Cruising at an altitude of 30,000 feet..

A new journal was procured from the bowels of the resource room on North 5. God Bless Emerson Hospital.

This week abounded with thrills and spills, making even the most valiant hearts sputter.  But amongst the voices whispering, and the pictures of blood and gore spilling from my brain, there was a golden light called mania. I have psychotic symptoms, but I'm really happy about them!  Put that in your pipe and smoke it, psych issues!

I sit gracefully poised in a Monty Python t-shirt and yoga pants, a BIC pen and a Styrofoam cup of decaf coffee to light my way.  I feel that I can climb mountains, conquer nations, and create world peace.  Of course, the working part of my psyche reminds me that the mountains are a load of laundry to be done, the nations are showers without interruption, and world peace is a meal without an altercation breaking out between an alcoholic with trust issues and a bipolar girl who can't stop talking. 

And so we keep traveling our roads, running parallel at close proximity.  Each carries a pike to keep the monsters at bay, riding a blind horse.  We each pray that this steed has been here before, and already knows their way.  For we know those "woods are lovely, dark and deep", and we are trying so hard to remember our promises.

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. 

Decisions, decisions....

Here it is, folks. That obligatory end-of-the-year blog post. That moment when you, gentle reader, put up with a hefty helping of musing in the hopes that we will all learn something by the end of it, even if that lesson is simply to avoid Laura at the end of the year. 

2013 blew big honkin' chunks for me. My husband had heart surgery and, thank God, is doing well since that procedure. After 3 years of relatively good mental health, I was thrown a big helping of madness. I had no control over my brain for large periods of time. Every time I tried a new remedy, that bitch Medicine threw her head back and laughed heartily. My relationships were strained, sometimes to their limits. I drove myself to many hospitals and outpatient programs. My husband and other family members drove me when I was too out of my mind to drive a car safely. I discovered a naturopathic nurse practitioner who is trying to sort out my body and mind on the cellular level. So far, so good. The last few months have been better than the first nine, and we'll leave it at that for now. 

So now comes the end of the year, when we try to make our lives better. Wipe the slate clean and start anew. We make decisions every day. What am I going to wear? How much cream should I put in my coffee? What are we having for dinner?

I've made a lot of them in the last 365 days. I decided to stop teaching for now. I decided to continue working at the library. I decide to keep living, even when suicide truly felt like the only feasible option. I recently decided to stop shoving my emotions to some dark corner of my brain, and have started a dialogue with other rape survivors online. I want to make a go of being honest with myself and take a road previously left alone. I avoided it at all costs, praying that my mind would somehow fix itself, even after admitting what had happened to myself and the world. I'm now starting to see that talking about this with other people who have had the same experience is the right way to go. There is so much pain out there, but there are so many strong people who are healing themselves as they heal each other. I am lucky to know them.

I am making decisions now. I have decided that a writing life is one I must choose. My thoughts explode from me so often, in the form of prose, poetry, lyrics, and blog posts. There's no turning from them now; they are a crucial part of my psyche, and I am giving myself permission to explore them at full force. Of course, right now I'm sitting in a pool of my own AAAHHHHH. I can't seem to do anything long enough to make headway. I want to be that careless, messy girl who looks around at her cluttered living room and sees the result of hours of good reading and writing, of SOMETHING DONE. Instead, I've been in the same position on the couch for the last 3 hours, reading Doctor Who fanfiction on an iPad, and none of the laundry is done. My creativity sits stagnant while the crumbs of gluten-free crackers I've just eaten look up at me with disdain.  As the year closes, I shall nudge them under my couch with renewed fervor, and continue to pile books next to me, writing at every chance I get.

I have decided that I will not let my anxiety in life rule my consciousness. I will live outside of my brain and body, continuing to speak my mind in an honest way, while taking leaps of faith and courage. (I can just see my husband cringing at this thought: "Oh God, what's she going to do NOW?") There may be an MFA in Writing in my future. I may take up teaching again in the new year. I may go to the moon. Who knows? All I can say for now is that I am trying to take 2013 by its throat, throw it over my head into the dumpster, and start living again.

Here goes nothin.

This one time at Fenway...

Last month, there was a trend on Facebook. Amongst the cat memes and political ravings, people started to mark each day with something they are thankful for; people, places, things, whatever. I joined this brigade of folks giving thanks, and it struck me: why not show thanks for a memory? We all have them. We have these moments or hours or days that sit in our brains, a little happy place to which we can go when we are having a terrible day. This is one of mine...

I sing in a chorus for a big orchestra in this particular city; we'll call it Boston. ;) Last September I was asked to be part of a group of 16 singers that would perform the National Anthem at the season-closing game for the Red Sox. To say I was excited is sort of an understatement; I was jumping up and down in the middle of a grocery store, screaming.

I immediately texted all my family. It was the 100th season at Fenway, and there were all kinds of special things planned for this game. I was beside myself. The Red Sox are well-loved in my family. I can remember so many wonderful days spent in and around Fenway Park, or even sitting around the television at home, watching games, cheering and groaning together.

After this extraordinary invitation, I got even better news... MY DAD WAS GOING TO SING AS WELL!!! The day came, and we arrived at the ballpark in all our concert dress splendor. After ushering the group of us up to the offices at Fenway, our escort showed us to a room where we could rehearse for a little while. We waited to be brought down to the field for sound check. As we were waiting, my friend Joy hissed in my direction: "Laura, get out here right now!" I walked out of the room, into the main office area, and there was Pedro Martinez, walking past us and smiling a greeting. He asked a few of us "What are you guys doing tonight? You're all dressed up!" Someone said we were singing the National Anthem, and my big mouth couldn't resist: "There's still a spot open. Come sing with us!" He laughed and started to sing in an operatic voice, la-la-la ing down the hallway. 

Then we lined up and started our journey down to enter the field for sound check. As we walked the first hallway, a tall dapper gent stood by and my friend Joy and I said hello. He began to chat with Joy, and it took everything in my power not to squeal...she was having a lovely conversation with Carlton Fisk!!!!! I answered a question or two as well and we happily went our own ways. By now I had perma-grin on my face and was floating past pictures of every Fenway great my mom and dad had ever mentioned. We made our way through the tunnels into the stadium, and I just kept looking back in line to my dad, gesturing wildly. Oh my God this is actually happening! Dad smiled at me every time. 

Stepping onto the turf at Fenway is a religious experience. There. I said it. I would defy any fan to say they don't feel differently when they walk out there. The lights, the bright green of the grass, the murmur of the fans gathering and finding their seats are all things we are "used to", but they gain a new level of intensity when you're staring at it from home plate. It's amazing that those baseball players can get any work done! 

There were 20 chairs lined up behind home plate. THEY WERE FOR US.  Because the National Anthem was a part of extended opening ceremonies for the game, we would be watching the rest of them after we sang. While I tried to push my leaking brains back into my head, Dad and I spotted a friend: Dick Flavin! He had just performed in a show with us earlier that year, and was both a part of the opening of the game and announcing batters for the night. We had a great little reunion and got a few pictures with him on the field. Then Dad and I took a picture together at home plate. Tears welled in my eyes as a friend snapped that photo. I was about to sing at Fenway with my dad!!!

We sat, soaking in the park. Adi and I sat staring and grinning at each other like idiots every few minutes.  Then it all began. We filed into our formation between home plate and the pitcher's mound, got our starting pitch, and sang the National Anthem. I remember wanting to mark every moment, and so I stared into the crowd, at the other speakers and officials on the field, at our manager, at the few empty seats, and once in a while, at the conductor. (Sorry, Bill!) When we got our final cut-off, I let the cheers wash over me. Now, let's be clear: they weren't for me. They were for the beginning of a night to remember at the greatest ballpark in the world. And I was there, just as excited as every last kid sitting in the upper bleachers with their father.

From then on out, we were immersed in a sea of Fenway legends. Every living Red Sox great was there, and we were watching them up close. I swooned when Nomar was called to the field, cheered when Dick read his Fenway poem, and screamed as the honored guests all threw first pitches to the current Red Sox roster. Adi and I laughed when Carlton Fisk was called to the field, and Joy shrieked recognition of her chatting buddy from earlier in the evening. I texted Momma when Jim Lonborg began waving to the crowd, her childhood hero standing in front of me. 

Once the opening ceremonies ended, we were shown to our seats just under the Coca-Cola sign. Dad and I enjoyed yet another game at Fenway together, decked out in Boston gear over our dress clothes.

I have been lucky enough to have many amazing experiences in my life, and lots of them have been whilst surrounded by family. But when the car won't start, I'm not feeling my best, have a bad day of singing, or generally just need something to pick me up, I say to myself "There was this one time at Fenway...."

The Ugly Kid

When my brother got married, I was so excited for the day.  We all looked like a million bucks, and we were going to have a great party!  We took loads of pictures, sang at the top of our lungs, and saw loads of family and friends.  My 90 year old great aunt danced everyone else right off the floor.  It was amazing.  Then we got the pictures back a month or so later.  I started to click through the photo album online, and my heart nearly stopped.

"Who is that ugly girl?" I thought.

My family is full of "the beautiful people".  My sisters look like Italian models, and my brother is the handsomest guy at most parties.  I never thought so much about how I "fit in".  I was just the oldest sister of this crew.  Now here was the evidence staring me in the face.  Without even thinking about it, my brain starting singing "One of these things is not like the other...". My odd face and bloated body were the sore thumbs in every picture of the family.  I actually started to feel badly that I was wrecking my brother and sister-in-law's wedding pictures.

Gentle reader, please hear me.  This is not pity time.  This is not the time for "Oh, no, you're pretty too!" Please... I do not say these things because I'm looking for a handout of compliments.  I am telling the TRUTH.  That is the point of this blog, and all that I write here.  It's honest.  I'm not a pretty lady.  I have a face (and body) for radio.

This has stuck in my head for a long time as one of many separating factors in my family.  I am a rough, blunt woman, in appearance and nature.  My family is one of poise, grace, and intelligence.  People constantly remark on my wonderful father and mother, or my amazing siblings.  They are beautiful on the inside and out. I am so proud of them because they are everything that people say about them. Their beauty is more than their outer appearances.  They have a beauty and truth to their insides, in the way that they treat people and live their own lives.  They are so good at saying the right thing, to me and to others.

I don't always say the right thing.  I don't know how to dress.  I don't do my hair and makeup often. I sing too loudly, laugh even louder, make jokes that no one gets, and love all those nerdy things that make the attractive & popular crowd shake their heads in a bewildered way.  (Example: My sweet 16 was a sleepover at my house where we renamed all the Chinese food to the names of Star Trek: The Next Generation foods.  We food-colored Sprite to rename it "Romulan Ale".  The next morning, everyone had Earl Grey tea and croissants, just like Jean-Luc Picard.  This is still possibly my favorite party EVER, rivaling my own wedding.) My whole life, I have wished that I could match up to my family a little bit better.  I have wished that I could be a little more graceful.  I often hope that I will wake up one day and I won't have to check my loud laugh and big personality at the door; I wish that they would just go away, and I could be smart-talking and all-knowing like Gina, clever and cutting like Katie, or witty and to-the-point like Christopher. I wish that I was prettier and wittier so that I could make them as proud of me as I am of them.

I am currently seeing a naturopathic nurse practitioner to treat ailments, and have been for about two months.  My body is adjusting to a diet of no sugar, gluten, dairy, or artificial sweeteners of any kind.  I'm taking in a lot of new information about my body, the vitamins and minerals that run (or do NOT run) through it, and what I have to do to make things better.  It's frustrating and interesting and confusing.  But through it all, I find myself ravenous for the healing words that this NP has to say.  Yesterday, she said to me: "You do not have to expect anything, Laura.  Don't expect yourself to lose a certain amount of weight in a certain amount of time.  Don't expect to have a certain mineral or vitamin completely replenished in your system right away.  You must RELAX into healing.  The body self-corrects.  You must let your body do that without any yelling, screaming, or expecting from yourself." She has somehow found a way to cut through all the bullshit in my brain and give me permission to not be more than I already am.

Today, I am trying.  I am trying to stay relaxed.  I am letting my body tell me what it needs, and responding accordingly.  I will not expect anything of myself, not hold myself to too high a standard.  I still hope that these diet and vitamin changes will bring me closer to health.  There is still a small corner of my brain that wishes I were prettier, but I will change where I want the pretty.  I want the pretty on the inside of me.  I want the pretty to be shown in how I talk to people and how I love them.  I want the pretty to be seen in how I handle my life and what I am given.

I may still be the Ugly Kid, but I'll strive for that beauty on the inside, just like Gina and Katie and Christopher have.

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.