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?
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?
