Crazytown: A History, Part II

"Welcome back, suckers!" (Property of Kander & Ebb ;))

**Reminder: This "history" of sorts is for Dr. Brown's Intro to Psych class.**

When we last saw our weeble-heroine, she had graduated from high school.....

I attended Boston University as a Vocal Performance major for approximately 5 minutes.  OK, OK, I jest; it was a whopping 11ish weeks.  I was one of 23 said voice majors, and we were all great singers.  We were also scared out of our minds.  We were all going to be the next Renee Fleming, Thomas Hampson, Jerry Hadley, etc.  I had a ton of classes, memorization, and requirements to keep me busy.  When I entered BU, I was told that I needed to pass a "functional piano requirement" (music majors call it "Funky Piano").  I said "Aha!  I will get out of that class easily!  I'll wow the panel with a difficult piece, and they won't make me take Funky Piano at all!"  Once again, I was wrong.  The panel thought I had great talent, and told me (YES, THEY TOLD ME) that I was now a piano minor.  I would take weekly lessons with a Grad Assistant, and I would be required to pass juries every year.  Oh, goody.  Ugh!  Another huge requirement was added to my plate. (P.S. That piano Grad Assistant was a total bitch, and I hated her with a passion to outlast most others.)

Another issue at school quickly arose.  My theory professor was nuts.  No one was even passing our class, much less getting a decent grade in it.  He would sit in front of my unfinished homework and write a big red "F" on it before I even had to pass it in.  I was going to him for extra help!  To quote him: "There's no way you would ever do this correctly, so I'll save you the trouble."  At the end of October, when I was starting to get really depressed, he said to me "Your voice teacher tells me you're depressed.  Well, I suggest you go to bed approximately 30 minutes earlier every evening.  Then you won't have a problem getting up in the morning."  I didn't kill him where he stood, and to this day, I am extremely proud of myself for that feat.  Anyone who has ever had, or known, anyone with depression knows that sleep-deprivation is not the problem.  The fact that you would rather stab yourself in the face than get out of bed is the problem.   !!!!!!!

Then, another issue.  My voice teacher heard breathiness in the middle of my range, and told me I'd need a larangoscopy to see what the problem was.  I was sent to the most celebrated ENT in the "biz" at the time (all the Boston folks know who I mean; he fixes pop singers), and he told me "There's nothing wrong; just keep singing."  My teacher then told me that HE WAS WRONG, and that I had bowing in my vocal cords: "My dear, you will never have a middle range."  UM, WHAAATT??!?!?!?!?!?!

All of this combined into a completely mind-blowing depressive down-slide.  In the course of a few hours in the middle of November, I lost my mind for the first time.  I was pacing in front of my dorm room window, scratching and slapping my face, trying to figure out what I would do instead of a music career.  My psychiatrist had already upped my Zoloft 3 times in the course of 6 weeks, hoping for the right dose.  I would alternate between not taking Xanax for a week or so, and then taking 3-4 in a 24 hour period.  It was like sucking on tic-tacs for all the good it did me.  I wanted to die; there was no way out.  So, after another punch to the face, I grabbed a razor.  I did not try to commit suicide, but cut myself a few times.  That made me feel better, but I knew it was bad, and I got one of my roommates involved.  She helped me call my family, and I was taken home "for a week of rest".  I saw my psychiatrist everyday for a week, and tried to go back to school.

That week, I had my first "black out".  Those who are familiar with PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), or dissociation, have heard of these.  We usually hear them referred to in relation to heavy binge drinking, but they can happen when your mind has simply had enough, and refuses to let you see/hear/experience anything around you.  At the end of my first "black out", I found myself on the top of a wall overlooking the football stadium.  I cannot honestly tell you I really wanted to jump, but not knowing how I got there was enough for me to get down, call home, and start to get my things together.  I left BU.  I couldn't continue in this fashion.

I was still trying to continue on a life path without hospital care.  I would see my psychiatrist every few days, and he thought that I could probably go back to school (at BU or elsewhere) after some time at home, not worrying about deadlines or schoolwork of any kind.   It worked for approximately 6 weeks.  Then I tried to commit suicide for the first time.  It was another black out, but I came out of it having taken an entire bottle of my anti-depressants (by now, I was on Wellbutrin and some short-acting benzos for anxiety).  I was taken to the hospital, and the doctors sent me to Emerson Hospital to be treated for a suicide attempt.  I was there for 9 days.

If any of you have seen the movie "It's Kind of a Funny Story", you actually have a pretty accurate view of what it's like to go into a hospital for depression.  Including what the typical set-up is and the plethora of people from different walks of life you meet. (I swear I could write a book about them alone, and I might someday!)  The people at Emerson, on the whole, were wonderful.  They wanted to help, and they started by trying to find the right diagnosis for me.  I had already been diagnosed with GAD and Depression, but now they added PTSD.  The problem was I did not have a trauma that really pointed to why I would black out.  This would become a symptom that totally confused every professional I came in contact with.  I had been teased and bullied as a kid, but there was no one ALL-CAPS trauma in my life (like rape or physical abuse) that would indicate the pain necessary for my body to check out like it did.  After an intense amount of therapy, I was sent home.  And I went back in a few weeks later.  And a month after that.  And a few weeks after that.  All for suicidal ideation and attempted suicide.  I felt like some kind of ticking time bomb that kept malfunctioning, but never actually exploded. My psychiatrist (who I had been with for 4 years now) actually had to be let go because so little progress was being made.  I needed a fresh set of eyes, and I got them in a wowsah of a psychiatrist.  His idea of "helpful advice" was acting like one of the 2 men in the balcony on the Muppets, but he made some great points.  I ended sticking with him for the next 3 years.

In the midst of all that, I knew I needed to get back into school.  I didn't like anything as much as reading and learning about things, or better yet, singing about them!  Around the suicide attempts and cutting, I applied to a few Boston schools, and was accepted to most.  I went with my dad to take a walk around Emmanuel College, and I fell in love.  The school was on a small and enclosed campus two blocks from Fenway Park.  (Or as I would say it, Fenwayy Pahhk.  Dr. Brown will say it for you guys if you're nice to her. ;))  It was a college run by the Sisters of Notre Dame, near and dear to my mother's heart, and the people on campus were lovely.  I saw some other schools the same day, but none impressed me like Emmanuel.  My voice teacher at the time knew the voice teacher at Emmanuel (St. Louise!!!) and got me an appointment with her.  I enrolled for the next fall semester.  I would be "a year behind", but I would be in school in Boston again!  I was thrilled and terrified.  My depression/PTSD/whatever-the-hell-they-were-calling-it-now hadn't gotten any better, but school seemed fun.  I blacked out and attempted suicide again right before Emmanuel Move-In Day, and even then, I stayed in the hospital for a few days, mellowed some more, and convinced the hospital docs that school was all I needed. I packed my fan, comforter, pillows, and mini-fridge, joining the ranks of Emmanuel freshmen.

The first Emmanuel weeks were rocky.  I did end up in the hospital again right around Thanksgiving, but thankfully (ha!  Get it... thankfully??? *groan*) I was quick to recover from the latest black out, and somehow came out of it before I attempted suicide again.  The next few years were incredible, some of my favorite thus far!  I met an incredible and diverse group of women, and they became my very closest friends to this day.  We call ourselves the ASPs (no, I won't tell you what that stands for).  This group is close-knit and fiercely loyal.  They made sure that I knew when I was acting like an ass, and when I needed to take care of myself.  They sat with me when I thought I would relapse, and they rejoiced with me when I had great triumphs.  In those 4 years at Emmanuel, I faced great adversity in my personal life, but I also had wonderful successes.  I began to sing for the Boston Symphony and the Boston Pops in their chorus, and was asked to be a soloist a few times.  I met my voice teacher Louise, who is a great mentor even to this day.  I traveled to Europe and Asia, I met read amazing books, had fantastic conversations, and learned and learned and learned.  My depression seemed to blend into the background.  I knew it was there, but I didn't let it define me.  I graduated from Emmanuel a semester early, but stayed on as an employee after classes finished.  I had a great job, great singing opportunities, and a fantastic group of friends.

Who knew that a job with the Church would turn the tables 180 degrees on me?

..... Part III to come.

Crazytown: A History, Part I

To the readership (all 5 of you):  The following is a series of posts I am creating for an Intro to Psych class that is currently studying abnormal psych (HELLO to Dr. Brown's class! :))  This will be mainly a history/day-to-day series of posts, focusing on my history of illness, diagnosis, and experiences with the psych system.  ENJOY! *just add sarcasm and stir* ;)

When I was 15 I was stung by a bee in Spanish class.  This was the beginning of a (literally) death-defying journey into mental illness.  How could a fluffy, voiced-by-Jerry-Seinfeld kind of character start this all off? Well, I was also on an NSAID for pain/swelling (something silly, an infection or something), and felt like my entire life could fall apart at any moment.  I was a sophomore in high school, and was fighting a whole lot of crap in my brain.  I was a pretty typical teenager.  I had crushes on boys, did way too much homework, and thought that I was the most disgusting thing that ever traversed the face of the earth.  I was fat, I was ugly, and I was a geek.  I loved Star Wars, Star Trek, and The Three Stooges; every boy I liked either didn't look at girls when they spoke to them, or thought of me as the troll that came up from the DHS woodshop to go to school each day.  Bullying (or "survival of the fittest") was the name of the game in my high school.  I received my portion, just like most...... Well, a bee stung me, I was on a big honkin' NSAID, and all of a sudden, breathing was a problem; it sounded like my throat was closing. It started during that Spanish class and didn't stop for HOURS.  I even imagined that I was dying at one point.  A quick trip to the ER started a doctor’s visiting circus.  I saw ENTs for possible blockages to my nasal passages and throat, I had laryngoscopies, and finally…. many allergists and neurologists later…. it was decided that I suffered from panic attacks.  WHAT?!?!  ME?!?!?  But I’m so together!  I get perfect grades, I’m taking piano and voice lessons, I’m a tour guide at multiple museums, I write for international institutions…. THIS IS NOT HAPPENING TO ME.

That’s what the “responsible” part of me said.  And you know what the rest of my 15 year old body did?  Freaked out even more.  I was eating all the time.  I would take food from the cabinets in my house and hide it in my room so I could eat without my parents getting upset.  I couldn’t stop thinking about dying.  I would hit myself in my room.  I would look for ways to cause the physical pain that matched the emotional pain of my mind. (This particular trend would continue for years to come, and eventually turn into full-blown cutting; for now, it was a once in a while thing, and happened seldom during high school).

During those high school years, I went to a psychiatrist on a bi-weekly or weekly basis, depending on how I was feeling.  He was kind and understanding, and knew that I was doing WAY too much.  That panic-attack/throat closing thing was now diagnosed a "psychosomatic symptom of stress and anxiety".  I took Xanax as an anxiety PRN, and some low doses of Zoloft in order to keep the depression at bay. At the time of my first panic attacks, I was on two different sports teams, played piano, played trombone in 3 groups, sang in another 3 groups, was in all Honors classes, and worked at multiple museums as a tour guide and children's program volunteer.  I cut back on my activities, did a few less honors courses, and started to take things at a bit of a slower pace.  I was ok for awhile.  I still felt a lot of depression closing in, but there were a ton of bright spots, and I didn't want to give in yet.

Then the end of senior year hit.  I was, of course, taking on way too much again, and hey Laura how about if you apply to 10 different colleges and do interviews/auditions at all of them?  By then, I had decided I was going to major in vocal performance, and most of the schools I applied to needed to hear me sing, as well as interview me.  My grades were fabulous, and two of my classes were AP classes, so if I scored well in the tests, there were 2 less college courses I had to take.  I was working really hard now to save myself later, right?  RIGHT?

Wrong.  My Zoloft was jacked up again, and instead of taking Xanax (which I had all but stopped taking), I was put on Klonopin.  A word to the wise: Klonopin makes Laura act like a mean drunk.  I got into a fistfight in the middle of my high school cafeteria (over my prom seating, because THAT's really important in the grand scheme of things), and was physically removed to the nurse's office by a few teachers.  (I really hope I didn't punch any of them by accident! No one had any visible bruises.)  After I had come off of the Klonopin stupor (almost a full 24 hours later!), the psychiatrist put me back on Xanax, and encouraged me to take it easy.  Yeah.... ok, dude.  Have you seen my schedule?  Which super-important thing should I NOT do first?!?  There was no way I was giving up ANYTHING.  I loved doing it all.

So I graduated from high school in the top ranks of my class, with great grades, a ton of accomplishment.  I was off to BU with a diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety and Clinical Depression, a bottle of Zoloft, and dreams of singing at the Metropolitan Opera.......

.....Part II to come soon! :)

Crab Walk

When I was in elementary school, there was one thing I loved to do in gym class: the crab walk.  You essentially walked on your hands and feet, facing the ceiling, with your hands and feet taking equal body weight.  Since I've always had a great center of gravity (read: huge ass), this was easy for me to do.  Kids couldn't make fun of my lack of athleticism, or pick me last for a team.  I rocked the crab walk, and I enjoyed myself!

This past week, I had a meltdown.  A good old-fashioned, "holy crap what do I do now?" freak-out.  When I freak, I usually cry for long periods of time, and then sleep for weeks.  No, not kidding.  My body retreats like Hitler from Russia.  Just gets the hell out of Dodge and into bed for huge periods of time, getting up to go to the bathroom and eat once in a while.  The reason for this particular delve into Hell, using my 20/20 hindsight, was two-fold; I was taking on way too much at once, and I was losing my voice because of it.  I still don't have my voice back completely, and it's cost me a few gigs. I had to pull out of a concert run in the middle of the performances, after I'd already worked my ass off, and then take myself out of a couple more before I worked my ass off again and figured out my voice truly couldn't be pushed anymore.  The emotional and physical toll of the past few months has been too much to bear, and my voice forcefully took the vacation I was unwilling to give. To quote Mr. Whedon: "Grrr.... Arrrgghh".

What is interesting to me is that when this was all going down, I was still kind of in control....OK, maybe not at first.  Crying hysterically in front of friends and family, and then in front of BSO management, is probably what most people would not deem "in control", but let me do a comparison for you.

In my spectacularly crazy years, I would have pushed myself to do the performances anyway, wailing and gnashing my teeth in the downtime.  I would have completely "stripped the gears" of my voice, and then I would have landed swiftly in an ER, because I pushed too hard, and was ready to jump off the Tobin.  An alternative scenario is that I would have pulled out of the performances, and then ended up in an ER because I disappointed people, including myself, and was ready to jump off the Tobin.  (I wish I was being facetious.)

My brain cannot handle "bowing out" or "saying no" to anything.  As I walked to the Hall on Thursday night, I had to convince myself with every step across Mass Ave and down the stairs at the stage door that I would not do bodily harm to myself just because I had to bow out of a gig. (*clomp* You will NOT hurt yourself, *clomp* you will NOT hurt yourself.) The thought of disappointing colleagues, friends, family, people-I-don't-even-know-but-who-expect-me-to-do-something is paralyzing and so enraging that I would rather die.  That is the nature of my illness: Step 1, take on too much, Step 2, have to pull out of something/ say no to someone, Step 3 figure out how not to hurt myself over it.  Stupid, eh?  Welcome to my crazy-ass brain. Population: 1 ridonkulous girl called Laura.

OK, so I took myself out of performance #1 of last week's gig, tried to do a bit more anyway, failed, and then took myself out of everything for a few weeks in order to give my voice the rest it needed.  And I'm here typing this blog in the comfort of my own home, and not a psych ward community room with internet access, because I stayed relatively "in control". I had a horrible crying jag, but did NOT let my body retreat.  I can't sing right now, and it sucks not to do the thing I love most in the world.  I lllloooovvveee to sing.  But I also enjoy sanity.  I am functioning as an employee of 2 different institutions, cooking for my husband here and there (God Bless Pinterest), and keeping the rest of my life going.  As a very very very very super-smart friend said to me, bewilderment in her voice: "You're taking care of yourself. Why would that ever be wrong?"  Stupid Laura wants to answer: "Because I've let people down.  Because it's now proven that I can't do it all!"  Slightly-Less-Stupid Laura is now going to answer: "Oh yeah, that's true.  I guess this decision is the best thing for the moment."

Stupid Laura wants to see this as a huge step backward in the journey toward a healthier brain.  Slightly-Less-Stupid Laura is going to see this as a bit of crab walk.  Because I rock the crab walk, and I'm going to enjoy myself.

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. ;)