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.