#MoreThan Part I

This is the first of a 3-part series. The theme is derived from a campaign currently being run by Patientslikeme entitled #MoreThan (please learn all about it here). I thank Patientslikeme for allowing me to take part in the campaign, and I hope these posts might prove helpful.

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When asked what defines us, we will often respond with our professions, our spouses, our children.  We will think of our very favorite hobbies, or our faith, and fit that into the definition as well.

For people with chronic illness, that illness quickly becomes the only definition.  We can't remember ourselves except for how it relates to the illness. It becomes a challenge to remember our lives before the condition, aside from the condition.  We forget who we are, or who we were before the condition came along.

We need to remember that we are more than that one thing in our lives, that the illness/condition/disease/whatever-you-want-to-call-it is not the be all and end all of our lives.  I have bipolar disorder, I have PTSD, but they will not define me completely.  That is a job in and of itself, to keep these illnesses from defining me, but there are things I can work with, parts of my life I can enjoy, that will keep me remembering I am more than these things.

For me, I have three big "loves" in my life: family, the English language, and music. They all help keep me alive, happy, and above the bipolar/PTSD quagmire.  In this post, I want to talk about the English language.

Since I was a very small child, words have meant so much to me.  There's an old family story that when I was about 2 years old, I stood up in my crib and shouted an entire monologue from "Pollyanna" (Death comes unexpectedly!) because my parents had played the movie's album for me, for the songs, and I couldn't help but make a racket, shouting the newest words I had learned. (My grandfather, who was babysitting me, was terrified at this little person yelling at the top of her lungs!  Sorry, Pa.)  I love words as though each was a friend, and I take great solace in these companions.

My parents taught me to read when I was pretty young, 3 years old, and I have never stopped reading.  I love it so very much.  Words create sentences for stories, and lines for verse, lyrics for songs.  I love reading every kind of anything you can think of.

I love books.  I love the way they look in a room or a bag, I love the way they smell (the older the better), and I love finishing them and starting new ones.  Books have been some of my greatest companions, in some of my best and worst moments.  I can remember climbing the hilly roads near my house as a kid, my head buried in "Wuthering Heights".  I remember sitting at my job at General Cinemas reading Tennyson when it was dead and I could sneak a book on the ticket counter. When I was in the hospital for a manic episode, one of my dearest friends brought me books because she knew they were better than any candy or flowers.  Books make the world feel just a bit more friendly and civilized.  Paulie likes to joke that whenever we pass a bookstore, I must go inside.  Now, I do manage to stop myself if we're on a schedule, but otherwise yes!  We must see it!

When I learned to write in kindergarten, I started keeping journals and notebooks full of my own creations.  I still keep them today.  I usually have 2-3 notebooks going at any given time.  I'm pretty sure it annoys my husband to no end, but he's good to me and doesn't say anything.  Just the physical action of writing on paper calms me.  I write everything down first, if I can, and then it can go in a google doc or a blog post or wherever.

I've published books, newsletters, and games in both children's and adult literature, I keep a regular blog, I've written piles of paper's worth of "things" in my life, I've read hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of books, I've spoken myriads of poems, book excerpts, and lyrics.  The English language and what it means in my life is just one example of how I am #morethan my illnesses.  It brings me through those bad times and enhances the good. I feel so lucky to have this as a part of my life, and will continue to make it a core part of me. 

Science Fiction Double Feature

So much has happened, I hardly know where to start. In the last 6 weeks, I:

• gave a presentation on my life with Bipolar Disorder for PLM staff
• rehearsed and sang all of Holy Week
• helped to get a book including some of my work published 
• went to Washington D.C. for a big patient data event where I sang and took part in discussions
• came home to a whirlwind of family gatherings and babysitting
• had a great conversation with a cast about mental illness and the show “Next to Normal”

….all while working my job and trying to live with a really nasty bout of suicidal thoughts and depression clinging to my back like some creature in a horror movie.

My brain tells me that I don't matter, all day and all night. My body won't respond to the medication in the ways anyone thinks it should. It gives me every last side effect, so I know it's doing something, just not what we want it to. All the time, voices say “You're worthless”, “Everyone hates you, especially your husband”, “Your family wishes you'd go away and stop bothering them”, “Just kill yourself”, “Make everyone else's lives easier and die. Then they won't have to deal with this anymore.”

On good days, it's a white noise at the back of my head.

On bad days, it screams so loudly that I need to ask people to repeat themselves; I can't hear them over the noise.  There have been a lot of bad days in the last 4 weeks.

The good news is I have the tools to battle this, even when I think I don't. I tend to forget that I have the tools; that's the depression doing its thing. Then I think the tools don't matter; that's the suicidal thinking doing its thing. But tools exist nonetheless! They come in the form of friends saying hi or checking in, a parent accompanying me to an event, a spouse holding me close when I need it, the “choir family” at church giving me hugs and encouragement.

I need to hold the loving tools close, encased in a toolbox of strength and courage, slung over my shoulder to defeat the creature on my back.

The most important skill that all of these other tools brings to the fore is to KEEP GOING. Even through this latest set of trials, I will continue to kick ass and take names. Even when my disorder tries to suck the will to live from my body, I will keep getting out of bed and getting dressed. I'll keep taking the medication and trying new things. I will push and claw and scratch my way to wellness.

I will play the undaunted warrior.

I will be me.

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. 

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

"Punch. That. Shit!"

"Fire up the roof...."

"Bring the noise!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lofty goals? Probably. Impossible goals? Nope. 

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

My Rosa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why Can't We?

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

What's needed is stark truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But why can't we?

November......

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

Pickwick Papers, Swiffer Dusters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ritorna Vincitor!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ribeye Steaks & Pine Needles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When will we no longer need to be so angry?

Strike Up the Band!

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

And the tears started falling....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Look what Santa brought!

So, yesterday I wrote a rather pessimistic (read: really pissy) post about my struggle through this holiday season thus far.  I have been feeling like I'm always a step behind, not able to truly do what's necessary to get my house looking festive, wrapping gifts, giving out cards, etc. I know this mostly because of the illness that's been raging through my home in the last month.  Just keeping up with laundry and dishes and medications and doctors' appointments has been exhausting; that doesn't even count working and seeing family and on and on and on....

And then I read some of the great things that are going on in my friends' and family's homes for the season.  It struck me: I love Christmas, and I think a bit of a "sentimental journey" is in order....

When I was little, we lived in Lowell, MA, in a lovely little house near Callery Park.  Dad and/or Momma would take me to the park in good weather.  Christmas was a super-special time; we had an advent calendar (usually kept in the kitchen), we made lists for Santa, Dad played the piano when there was time and we sang Christmas carols, Momma baked treats in between Masses and working and taking care of GG and Katie (who were babies at the time), we watched "Charlie Brown Christmas" and "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" on TV when they were broadcast.  Christmas morning would come, and I'd run downstairs holding onto Momma or Dad's hand, with each of them carrying an infant on one hip.  The tree was in the living room, right near the hi-fi system, across from the spinet.  And oh the gifts and treats!  I remember tea sets and dolls (my very first Cabbage Patch Doll!) and dollhouses and clothes and a doctor's set, and always a stocking full of candy and fun things, with a "mysterious round object" at the bottom.  It was an orange.  It was an orange every year (an old family tradition), but every year I (and then GG and Katie and Chris) would wonder what that object at the bottom of the stocking was!  Momma would always try her best to hide her smile and laugh as we tried to figure it out, holding our stockings upside down and shaking them, watching it roll down and out onto the carpeted floor.

When I was seven, we moved to Dracut.  The setting was different, but the traditions were the same. By then, there were four of us kiddos; Christopher was the infant now.  We'd wait in our rooms on Christmas morning, calling out to Momma and Dad: "Can we go now?  Can we go to the tree now?  Are you up yet?" (Of course, my poor parents had probably only finished setting things up a few hours before, but they'd pull themselves out of bed and throw on robes and slippers.  Momma would immediately put on the kettle for morning tea for her and Dad while we took in the first sights of the decorated tree with all its gifts out.) Santa didn't wrap his gifts, Momma and Dad wrapped the ones from them, and we each had a stocking with a different Christmas "picture" on it; that's how we knew whose gifts were whose.

We'd always go to Pa Rocky's house for Christmas Eve.  Auntie Linda would cook, or when Pa didn't want her to work so hard, he'd order Chinese Food for everyone.  We'd see Pa and Auntie Linda and Uncle Frank and Sean and Evy and Uncle Tony and Auntie Maureen, soon followed by Nick and Sam and Jake as they were born later on.  We'd open gifts and play.  Sometimes Pa would put on a Frank Sinatra tape while the adults talked and drank coffee.  As we've gotten older, Pa has died, and we've turned our "Feast of the Seven Fishes" into a traveling tradition: one year at Auntie Linda's, one year at Auntie Maureen's, one year at Momma and Dad's.  Often the Leon Grandes would go to Midnight Mass if we could stay awake.  If not, we'd get ready for Mass after opening gifts the next morning.

For many years, we'd go to Auntie Antoinette and Uncle Bruno's house in Somerville (Momma and Dad both grew up in Winter Hill, and much of our family still lived there) for Christmas Day lunch.  There'd be the famous "Christmas soup" with little toasted dough balls to throw in on top with your grated parmesan cheese.  Then there'd be pasta and meats and all kinds of fabulous food. There'd be biscotti and S cookies and pizelle and cake and coffee for dessert. We'd see Nana and Eddie and get gifts from them, we'd see the Toppi cousins and Pa Cornelio (my great-grandfather).  I'd sit in wonder as I heard my Nana and Auntie Antoinette and Uncle Bruno speak Italian to each other and Pa Cornelio.  Listening to that beautiful language spoken so fluently and easily was its own kind of Christmas magic (of course, they were usually speaking it so they could talk to each other without anyone bothering them ;).... when I was really little, I didn't know that Uncle Bruno had come to this country at age 22.  I just knew that he and Auntie mostly spoke Italian to each other; I always thought SHE was teaching HIM Italian... LOL!  Quite the opposite).

Then we'd go to Nana Fitzgerald's over on Richdale Ave (also in Winter Hill) to see the Irish side of the family.  There were more gifts, and even more laughing..... TONS of tea and desserts and Dad would pull the decorations off the upright piano in order to start playing carols; everybody sang.  I have a distinct memory of Da singing once or twice, smelling of tea and cigarettes and aftershave. I can still smell it now.  Nana loves to sing, and still does every year with all of us.  I am very lucky to have grown up in a family (both the Italian and Irish sides) where everyone sings well; it's a tradition we've upheld at Nana's house.  Now it's Liam (the youngest of the 18 grandchildren) who pulls on Uncle Leon's sleeve and drags him over to the piano to begin our musical portion of the evening.

Another huge part of the Grande Christmas tradition was and still is holiday movies: "White Christmas", "Holiday Inn", "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers", "Muppet Christmas Carol", and George C. Scott's "Christmas Carol".  We live in different homes now, but use our smart phones to swap quotes and remember together until we're all in the same place for Christmas Eve and Day.  We've even extended our Christmas to the 26th; this is when we do our own personal gift exchanges while eating brunch and watching some of those same movies.

Finally, there are the Christmas decorations that my mother has put up every year that touch my heart.  Ornaments that we made as toddlers; one was just a plastic coffee scoop that I put a Christmas sticker in the bottom of at the YMCA preschool when I was four.  The sticker fell out and got lost years ago, but every year Dad insists that the plastic coffee scoop be hung on the tree, a reminder of our earliest years as a family at Christmas.  We've each taken our stockings with us as we've left the house, but we all insist that we will put an orange at the bottom for our children as they grow older.

There is one Christmas decoration that surpass all the rest for me.  It is a stone statue of the Baby Jesus in the manger with Santa kneeling at His side, red hat in hand as he pays homage to the child.  It has been the "picture of Christmas" in my head since I was four years old.  We were still living in Lowell then, and Momma would always put it on top of the spinet on the left side.  I'd practice for my piano lessons with Sr. Anne, looking at the baby and Santa, wanting to be as good as he and remember why we celebrated Christmas.

Memories continue to flood my brain as I type; I'm sure there are more that my siblings and cousins will remember as they read this post.  What this walk down memory lane really shows me is how wonderfully blessed I am.  That even though there are demons knocking at my brain's door, even though there's a pile of dishes in the sink and my tree isn't up yet, I am the luckiest girl in the world.  Now Connor and Luca (Chris and Katie's sons) are here to join us for our traditions, and Uncle Paulie and Auntie Lulu will hold them close and spend too much money on them and I will sing at Mass and hug and kiss so many family members this week.

Above all else, I will keep in my mind's eye the picture of Santa kneeling in front of the Christ Child.

I wish everyone a Blessed Christmas. 

When that gingerbread feeling turns to shit....

WARNING: General ranting ahead.....

So it's Christmas again with its tinsel and trees blah blah blah happy blah blah sacred blah blah fellow man.

Well, what do you do when you'd rather stab your fellow man in the throat with a nice ol shard of glass than wish them a "Happy Holiday"? Do you stay inside and keep yourself to yourself? Do you try to go out little by little, hoping you won't commit rageful homicide?

What does one do when no one can seem to do anything right, including yourself? 

What do you MEAN you don't know where my sheet music is????

What do you MEAN the insurance won't pay for this medication??? It costs $200!!!!! 

You catch my drift. 

I am taking my medication, keeping all my doctor's appointments, taking stock via journal each day, and yet, I just want the world to go away. I am trying to keep my urges to cut at bay.  My husband is so ill, and I'm doing everything I can think of to make him better, but it's not enough.  It's just never enough.  I am not enough.

For me, the next few days will require patience, the "Glad Game", and PRNs. 

Here's hoping....Merry Fucking Christmas. 

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.....

Grateful for so much...

I often use this blog as a place to grieve over what Bipolar disorder has taken from me, or to face what I must deal with because of said disorder. 

Today, I want to take time to appreciate all that I have and am afforded because of, or in spite of, this illness. 

I have amazing family and friends, who check in with me on a regular basis and do the best they can to make me feel better. They include my husband, parents, siblings, singing friends, and even management of singing groups. They are all kind, curious, and understanding. Yesterday I was at a rehearsal. The conductor made me laugh while I had coffee in my mouth, and I ended up spraying it all over two people next to me. One friend was completely understanding and didn't think twice about just cleaning things up and not worrying about it. The other singer didn't really know me, so she was furious and gave me a ration of shit. I apologized profusely, but that didn't matter. She bitched me out, even though there wasn't much of anything spilled on her. She was really angry, and was pretty vicious yelling at me. My manager saw this, and texted to ask what was wrong. I told him, and he told me not to think twice about it. I couldn't help it; I started to cry. He saw this and made sure he gave me a hug and told me there was no reason to worry. He talked to me until I felt better, and made me laugh. He knew what I needed. There is another manager I work with who does the same. They both understand the nature of my illness, and try hard to make me comfortable no matter what. 

It's much like my wonderful husband Paulie, who can tell when I need a hug and kiss, versus when I need a good laugh. He does whatever is necessary to make me feel just a bit better. After last week, where I felt that 6 slashes on my left wrist was the only answer, these people have made it a goal to see that I'm not taking myself or life too seriously, and that I can still find joy in everyday life. 

I am so grateful to all these people, and that will not stop. As I said to a friend today, I should probably say something "Boston sarcastic" now, but I can't think of a thing. I'm just humbled and grateful to everyone. 

Hopefully I can make all these people proud. 

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.

Who Am I?

Of course, the first thing I want to do is sing "2-4-6-0-1!!!!!!".  Ahem.  OK, now that my Les Mis moment is behind me, I'll get to the crux of things. This post was begun when I was in McLean, being held for suicidal ideation.  So this will go from feelings of a month ago to present day. I hope it's not too hard to follow. 

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I'm in the psych ward again, and this time is different.  Well, they're always different, but this one is really kicking my ass.  I have a lot of suicidal feelings, and the staff here are trying their very best to keep my body and soul in one piece.  God Bless them for it.

I've been struggling big time with the idea that my life is really for naught, that aside from my amazing husband and great family holding me up, I've done shit with my life.  I try to get pleasure and fulfillment from my job and relationships, but my brain is telling me that I should put it all aside and just kill myself.  This is the disease talking, and as my sainted husband always says "Don't believe the lies."  I'm doing my best to follow his advice.

Tonight, a counselor asked me "Who do you think you are?"

The answer is complicated.  Well, yes, thank you Captain Obvious, but what IS the answer?

The answer is I don't know.

The answer is that I'm still trying to figure it out.

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Now I've been out of McLean's Short Term Unit for about three weeks, but I've been going there two to three times a week as an outpatient for ECT, or electro convulsive therapy. I have now had 16 treatments this go-around...so far.

The wonderful news is I feel really good from the treatments. The not-so-great news is I have to go under general anesthesia every time, so my body has physically been through the ringer. I am very fortunate to have amazing family and friends who are willing to drive me to each and every treatment. Since I must go under anesthesia, I am not allowed to drive, and I usually end up sleeping off the meds the rest of the day.

Each session is the same. A nurse brings me to a waiting room with a stretcher. I hop on and she places hot packs on my right hand and arm, to help the anesthesiologist find good veins for the IV. My blood pressure and pulse are checked, and once the treatment room is ready, I'm wheeled in. An ECT doctor, anesthesiologist, and nurse are all present. An IV is begun, and I quickly lose consciousness. I wake up in a recovery room sometime later, and there I must be monitored for at least 45 minutes. Then a doctor meets with me, verifies that I am sufficiently recovered, and sends me home. 

So lately my brain has gone back to the question of two months ago: who am I? What I have decided for the time being is that though I may not be particularly proud of what I've become, I am a work in progress. I am a person who is feeling a little better with every passing day, and I can make the best of each moment. 

For example, I decided this week that I have not gone and seen my sisters and friends in NYC in ages, so I am taking the end of this week and weekend to do just that. I will walk the streets of New York with my head held high and my brain ready to have the most fun I can. I can't wait to see all my friends and family in the big bad city. 

I am going to have another treatment on Tuesday, but then I will board a bus on Thursday and take the big bad city by storm. I may not know exactly who I am, but I'm going to have fun while I figure it out.

A passing Thursday afternoon...

My Thursdays are kind of awesome. My good friend has a bookstore in downtown Concord (come see us at Barrow Bookstore!), and I get to come help out for the afternoon. Today as I was sitting and waiting on customers, the following came to me as a little spurt of creativity. Hope you enjoy, gentle readers. 

Untitled 

Snow like eyelashes escaped,

A door to keep it from me,

Surrounded by well-meaning paper,

And all I see is the probability. 

The probability of the slush on the ground,

The probability that the door may open,

The probability that some bit of dust will keep the paper company. 

Snow that smiles as it falls,

The door that stalwartly stands,

The paper questioningly waiting,

And all I taste is new beginnings.