Getting My Laces Back

Do I need someone here to scold me
Or do I need someone who'll grab and pull me
From this four-poster, dull torpor
Pulling downward
For it's such a long time since my better days
I say my prayers nightly this will pass away
Like the Weather - 10,000 Maniacs

In February of this year I checked myself into the "Waldorf-Hysteria" - a/k/a the Mental Health Unit of the local hospital.

It went something like this: for weeks on end, I'd been crying a lot. When I wasn't crying, I was burying myself in a book or TV show trying desperately to distract myself so I wouldn't cry. And while I've suffered from garden-variety depression in the past, this was something much, much worse. This was unrelenting darkness, oppresive and portending violence at any given moment. It was like living with a mean drunk, tip-toeing through a room where they're on their third drink and are starting to get that look in their eye; the one that you know means all hell is about to break loose.

The day I checked myself in started like most others, waking in the morning and feeling the weight of my gloom crush me before I even lifted my head from the pillow. Still, I hit the shower, got dressed and headed to my job as an insurance representative. (Yeah, insurance. No wonder I was depressed.)

I don't remember the next few hours after that, although friends have been kind enough to piece it together for me. By 8 am I was at my desk on the 6th floor. By 9:30 I was at my friend's desk, crying but saying very little. Shortly after noon, another friend found me sitting not at work, but down the street at the public library. I was staring blankly ahead, and if I was seeing anything it all it was residing with Buckaroo Bonzai across the Eighth Dimension.

Somehow this friend got my attention long enough to take me by the hand and walk me to the hospital, where I signed the paperwork that would make me a guest of said facility for a minimum of 48 hours, possibly more.

I "came to" so to speak as the intake staff were eyeing me and discussing my clothing choices as if they were Joan and Melissa Rivers and I was walking the red carpet instead of a white hallway.

"Belt!" said Exquisitely Dressed Male Nurse, snapping his fingers imperiously. Immediately, two other nurses descended on me on removed the apparently offensive item. I'm sure it did offend them, I'd gotten it on sale at K Mart.

"Shoes?" inquired Male Nurse, in a tone that implied that since I was from rural Washington county, I probably wasn't wearing any. Well, ha ha, yes I was! And best of all, they were leather LL Bean slip-ons, and did not have any buckles or laces. It took me a few minutes, but I finally figured it out. They were relieving me of any article of clothing I could fashion into an instrument of my own demise should my stay prove, uh, therapeutically unsuccessful. I shudder to think what would have happened had I been wearing my BBW thong.

After several minutes of this ritual undressing, I was led to my room (private - thank god we pay for the good insurance) and left to my own devices.

I'll fast forward through the 4 day blur that was my stay. I don't remember much of it anyway, except that in my brief time there I earned the nick-name "Artsy-Craftsy Girl". I pretty much passed the entire time holed up in the therapy room, painting pre-cast ceramic bunnies, fish and vases with environmentally-and-incarceration-friendly non toxic paints. If I recently gave you a hand-crafted, non-dishwasher safe item as a housewarming or birthday gift, this is where it came from.

Four days after my arrival, I was given the all-clear to return to my normal life. I had a diagnosis: Antepartum Depression. Ever the over-achiever, I am not content to wait until after the baby is born to have a hormonally-induced mental disorder. Nope, I'm part of that less-than-one-percent who plummet off an emotional cliff in the first trimester. Yay, me!

As I was leaving the hospital, relieved and yet scared to go back to "normal", the nurses presented me with my belt, my purse, my cell phone... all the things I'd had to surrender on the way in. As they were waving goodbye and wishing me well, the youngest girl said "Brenda, did you get your laces back?" I looked down at my slip-ons, and smiled my first real smile in weeks. I guess I had gotten them back, so to speak.

Two Months Later...

Signing yourself into a mental hospital is scary. Going home is terrifying.

I was thankful for the little things, like a bathroom door that locked, metal utensils, and a bedroom that smelled like lilacs instead of disinfectant. But the question haunted me for weeks. Had I truly "gotten my laces back"? I greeted each morning skeptically, cautiously. Open one eye, then the other. How does it look? What will today bring?

Fortunately, I responded quickly to treatment. My days began to mirror the ever-changing reality outside my window. Winter gave way to spring. Warmth replaced the chill, and the balance tipped, favoring daylight over darkness. Until yesterday, when my worst fear came to pass and I found myself feeling depressed.

I almost fainted, the dread was that overwhelming. But I took a deep breath, and let the feeling wash through me. And it soon dawned on me that this was my old "garden variety" depression. I wasn't falling off a cliff, I was having a bad day. I hadn't gotten much sleep, and I was so busy I hadn't bothered to eat. After a few calming breaths, I was able to go about my day. I wasn't aglow with joy, but I wasn't sobbing, either. I just.... was.

I woke up this morning feeling my normal, optimistic self. In a little while I'm going to go outside and get some fresh air. I'm going to throw on a sweatshirt, jeans and running shoes. And just as a precaution, I'm going to tie the laces tight... and knot 'em for good measure.

In Your Face (not Enya face!)

You... you... talk about just every band
But the names you drop are second-hand
I've heard it all before
Fox on the Run - Sweet

Big, big step today on the musical career front. I designed my "Guitarist Needed" poster and printed out several copies. Tomorrow I hit the music shops and hang 'em up - woohoo! I feel like Jack Black in Hi Fidelity.

Here's the text from the ad:

Me: 10+ years performing experience with Boston-based Celtic rock band. Extensive touring, festival headliner (Fort Lauderdale, East Durham, etc.) Looking to play locally, some touring possible. Songwriter with sense of humor, who prefers Johnny Cash and Bonnie Raitt over whiners like Sarah "Who needs joy when you can cry for 50 minutes per album" McLaughlin. If you like Enya - read no further. Seriously, step away from this flyer.

You: Decent rhythm/lead guitarist. Vocals, multi-instrument & arranging a definite plus. Sense of humor and comfort with pub & festival scene absolutely required. Fondness for Guinness appreciated. Not afraid of "chick singers", especially one who is used to hauling her own gear out of a club at 3 am.

Music: Original, some Irish trad, and a smattering of good cover tunes. Lawyers, Guns and Money? Hell yeah! Anything from "American Idol"? Uh, no thanks.

Other: May look at expanding into full-fledged band mode at some point (fiddle/mandolin, drums, etc). Please note: in over a decade of performing, I have never missed/cancelled a single show. I believe in having a LOT of fun with music, but I don't take my commitments lightly. If you're not dedicated, please call. Someone else, I mean :-)

**********************

Wow, so there it is - it looks like I'm really ready to get back into the fray! I've already got a line on some equipment (small pa system, monitors & mains) and I'm even guitar & mandolin shopping. (I have a guitar at the moment, but it's both borrowed and ungodly hard to play. The action has been adjusted, but to no avail.)

The timing seems a little weird in some ways, but it makes sense. Yeah, I'm 6 months pregnant. But it's going to take several months of serious practicing before anything I put together would be good enough to play out. (I've had experience with rushing into these things, and I don't recommend it!) So I'm thinking that by the time I (a) find someone, and (b) rehearse, it'll be early fall and I will no longer be preggo. And since I've got great babysitters (ie, nana & papa), I'll be good to go. Wow. First time I've had to take THAT into consideration!

Speaking of taking children into consideration, my four year old is bouncing off her bedroom walls. She's such a night owl... I wonder if I can work her xylophone skills into the act?

The Soundtrack of my Life

One, two, three-four-five
Everybody in the car so come on let's ride
To the liquor store around the corner
The boys say they want some gin and juice
But I really don't wanna...
Mambo No. 5 - Lou Bega

When I lived in Boston, I worked out at World Gym 5 days a week; 2 days a week with a drop dead gorgeous personal trainer named Chris Ciullia. When this song came on the overhead, the place would catch fire. Weights increased, sweat flowed, grunts echoed off the walls. And that was just me! Okay, no, that was everyone. There's something about a kick-ass song that just gets into your blood and makes you feel capable anything.

Career-wise, I'd have to say the dumbest thing I've ever done was to give up singing for a living. There is a high you get from standing onstage, belting out one of your own songs, that's better than any drug, better than sex.

When I left the band, it was the right thing to do. In 2002, my life was in a definite state of turmoil. Years of living on the road, waking up in cramped hotel rooms with five bandmates and multiple strangers strewn about the place, was taking its toll. My boyfriend was also the band manager and bass player; the togetherness was suffocating. And cliche of cliches, my biological clock was ticking. I'd been told I couldn't have children, but I was desperate for a puppy.

Boyfriend and I had "the talk" no less than 472 times between 2001 and 2002. One memorable weekend in Key West, preparing to take the stage at Finnegan's Wake, I gave the ultimatum. Wrap up the playing for at least a few months, or I was out. Boyfriend said okay, but continued to book gigs, business as usual. I packed my meager belonging, sold my gear for the cash I would need, and bailed.

A lot has changed since then. I met and married the love of my life. I gave birth to 2 beautiful children, one of whom tragically died a few hours after he was born. I'm now pregnant with my third (and last, I'm 40 for chissakes!) child. I moved from Boston, to New York, to Ohio, and back to Upstate New York. I wouldn't trade any of it, my husband and my children fill me with more joy than even the best gig ever could.

But in that part of my soul that's me and me alone, where only what I want matters... I am empty. I miss music. I miss performing. I know I'm going back.

No, not to my crazy-assed touring days. And not to my ex! He and I are still great friends - in fact, I'm currently designing the art work for his new band's CD. But I have no urge to give up my family in any way, shape or form. I am happy with my life in all ways, except in my career.

I took the ultimate cop-out. I took a job in corporate America, and told myself I was doing the right thing. The grown-up, respectable thing. What a horrible, horrible mistake! I don't want to be a gray, mindless corporate drone, and I sure as hell don't want my children growing up thinking that that's the "right" thing to do! No, no, a thousand times no!

Years ago I had a stroke, and for 48 hours things were pretty grim. The doctors said I might survive - but likely not. I came incredibly close to dying. And yet, lying in that hospital bed with tubes sticking into and out of every damned part of me, I was more alive than I am today. Today I am that horrible spectre, the zombie-like creature who is Going Through The Motions.

For me, for Ciara, for Matthew, and for Rory, I have to go back. To teach my children the meaning of life, I have to be alive myself.

If you're a guitar player reading this, give me a yell!