Making lemondrop martinis out of lemons....

On Tuesday and Wednesday of this week, I had a fantastic experience.  I was fortunate enough to sing as a part of the Tanglewood Festival Chorus at Carnegie Hall.  We performed Beethoven's "Missa Solemnis" with the Boston Symphony Orchestra and four fabulous soloists.  It was our very own JO's Carnegie conducting debut, and he was wonderful.

My sisters and some other friends were able to come out and spend some time in NYC with me.  I drank FAR too many Long Island Iced Teas, and generally had a splendiferous time.  Traveling with Ms. Adi was a real treat; it's not too often that you meet a true kindred spirit, and that said spirit loves Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home EXACTLY AS MUCH AS YOU DO.  That is true gold, friends, and only one example of her fabulosity.  But I digress.

I get in my front door and start opening mail.  There's a letter from Social Security, and I have to call and speak to them to try to get some information straight. I have been on SSDI since 2005, getting some income and Medicare benefits on a monthly basis.

Then comes the blow: I am losing my disability benefits.

Now this is completely within the rules of the program.  With the recent addition of a few more voice students, I officially make just over what is allowed while collecting benefits, and it's time for SSDI to help out some other folks who truly need the service.

Of course, that's not what my brain said when it happened.  I started crying hysterically, and totally freaking out.  "What will I do when I get sick again?  My Medicare will be taken away; can Paulie add me to his plan? But it's the middle of the year!  What will I have to stop doing?  What bills can we eliminate?  Do I have to start dropping TFC stuff if I can't afford to drive back and forth and park and AHHHHHH!!!!  Blahblahblahblahblah******white noise********.........................".  I basically thought in capital letters with no spaces for about an hour.

Then my wonderful logical husband came home, and I told him.  His response?  "Good!  We knew that would happen sooner or later.  That means you're getting better!"

Oh yeah.  I'm getting better.  I'm able to consistently make money.  I'm not quitting jobs every 2 seconds because I need to go into the hospital again.  I'm not wearing long-sleeved shirts in August because I cut the hell out of my arms the night before, and I don't want the public I'm working with to see them.  I'm not running into the bathroom in the middle of the workday to "add on" to my handiwork.  I'm not begging God to take me at 3am.

As of April 1st, I will have worked at my local library for 2 years, and I now have 12 voice students.  There are even a few more getting ready to start.  I sub for some friends at churches, and I've recently played some great theatrical roles.

When I finished calming down, I did the other thing that I do really well: I decided I must be "productive" and started planning my life away.  Once again, my knight in shining pharmacy technician armor came to my rescue.  He assured me that we would still be financially OK without my benefits, that I could take on a few more students if I liked, and that I should never give up TFC. He is adding me to his insurance plan.  He even asked if I would consider going back for my Masters Degree, since I've wanted to for a long time, and didn't feel ready before. He reminded me that just because I'm not on SSDI anymore doesn't mean that I suddenly have to work 60 hours a week.  I am still a woman living with bipolar disorder, and will never be able to handle a huge workload, unless I feel like hanging out in the common room of a psych ward with no shoelaces again.

These are my realities.  I had an awesome few days, followed by a big shock to the system, and you know what?  I'm going to be fine.

It's been a really long time since I've said that, and it feels bloody marvelous.  Hand me a bottle of Grey Goose because I'm taking this big fat lemon and making a fantastic martini with it!

Keeping it real... and a request for help.

Good morrow, gentle reader.

I had a bit of a health scare the other night in the middle of a singing gig.  It sucked.  My heart started racing, and wouldn't stop.  I had to sit in the middle of a piece, and let it finish without me.... BLARGH!  I followed the good doctor-on-call's advice, and was seen by my PCP today.  After some excellent test results (YAY!), but an abnormally high blood pressure still lingering (BOO!), we talked about how I'm going to lick this trend.  And so, it's time to face some facts, and I'm wondering if I might get some help from my larger family/community on this one.

You may have already read about my fight with food.  It's ongoing, and sometimes I feel like I'm doing ok with my choices.  But this is different.  There are two things I must do right now, and one will be far more difficult than the other.

1. I must stop drinking so much caffeine.  I drink about 3 large iced coffees a day.  That something like 60+ ounces of a caffeinated beverage, and that doesn't count the Diet Pepsi with Lime that I sometimes have with dinner.  My car kinda just pulls into the drive-through of Dunkins without even thinking anymore.  The good news on this front is that I can counter this by having 8oz of caffeine in the morning, and (because I love the taste) do decaf the rest of the day, within reason.

2. I MUST COMPLETELY QUIT SMOKING.  I know, any singers reading this (and anyone with a health conscience ;)) just totally freaked.  I picked it up when I was about 18, and though I've had "patches" of not smoking, I've never been able to quit completely.  At my worst, I was up to almost two packs a day.  Right now I'd say I have 3-4 on a bad day, and none on a good day.  It's embarrassing and bad-for-my-voice and a ridiculously unhealthy thing, and it must end.

This is the part where I ask for your help.  I must be held accountable by everyone around me for this to work.  I'm looking for cheerleaders of any and every kind.  Send me your horror stories about smoking, health info, atta-girls, anything that will help me keep on the path while I completely quit.  It will be difficult, but I'm hopeful that with all of your help, I will do it, and it will stick.

Thank you, my friends.  Here goes nothin'.

Maybe it's much too early in the game...

It's here!  It's here!  A new year, and a time for reflection, resolutions, casting out the old, bringing in the new.... blah blah blah blah sentiment blah blah blah blah.

Basically, this is the time of year when people figure out who they want to be when they grow up... or at least who they want to be next week.  I have decided that I want to be a thin, organized and happy individual in 2012.  That's also what I wanted to be in 2011, 2010, 2009... you get the idea, gentle reader?

I believe that part of the issue I have with de-cluttering my home and my body comes partially from my own belief that, in and of itself, I am NOT enough.  I am not smart, talented, attractive, or witty enough to live in this world on my own.  So I accumulate STUFF.  I accumulate books, CDs, magazines, gadgets, clothing, shoes, and food food food food food.  I have accumulated so much stuff that I have no idea where it starts and my own person begins.  It's frustrating and embarrassing.

From the age of 8, I fell into that gushy, warm American materialistic belief system that if I just had those Esprit sneakers, or that IOU sweatshirt, or those Z Cavaricci pants, I would be happy.  I would be fulfilled.  The mean girls at school would finally stop making fun of me, and the boys would realize that I was just as cute as ... those mean girls.  The thoughts that took up space in my 8 year old, 12 year old, 17 year old, and 23 year old brains just make me angry.  Those thoughts are some of the same ones I have now, with more "grown up" traits.  The cycle, my friends, must bloody well stop.

Where do we go from here?  Thanks so much for asking, Mr. Lloyd Webber!!!  I have made a decision.  I watched myself go through all kinds of ridiculous cycles in my brain over people and things and whether or not I was popular enough.  I watched myself earn a high school diploma and college degree.  I watched the possibility of a high-profile singing career die a quick death at the hands of mental illness.  I watched myself crawl on hands and knees through the trenches of coming back from said illness.  You know what?  I'm fucking tired.  You know where we go from here?  We go home.

Home!  What a concept!  I have one of those!  It's full of all the things that my husband and I accumulate because we're unhappy with ourselves.  This cycle ends here, my friends.

I am armed with a shit ton of organization books from the library, a phone number for a dumpster service, and beautiful beautiful ebay.

I am enough without all this crap in my house and my brain.  I am enough with my husband, our satanically-minded cat, and a home in which we can start anew.

I am, quite simply, enough.

Happy Freakin' New Year.  

As promised....

In the midst of playing Mrs. Lovett in a local production of "Sweeney Todd", I made a blog promise to myself that I would delve into the shadier side of my brain for awhile.  My hope is that those that read it will understand a bit more about what having a mental illness means, at least to one human being out there, and that I may gain a bit more insight at the same time.

I mention the production of "Sweeney Todd" because it was an incredible experience, but more importantly the trigger to the re-visiting of the "old days", the days when Laura couldn't get her ass out of bed for more than 2 hours at a time.  The days when I would spend more time in my bedroom than anywhere else in the world.  I can still vividly see my husband's face and defeated demeanor as he left for another day of work at noontime, leaned over me, kissed me on the cheek, and said "Try your hardest to get out of bed for a little while today."

The setting for "Sweeney Todd" was Fogg's Asylum, one of the places of action for the story itself, and through the opening number, the inmates of the asylum (our cast) would slowly tell the story, and become the characters of the story.  When our director first told me of the setting, I was intrigued and scared out of my mind.  The "pre-show" was going to be a day in the asylum, with members of the cast dragging onto the stage and portraying mental patients for a good 15-20 minutes before the opening number.  I would be one of those patients.  My mind immediately flashed to the many common rooms of psych wards I'd been in.  There was Caritas Carney, Emerson Hospital, McLean, Pembroke, Bayridge, Holy Family, Mass General.  I saw patients young and old, with all manner of mental illness, and saw the mannerisms I could portray.  How would I play this?  Loud?  Quiet?  Creepy?  Desperate?

My mother is an incredibly wise woman, who once said to me "Your illness is like a friend you'll never get rid of.  Sometimes it's living in the next town, and sometimes it's got a hand in your back pocket.  But it's yours, Laura.  No one else's."

So I was Laura.  I walked out on that stage and felt myself slip into that old skin.  It was frightening.  It scared me because I didn't know if I'd be able to get myself out of it again.

But I did.... and went on to sing the hell out of a great show.  And that, gentle reader, is what made all the difference. ;)  

Two Years

This past week marked my "anniversary".  Married people have them, alcoholics have them, recovering smokers have them, and by golly, this crazy lady has one.

It has been two years since I have been "locked up" in a hospital for suicidal urges and cutting. It's the longest period of time I've spent outside a hospital since I was 18.  I'm kind of excited about it.  I was diagnosed with anxiety when I was 15, and that diagnosis blossomed into a beautiful Bipolar II Disorder by the time I reached 19.  I have been on a lot of meds, tried a lot of therapies, and have even had ECT (otherwise known as "shock therapy").  It's been quite a journey.

Over the course of the next few blog entries, I think I'm going to look at this in a little more depth.  It may be helpful to people out there, or it may just be cathartic for me.  Either way, it'll get a little sun and fresh air.  We'll walk it around the grounds, see if it's having a good day....

The title of this blog is.....

..... "Coffee and Lithium".  Because that's what I lived on for years.  If it didn't have caffeine or psychotropic enhancers of some kind, it didn't pass these lips.  I'm a purist.

But if I were to re-title this blog, it would most likely be called "Coffee and Ben & Jerry's".  Because that's what I'm living on now.  I don't really give in to fads or any of that nonsense.... Mass General and all the other big hospitals in the area like to say that diet and exercise will prolong my life.  I'm sure that if I hold out long enough, it will be proven that I was right from the start..... it was the random days of 5 or 6 iced coffees imbibed within 12 hours that kept me strong.  Hey, when I'm the only guy left alive post-Apocalypse, walking a Bible typed in Braille to the ends of the earth, you'll all know for sure.....

All self-congratulatory humorous nonsense aside, I'm fat.  I weight about 130 pounds more than I should.  And that's not model weight; that's "She's always going to be a bit large" weight.  I was fat when I was a kid.  I was fat in high school (which was wicked populah).  I was fat in college.  I was a fat bride.  I am now a fat, nearing middle-age adult.  I have no idea what to do with myself.  Nope!  Scratch that.... I have EVERY IDEA of what to do with myself..... I'm a semi-intelligent person who is aware every diet/exercise regimen known to God and man.  I know what every single regimen does and why it works.

I think I just need a reason to do it.

When I was in high school/college, I figured I'd have to shed some weight sooner or later to "find me a man!".... but then I met Paulie, and all the after-school specials were right; it's about your insides, not your outsides.  I have a gym membership (which I use 2-3 times a month now).  I have a brilliant mind for foods and what I like; I could figure out healthy meal options as quickly as my Corolla pulls into the Wendy's drive-through.... so why do I keep pulling the car around?

What do people do to motivate themselves when they know the billion reasons why they should do something and they still can't???  If I keep using more question marks, will I suddenly get the answer?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

Little pieces of paper....

I've been working on the side project of getting my house more organized *cue studio audience laugh*.

In the midst of it all, a great big honkin' pile of receipts has arisen, like a cracken from the sea!  In the interest of sanity, I have decided to get them all recorded onto an Excel spreadsheet.... wicked pissah oar-gan-i-zay-shun.  What really slaps me across the face is the life story one can tell just with a few receipts.

Dec 2007- Here's that receipt for Target.  I bought Paulie's stocking stuffers for our first married Christmas that day.

April 2011- Here's one for the gas station in the middle of I-91, when I was driving home from the James Taylor gig.

Nov 2009- Here's one for Starbucks in Belmont.... my first taste of non-hospital coffee in weeks.  A caramel macchiato tastes a hell of a lot sweeter with McLean Hospital in your rear-view mirror.

I'm still sorting and entering data, but now I feel like I've accomplished a few things in the past few hours; even the past few years.  And I'm reminded that it can really just be about the journey sometimes.

Here's to many more receipts.......