me to some of my "aha" moments. I have always had an incredible ability to tune everything else in my life out while I watch a favorite show or movie. God help the man or woman who tries to carry a conversation with me while I watch Star Trek, Doctor Who, or "Laura"; that film is like my own private symphony. Every line and look is inspired. 

But ANYway, last night I was taking up too much of the couch during "Downton Abbey", when the Bates family finally got on the same page surrounding a traumatic event. While Anna insisted she was "spoiled", and John reassured her she was not, telling her instead that she was all the more important for what she had been through, I cried a lot, and started to ponder the idea of being "damaged goods" or "spoiled". What does that mean for survivors of trauma, especially something as potentially physically invasive as rape?

We often feel spoiled, I believe, when we fail at something, or cannot achieve what it is we were hoping for. Sometimes we fall somewhere in the middle, like a high jumper who hits the bar rather than sailing over.

My rape happened 14 years ago, but for some reason my body and brain were not ready to handle even thinking about it until now. And so what happens? Far after the event, I have nightmares and flashbacks. My mind races and I find myself asking now "Am I damaged goods? Have I been spoiled?" Media surrounding this subject was something I ignored, thinking "Those poor survivors and families; what must they go through?" This is an inevitable "side effect" of repression. Now that I'm owning things, this same media cuts me to the quick, makes me uncomfortable and angry. My friend Bipolar Disorder seems to have come for another interminable visit, and the anger and fear of my rape comes with it. 

Every morning I wake and I weep. I shower, take my meds, eat, and go about my day, but there it all is, between the crying and the cataloging and the singing. You were damaged, you were attacked, you were made different. 

There are some who say they would never choose to forget what happened to them, that it has made them stronger and more aware. I, on the other hand, would take a lobotomy in a heartbeat. If the TARDIS showed on my doorstep right now and the Doctor offered to erase that night from my mind, I would gleefully ask for the sonic screwdriver to be pointed right at my brain. But that isn't going to happen. And so we move along. 

As I lay in bed that night after that episode of "Downton Abbey", I asked my husband, "Am I damaged in your eyes?" He paused and replied, "It never even entered my mind. Not for a second." 

And so I attempt to move along. 

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.

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?...........

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.