The Perils of Perfectionism

Note: To those who subscribe to this blog, kindly subscribe to my new blog, which is now hosted on my newly redesigned web site. For the next month or so, I'll continue to cross-post here as well.

Something curious this week happened with my music. Frustrated with the MP3 player provided by Amazon, I decided to give Google Play a try, and somehow—and I’ve really no idea how this happened—my entire music catalog appeared on my smartphone. I never uploaded the music stored on my computer to any kind of Google cloud storage, so I’ve absolutely no idea how every single piece of music I own is now on my phone.

But I’m not complaining, and instead delighted by the accident, as when I saw the covers of my two albums, I decided to give them a listen after years of not hearing a single song. In fact, I dare say I’ve not listened to the entire disc of My Life of Crime since it was completed in 2002, as back then, my perfectionism caused me such agony that I couldn’t bare to sit with it, as all I heard were its shortcomings.

I thought it so flawed, in fact, that I remember sobbing to my friend one night on the phone, knowing that I’d reached the end of my budget, which was way overblown already, and thus would have to live with what was, no matter the outcome. In short, I was heartbroken, feeling that years of work had basically been wasted. It was an epic fail, and that was that.


In the ensuing years, even the thought of the album caused me pain, so for all this time, it has basically sat on the shelf. I did promote it somewhat shortly after its release, but illness soon set in, which in a weird way got me off the hook, as I didn’t believe in it as much as Daddy’s Little Girl (1997). I was relieved.

This all brings me to this week, when the sight of the cover on my phone prompted me to hit “play,” and I have to admit, I’m flabbergasted. I can’t even remember what I thought so wrong with it all those years ago, and instead heard nothing but clear, striking songs; lush arrangements; crisp production; and a shocking amount of talent from all the musicians who lent their gifts to the project.

I dare say the latter is what struck me the most, leaving me humbled and honored that people of this caliber made it affordable for me to hire them. Of course, they wouldn’t have sounded so wonderful without the gifts of the engineers involved, too, who recorded tracks that could go head to head with anything put out by a major label.

And so I’ve been listening this week not as a heartbroken perfectionist, but as a fan, as a huge part of me feels like I didn’t even write these songs. To this day, I feel like they came through me, from some source I can’t explain. I simply had to be patient for the song’s arrival, upon which it was my job to peel back the onion layers, under which was a beautiful baby song…bright, shiny, innocent, and perfect.

As my new web site doesn’t have a jukebox, as my old site did, I’m loading my songs onto ReverbNation for the time being, so that I have a place to direct people in case they want to hear my work online.

I’m so thrilled that for the first time since its completion, I can share My Life of Crime as my pride and joy...my baby who has been patiently waiting in the wings for me to come around. I can’t believe it sat under wraps all this time.

I’m slowly building my ReverbNation page here. Five songs have been uploaded so far.

All of my songs are available on iTunes.


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Six...No, Two...Degrees of Donna Summer

I just heard the sad news about the untimely passing of Donna Summer, the disco queen of the 1970s and early '80s, whose career took off in 1975 after meeting producers Giorgio Moroder and Pete Bellotte, the duo that wrote so many of her hits, such as "Hot Stuff," "I Feel Love" and "Love to Love You Baby," among so many others.

When I read the details of her passing today in the New York Times and saw Mr. Bellotte's name, my mind quickly flashed back to 1998 and an email I received from him soon after the release of my first disc, Daddy's Little Girl. Without saying who he was, he very kindly inquired about getting a copy of the album, noting that he was having no luck finding it in England, where he lived and worked.

Donna Summer in 1970.

As a lot of press and music people were asking for promos back then, I immediately wrote back saying that I'd be happy to send him a copy, but asked how he'd heard about me, as I was surprised that I was getting an inquiry from the U.K.

He replied saying that he'd heard about me from a stateside producer, Keith Forsey, who apparently had told him that Daddy's Little Girl was a "must-have." Having no idea who Forsey was either, I started googling, and was startled to learn not only about Bellotte's impressive credentials, but also those of Forsey, who penned the hit "Don't You Forget About Me" by Simple Minds (the theme song of The Breakfast Club), as well as Flashdance's "What a Feeling," for which he'd won an Oscar.

As I was so astonished that anyone at all knew about my music, let alone such successful producers and songwriters on both sides of the pond, I couldn't help but express a girlish, squealing enthusiasm in my next email, noting that as only a few hundred discs were in circulation at the time, it was somewhat mind-boggling that anyone knew about me at all.

Pete must have found this amusing, because he went on to say that not only had he heard about me from Forsey, but also from Don Henley.

When I received that particular missive, I recall staring at the computer screen for a few moments, reading the name "Don Henley" over and over, as I couldn't quite get it to register.

"Don Henley?" I wrote back. "You mean...from the Eagles?????" (And yes, I did insert that many question marks.)

Pete replied, "Yes. The last time I was in Los Angeles, I read an interview with Don in Mix Magazine, and he was talking about what a wonderful singer you were. So I jotted down your name in my date book, to remind myself to look you up. Then I heard about you again from Keith, and then from Jackson Browne."

What the...???

Again, I just stared at the email. Jackson Browne? Of...Jackson Browne?????

As I'd already used up my question mark quotient for the day, and because I didn't want to sound like a complete numnut, I didn't ask how in God's name Jackson Browne had heard of me. I also think I was just saturated by absolute astonishment at everything that had occurred in a matter of about ten minutes. So I just let the whole thing drop, but not before I went in search of that article in Mix Magazine.

Unfortunately, I was to learn that there were actually three Mix Magazines at the time, all spelled differently, each with a different numbers of "x's", so I was never able to find that Don Henley article (nor did I ever figure out why my music seemed to resonate with '70s rock gods). I did write to each publication, but no one ever replied, and that was that.

Pete and I stayed in close touch that year, and at one point he even played around with my song "A Better Haircut" in his computer, deleting the intro and speeding up the tempo. He also added some drum tracks to the single "Daddy's Little Girl," all just for fun, just to see what I thought of what he considered could be some improvements.

We continued to check in with one another every once in awhile over the ensuring years, but eventually we stopped writing. I seem to recall him struggling with some serious complications in his life, possibly an illness (I can't quite recall), and, of course, I went on to have the most hellish decade of my life, struggling with my own illness, during which my music became a minor footnote in my life.

But what a fond memory of someone I never even met in person. I was struggling so hard in those days to get my music heard, and with a few clicks of his "send" button, Pete provided me with the validation I needed to keep going, as he proved to me that my music could generate that all important "word of mouth" that every artist dreams of.

Of course, how I wish that could have happened on a much grander scale, but the sadness I feel about a music career unfulfilled in no way diminishes the sheer delight I feel each and every time I hear the name Pete Bellotte. I'm so sorry you lost your friend today, Pete. But I'm so happy that, at least for a little while, you were mine.

A Toll On My Soul

I was procrastinating on Saturday, as usual, so when I went to pick up my pain medication at the pharmacy across the street, I found that they'd closed a little early, and I was absolutely freaked that I wouldn't have enough meds for the following day, yesterday (Sunday).

For someone in chronic pain, narcotic meds are a type of deal with the devil, for on the one hand, they provide a certain amount of relief and respite--a sense of control over miserable circumstances--but on the other, they rob you of your normal emotions, even if, like me, you don't necessarily feel high anymore (not unless you take too much, which I've been wont to do now and then).

When I saw I had just one 10 mg Oxycontin pill yesterday morning, I knew it wouldn't be enough for the day and this made me nervous, but what was actually disturbing was the realization of how much a part of me these pills have become.

While they do ease the pain somewhat, they also take a toll on my soul, and it's hard to imagine life without them now. In a strange way, they fill the space that is the loneliness one feels with chronic pain. When I take my pills, the world is a little brighter, a little softer, and I'm happy to passively sit back and let it pass me by. But it's never without some regret, for when I watch TV, it's like I'm watching others live life for me, and I'm envious of their healthy, vibrant lives.

If it's a true crime show, I wonder what it's like to passionately catch crooks all day; if it's a TV drama, I wonder what it's like to live the life of a successful, creative actor; if it's a reality show...well, OK, I rarely envy those folks, especially any of those Real Housewives babes. If I lived in a world where I ever had to go to a "big hat luncheon," I'd slit my wrists. But I do envy their healthy, pain-free life.

In the past few months, I've even become something of a recluse, which is just plain weird for me, considering my personality. But the pills actually make watching lots of TV interesting, which is what I learned yesterday, as without the pills I was absolutely bored to tears by just about everything. I almost didn't know what to do with all the time, not because of the pain so much, but because I no longer recognized myself. Spitfire Mary Ann has turned into a human lump on the couch. I didn't even feel like shaving my head, which is saying something, because I always get a big kick out of that.

I can tell I'm withering, as I now shave my noggin every two weeks or so, as opposed to every five days. I used to love the fiery feelings my hairless dome would bring up--such adventure, such mischief--but it's as though there's few feelings at all anymore, except exhaustion from all this endurance.

I have to remind myself that I haven't given up--that the therapies I've set in motion take time to come to fruition. Hopefully, I'll get accepted into NYU's psychoanalytic program, so that I can probe the mind/body connection in all this, and once that happens, I'll have more surgery. I want to do things differently this time. I want to be more aware of what's happening in my subconscious before I go under the knife again, which is a curious goal considering I really have no feelings to report, other than an opinion on that cool Chariots of the Gods show on the History Channel yesterday, which wasn't boring at all.

I have to admit; watching all those talking heads speaking so enthusiastically about the possibility of ancient aliens made me wonder what it's like to be an anthropologist. Who would I be without all the pain, all the pills?

It's a beautiful, sunny day today, but it may as well be raining, 'cause I doubt I'll be going out. I know I should push myself, but I'm no longer chasing my dreams and passions anymore. I'm instead running from the monster as fast as I can, only to find he's keeping up quite well and resting comfortably, in fact, in my own body. The only ammo I've got is this friggin' pill, which tames him temporarily, but tames me, too. I'm just so sick of all this crap, all this pain, all this confusion, all these pills.

Now where's the remote?

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Hotel Heaven

The pain is overwhelming today. I thought I was really onto something with my last post, and maybe I am, but that doesn't console me right now.

Pain like this is ruthless, brutal, cruel. A few days ago I was on top of the world, which makes this crash all the harsher.

It's hard to know if those insights were real, or if they created just a temporary placebo effect, which has happened to me in the past. The muscles and tendons are still very relaxed, but the localized jaw pain is fierce.

Regardless, I've applied to NYU's psychoanalytic institute. I've got to keep trying, but this sharp increase in pain is crushing; it makes it hard to think let alone take some kind of action.

Last night, I took an oxycontin (10 mg), an advil, a xanax and a few drags of pot, and the pain went away completely. When moments like that occur, it's like the pain never happened. I immediately snap back to myself and my joyousness soars. Instantly, I begin enjoying just normal life stuff, normal life thoughts.

Today, I find myself threatening God, saying that if someone up there doesn't help me soon, I'll be checking in to Hotel Heaven in the not-too-distant future, not out of despondency but logic.

Many people with my condition have killed themselves. In fact, when this first struck in 1999, I joined two different online support groups, which was a disaster. People were so devastated by their pain that all they could manage to write was their misery. It wasn't a true support group, where everyone is helping and uplifting each other, but instead a dumping ground of human agony.

I tried to be cheerful and upbeat, but then one of the patients in the first group killed herself. Her husband wrote in to say that she'd just reached the end of the line and took herself out. Needless to say, I immediately opted out of that group.

But then the following week, a patient in the other group also killed herself, and my blood ran cold, mainly because I so completely understood why she did it. I understood why they both did it, and I realized that this pain was potentially fatal.

What's a little spooky is that a few weeks ago, I had that awful premonition again, the type where I suddenly can't see my future. I didn't tell anyone because I talked myself out of it. But I have to be honest; it happened, and now here I am feeling that I just can't go on. I'm not sure I want to. There's nothing left in me; no hope, no will, no motivation.

In my 20s, when I first began therapy, strange and wonderful things began to happen in my life, where something would meet me halfway in terms of the things I wanted to accomplish.

The first instance was my desire to find a music studio, so that I wasn't doing it in my bedroom all the time and potentially bothering my three roommates. When I thought about what I wanted, I thought of a small, separate room in my building that a writer had been renting for years. When I opened the paper to look for rental space, one of my roommates joked, "Are you looking for a new apartment?"

When I told her I was looking for a space similar to the one rented by the writer downstairs, she told me that she'd just seen him moving out three days prior. I thought it an incredible stroke of luck, and took over the space.

But then these "coincidences" began to multiply. Over and over, I was startled at how doors were opening up for me, and I began to tally up these experiences. I didn't know what it was, but there was a true force at work.

In The Power of Myth, Bill Moyers and Joseph Campbell call this force the "helping hands" phenomenon. The only explanation I could come up with at the time was that when we follow our bliss, we tap into something extraordinary, and I began to understand the notion that "God helps those who help themselves." It seemed that when I took risks to follow my dreams, there was something there to help me, and it was something I knew I could actually count on.

I suppose my problem now is that I have no dreams anymore. There's no bliss to follow. I'm caught in some kind of negative vortex where I'm completely left to my own devices. The helping hands are gone, and I don't know how to get them back.

The writer in me wants a happy ending to this story. I would love to find my way out of pain not just for myself, but to provide a type of road map for others who come after me. But I'm beginning to feel clubbed to death. At some point, I just won't be able to stand up anymore.

Prayers are welcome, because right now, I can't even pray. Please see my future for me.


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Full Speed Ahead

Something remarkable happened this week, and I'm almost superstitious about reporting it.

I had an insight, which was this: How I feel about this pain, every single experience I have of it, precisely repeats how I felt in my childhood. The pattern is almost an exact recreation of the players and the situation I knew growing up, the most difficult of which was my relationship with my dad.

Here are some correlations:

• I’m fighting an enemy that no one can see. I look fine, yet I’m terrorized daily. (No one would’ve ever believed my dad was the tormenter he was. People considered me “lucky” to have the life I did.)
  
• I’m oppressed to the extent that I can hardly think about anything else. Expressing myself creatively takes an extreme amount of energy, and living/enjoying life is secondary to dealing with the pain (dad).
  
• I’m struggling just to get through the day.
  
• I feel punished for an infraction I don’t understand.
  
• The pain (dad’s rage) comes and goes for no reason at all. It’s not at all dependent upon what I do or don’t do.
  
• The pain (dad) crushes me with ruthless abandon.
  
• I don’t see anyone else suffering like this, fighting an enemy like this, so I’m all alone with it.
  
• I don’t feel protected.
  
• No one can help me.
  
• I feel like something is inherently wrong with me, which is why all this is happening. I must deserve it. I must have done something.
  

The list could go on, of course, but when I saw so clearly that this is a repeat of a pattern I’m deeply familiar with, I could see that the relationship I have with this pain is the relationship I had with him.

All of my adult life, I’ve been sick with something; when one thing would resolve, something else would emerge to torment me. The torment has gotten progressively worse.

What’s particularly astonishing is that my dad nowadays has given up on life. He had a small stroke ten years ago that profoundly affected him emotionally. He sits and watches TV all day, unmotivated to do anything.

What have I been doing all month? Sitting in front of the TV all day, unmotivated to do anything.

I can see so clearly the maladaptive patterns of others in my life, but I’ve never been able to turn that same eye on myself to the extent I did this week.

Suffice to say, I’ve been working hard on all this, testing the theory that this pain is surpressed rage, which was a belief of Freud, proven to a large extent by the work of Dr. John Sarno at NYU, who’s cured thousands of back pain and other chronic ailments by helping patients understand the connection. (See the book The Mindbody Prescription for more info.)

When I had this insight, I dare say it was one of the most profound I’ve ever experienced. It all made so much sense, and I felt absolutely flooded with light when it occurred. As long as I focus on this pain, I’m not focusing on the other issues of my psyche. In fact, I dare say that I haven’t revisited them in the five years this has all been going on. And this coming from a woman who LIKES therapy, who’s spent years in it.

Since all this happened, the pain has changed dramatically. It’s far more localized now, and all of the knots in my jaw and neck have diminished significantly.

Sarno says one must be diligent daily about spending time in reflection or meditation, bringing into consciousness the rumblings we feel deep within. We don't have to exactly know what they are or how to resolve them, but we must give them a tip of the hat, so to speak. We have to at least feel them so that they're not driven into avenues like pain.

I've known for years that some important issues have yet to be resolved for me, but as they can make me feel so broken, I was starting to write them off, saying that maybe there are certain things one just can't heal from and we have to learn to live with it.

Curiously, I've made these same exact statements about my pain condition.

I've applied for NYU's psychoanalytic program, which is different from psychotherapy, as you must go multiple times a week. Even if I don't get out of pain, these issues must be addressed if I'm ever going to have a full, loving human experience.

The pain has postponed this leg of my life journey for awhile now, but how much longer can I expect to just drift in confusion?

I'm excited to see where all this will lead. I'm feeling shaky about it, which I suspect means I'm on the right track. At the very least, I'm on a new and shiny track, which beats the current rusty one that has me at a full stop.

Full speed ahead.


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Sleeping With the Enemy

I've been reading a lot about Buddhism lately and I like it. It doesn't mince words. The very first thing Buddha teaches is that "life is suffering," and the religion basically goes on from there. What a concept. I suppose it's not surprising that I'm drawn to a religion that takes on pain as its basic tenet.

While I've been reading all kinds of wonderful spiritual books these past few years, Buddhism speaks to me on a different level because it says, basically, that if I can be patient and accepting of what has befallen me, I can ultimately find a way to peace, contentment and enlightenment, even nirvana, whether chronic pain is in my life or not.

This so much echoes my own discovery about the power of acceptance, then adds to it by assuring me that the pain doesn't have to go away for me to be happy. It offers a place that is deeper, softer, stronger, where I can just let go, detach and rest.

I've already experienced this somewhat on nights when the pain is just so bad that I'll quietly lie down somewhere and just let everything go. I'll stop fighting the pain and tell it to get as bad as it wants to get, and sure enough, something does happen physiologically. As I calm down and breathe, sometimes it will begin to throb (in a good way, as if the blood is getting to where it needs to go), which is when I just detach and observe, then imagine tending to the infection site with cool water and gentle cleansing.

This brings to mind a doctor I once saw on TV, who hypnotized pregnant women who'd previously given birth in nightmarish deliveries. The idea was to get them to work with their labor pains, as opposed to fearing or battling them. Not surprisingly, the two women featured in the show experienced flawless deliveries using this self-hypnosis, where each was quietly at peace giving birth while other labor-stricken mothers were screaming bloody murder in adjoining rooms. One scream, in particular, sounded like the poor woman was being hacked to death, which stood in such stark contrast to these incredibly peaceful deliveries.

I've thought of that show often over the years, but my fear of this pain was too overwhelming to think self-hypnosis could work for me.

That's the operative word here: fear. When we don't understand what's happening in our bodies and we can't find relief, we can feel invaded, in a sense. We're battling a monster we can't see, can't find, can't conquer. In the battle to vanquish this enemy, we can go to war with our own bodies, often finding solace and escape in substance abuse and other bad habits, only to find that we're pouring gasoline on the fire.

In meeting with my life coach Nancy Colasurdo this week, I was able to admit that I'm just not taking care of myself anymore. I've been giving in to this loss of appetite by not eating, but as Nancy pointed out, this decreases my energy all the more. And it lowers my resistance to any type of infection, which perhaps explains the increase in pain. My body can't deploy its own defenses with so little nutrients. I need to have faith that with proper care, my body will assist in this battle handsomely. I need to work with my body, and that means personal responsibility.

I can't ask God or any universal spirit for help when I'm not willing to do my very best to help myself--when I don't want to do the right thing--which is rid myself of the self-abuse habits that are harming me. It's so obvious that I feel just plain stupid at not having had the insight sooner.

So I must work with, not against, my body in all ways if I'm ever to overcome this pain. Come to think of it, that's just a good way to live in all matters.


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Chaos Theory

I have a piece of paper taped to my wall next to my drawing desk, on which I long ago scribbled the definition of chaos theory: "The more complex the pattern, the simpler the underlying reality."

I heard it on TV once, and I read it often, as science and the human condition always seem to be so relative. Truth is truth, whether it be a mathematical formula or a divine insight. I find comfort in this definition of chaos theory these days, because deep in my soul, I do feel that there is an underlying truth in all this pain, and it's my job to figure it out.

Of course, I'm sick to death of trying to figure it out, and often come to the conclusion that I'm just unlucky--that there's no grand design to all this--I'm just a single human who drew the low card and nothing will change until I get a lucky break--when I'll find the right treatment or the right doctor who will help me get well. And that'll be that. No divine involvement whatsoever.

But then another one of those strange interventions happened again the other day, which challenges my notions of nothingness. I've talked about them in previous posts, where I'll get a strong premonition or warning that alerts me to danger and alters my behavior to the extent that I actually avoid disaster.

Here's what happened this time: Every day I get a digest post from the online blood support group I joined years ago. I read it faithfully for years, but as the posts tend to get repetitive, I haven't opened or read any of them in a good six months or more.

Last week, though, something made me open the email, and in the list of topics was a warning about a drug that I'd been taking for nausea--Reglan. It said that new studies had shown that Reglan can cause permanent damage to the nervous system when taken in high doses or over a long period of time, the latter of which applied to me.

As the drug cocktail I take every day can sometimes bring on nausea, I was taking Reglan every morning whether I had nausea or not, just as a precaution, so that I didn't find myself out and about somewhere and suddenly need to vomit.

Yet when I read this warning post, I was shocked at the damage Reglan can do, and immediately stopped taking it.

Later, I thought it extraordinary that of all the posts to open during the last six months, that was the one I chose, and once again, I felt like something "other" had intervened. I suppose I could just call it a coincidence, but when similar coincidences happen over and over, a pattern emerges that challenges logic.

I feel like there is something out there keeping me alive, which frankly feels somewhat cruel, considering the state I'm in. In the last few weeks, the pain level has skyrocketed to the extent that it's there when I go to bed and there when I wake up. My despondency feels like a ten-ton weight, and thoughts do cross my mind lately that I could always just end things. I do have that choice, and I know things are bad when I begin considering such a move as an option.

I love life so much though, and then I think of my little nieces who adore me (and who I love more than words could describe), who would be left without their nutty aunt for the rest of their lives. And so I hold on. These "interventions" are keeping me around for some reason, and I'm trying to have faith in that.

I'm still swirling in a state of chaos, though, trying to believe that there is a simple underlying truth to it all that will set me free, as truth always does.

But my energy is fading, to the extent that I've completely lost my appetite. When eating feels like a monumental task, the other things I know I must do to try and get well feel like lifting cement boulders.

It's time to reach out for help. Friends have offered assistance constantly, and I know they mean it, but I suppose it's tough for me to admit that I'm actually this weak right now, and that I can no longer do this alone.

I don't know that that particular truth is the simple one that can explain all this chaos, but it's the truth today. Time to make some phone calls.


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No Magical Thinking Allowed

I think I'm losing it. Seriously. The pain level has mysteriously upped a few notches, and I'm just beside myself.

I got up at around 4 a.m. to go to bed (my cat woke me up from the couch) and it struck me while walking to the bathroom that my whole life has become about this pain. I'm just so drained that I don't even want to do the things I use to love so much. They don't interest me right now, and all I really want to do is ramp up the medication to a point where I'm just plain numb. That's no kind of life, of course, and with one false move, it won't be any life at all.

What's so strange about this whole debacle is that the existential questions forced upon me are questions I've been asking for as far back as I can remember. Who are we, us humans? And why are we here? I can actually remember thinking this stuff as a teenager, which I thought for sure was evidence that I was going insane as I didn't see anyone else fretting like this.

Don't get me wrong: I was all teenager and filled all the prerequisites for those years, but I always seemed to have a third eye at work, just observing everything from a curious point of view. When trauma and depression set in, this curiosity first evolved into dissociation, where I truly felt like I was a ghost in the room, and then it morphed into just plain anxiety. (This may, of course, say more about my upbringing than my curious nature.)

I suppose my point is that I've never been able to just set this existential quandry aside for any extended period of time and just relax, just enjoy. And so much of it, as it appears from where I sit now, has been about faith.

When I was a kid, my questions may have erupted from dissatisfaction with my Catholicism, where God was harsh and the nuns were harsher. If this was what God was about, I wanted no part of it.

But as I got older, I did find faith through the writings of Florence Scovel Shinn, who taught me how to affirm and pray and surrender, and I watched my life expand in glorious new ways. In fact, my journal entries during this period are almost heartbreaking to read, as they're so joyful, so full of humor. When I read them now, I can almost hear a brooding soundtrack in the background as a type of foreshadowing of what will soon befall this happy hapless victim--mainly, an abandonment so complete by who she thought was her God that she ended up in a mental institution.

I've been thinking about Jesus and his words on the cross after he'd been crucified, when he asked, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" I don't think God answered him, and he certainly didn't provide him with a happy ending. I suppose one could say that Jesus then rose from the dead, and that's supposedly happy, but I'm not really sure what all those Bible stories are ever getting at. Is the lesson here that I'm supposed to endure a painful life, die an awful death, then be reborn with God? Who cares?

At least Jesus only lasted three days on the cross while hurt and pissed off. I've been bearing my own cross for five years now, and to a lesser extent, the four years before that. Enough already.

Once again, I'm coming to the conclusion that no god is going to get me out of this. Either I'll get out of pain or I won't. No magical thinking allowed.

I've known about a surgeon in Burlington, VT for awhile now who treats this, and he's come highly recommended.

I've waited out the winter to go see him, due to the weather, but it's time now to stop all this intellectual crap and just make an appointment, debt be damned.

I'd love to think that I could get well magically, through faith or faith-healing or resolving some long ago hurt that is really the key to all this, as that would ironically give me some sense of control. If I have the surgery, it will either work or it won't, but if I could resolve this in some other way, I suppose my faith would be restored, and I could go back to a more innocent existence.

I'm in a dangerous place tonight. Last week, I felt on the brink of something good, but now I just feel on the brink. My heart is breaking and I'm not sure how much more of this I want. I'm sick of being brave. I'm sick of enduring, of hoping, of trying. I'm just sick, and it's no way to live.


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Using the Monster

Sometimes I think this illness is just a waste of time, a waste of energy, a waste of potential, until I remind myself that as long as I keep up this journal, none of the journey is wasted, particularly if it can help another person.

It ain't easy, though. And it's certainly not an assignment I ever would have asked for. As a young person, I always thought my "hero's journey" would take place on a grander, far swankier scale. I'd become some celebrated singer/songwriter, and that's where the drama of my life would unfold. That's how I'd fulfill my destiny--by writing and performing songs that would enchant and connect, as others' songs have done for me. It was a singular quest for many years, but all along, something about it just didn't feel right.

Strangely, as I was going through it, I somehow knew that I would not succeed commercially in music (despite the wonderful and worthy songs that came through me). Something about that world wasn't a good fit, yet as I'd never seen myself in any other role in life, I would just trudge on, even though I didn't like the path.

I loved writing and performing, but I hated touring, and I hated the music business. I also hated the deep-seated sense of unworthiness I felt nearly all the time, which in hindsight was my true enemy. When we feel we're unworthy of good things, we don't get them for sure. It pains me now to think of how much I dressed down during those early performing days (hiding in plain sight) and that I didn't celebrate this nice Irish face and slim build that I've been given. (You can bet your ass I'm enjoying it now.)

I worked on these unworthy feelings for years in therapy, and slowly things began to change for the better. But with these changes came also the realization that what I was really looking for in the music business (as opposed to music itself) was some kind of validation, my own version of keeping up with the Joneses. And, of course, no one can give you that; you validate yourself.

While it's been liberating to have had these insights, I do wonder these days where I fit into the grand scheme of things, which was so clear to me years ago. No amount of painkillers today has been able to even make a dent in this pain and I feel devoured by endurance.

At times I feel wistful for all the things that I could potentially be doing without pain or illness. My art studio beckons daily, as do countless creative ideas, all of which are lost without me--a realization made all the more poignant by my awareness of having hit the half-century mark. The future is shorter now, and I can no longer live in the land of "someday," which is so often the refuge for the young when frustration sets in.

My somedays are getting fewer, so I suppose the real trick now is to somehow turn my "somedays" into "todays," to work with what I've been given instead of mourning for what could have been.

A well Mary Ann would be working on those new paintings, taking flying lessons, dating, seeing family more (especially my nieces), volunteering, and going to flamenco classes two or three times a week.

But this Mary Ann is in constant pain, which, whether I like it or not, has put me in a place where I must accept without crumbling; where faith has been challenged; and where I watch a lot of TV. What an assignment.

This morning, a television ad came on for Batman Begins, and this text came on the screen: "I'm using this monster to help other people."

I don't know that this journal will ever help anyone else, but one thing is for sure: I'm using this monster.


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The Wrestler

Spoiler alert: While I don't say what happens in The Wrestler in the following post, I do talk about insights and personal conclusions, so read at your own risk!

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Friends and family are noticing something different about me, and I notice it, too. I feel like there is a big change coming, that I'm ready for something to change, but it's gonna take guts on my part.

This week has been a strange one, no doubt made even stranger by my new experiments with pot. Yes, at the tender age of 50, I was doing something all week that I didn't even do in high school or college. The results were curiously positive for the most part, but I'm not sure it did anything for the pain.

I will say that in the mornings, I was so alert that I felt like I slept like a two-year-old who's so dead to the world that you could toss her in the air and she'd sleep right through it. I've read that cannabis opens capillaries in the brain, so that right and left sides communicate instantly with each other, which is why people can feel so creative when...well...stoned. Their senses are heightened, and insights can come quickly, especially when you're looking for them.

I wonder, too, if pot somehow makes sleep more restorative, as the subconscious becomes so active. Perhaps we work through issues while we're sleeping that's in some way helpful, as this week has been fraught with insights all over the place.

Regardless, I'm finished with pot, for now anyway. The main thing I have to remember is that now is not the time to give up on life, even though certain days feel like nothing more than an endurance test. I have to wait out the suffering and just hope that tomorrow will be a better day.

I saw The Wrestler recently, and that's really the point of the whole movie--that so often, just when we're on the brink of having the things in life that truly matter, we give up on ourselves, thinking that neither our circumstances, nor we ourselves, will ever really change.

The film was profoundly moving, and it has stayed with me. I don't know Mickey Rourke, yet I feel so strangely happy for him that he mounted this tremendous comeback. (If you see the film, the word "mount" is probably not the best I could have chosen. lol!)

Unlike his brilliantly rendered character, Rourke himself did hang on through his own darkest days, and he prevailed in being "discovered" yet again. Talk about lightning striking twice. There was a tremendous amount of luck in him getting this role, of course, but no one could ever take away from him what he did with it. His work as this aging wrestler is one of those performances where you soon forget you're watching the actor, and you just see the characters and story...and yourself.

It was the movie I needed to see this season, as I feel so on the brink myself of good tidings; I just have to remember that I can't give up, not now, not ever.

The worst way I could give up would be to descend into a haze of pills, pot and god knows what else. I know what I have to do, and I know there's no shortcut around it.

Wish me luck.


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My Brush With Greatness

 

A shot of Senator Robert Menendez and me in my studio at the 2008 Hoboken Artist Studio Tour. That guy wasn't going to get out of my studio without me grabbing a snap of us together! :)

The Sweetest Thing

My friend Perry Norton sent me an exquisite poem on Valentine's Day as a source of comfort and inspiration. Perry owns her own voiceover company, so be sure to pay her a visit.


YOU SEE I WANT A LOT by Rainer Maria Rilke

You see, I want a lot.
Perhaps I want everything:
the darkness that comes with every infinite fall
and the shivering blaze of every step up.

So many live on and want nothing
and are raised to the rank of prince
by the slippery ease of their light judgments.

But what you love to see are faces
that do work and feel thirst.

You love most of all those who need you
as they need a crowbar or a hoe.

You have not grown old, and it is not too late
to dive into your increasing depths
where life calmly gives out its own secret.


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The Love in His Fists

I'll try anything to get out of pain. I read recently that cannabis can be a great pain reliever and that it opens up our capillaries, both of which sounded good to me, so I visited a trusted pal who swears by the ways of the weed, and proceeded to take some home with me.

At first, I had some serious fears. Many MANY moons ago, back in high school and college, whenever I'd try pot, I'd get completely paranoid, I'd vomit, and it would take days to recover. But I was fairly paranoid in general back then, having been raised in a critical home where my every move was scrutinized.

As I've come a long way since then, I figured, "What the hell? What could one drag do to me?"

So I fired 'er up and took a short, wimpy drag, waited about five minutes, and upon feeling nothing, took another, then another, with each one getting longer and slower. All that seemed to happen was a complete loss of short-term memory and the eruption of ravenous hunger that led me directly to the chips and salsa.

There was no high, no euphoria, just a state of strangeness that even crept into my dreams. I had one where I was writing a song, and it struck me, even in my dream state, that the lyrics were quite good. The only problem is that when I forced myself awake, I could only remember one phrase: "...the love in his fists." Eee gats. There's a mind at rest for ya. Apparently, my Buddhist readings aren't taking root very well.

"The love in his fists." Whatever can that mean? I was never physically abused as a child, but I did live in holy terror. I know for certain that my dad would have died for me, but I also know for certain that his rage was uncontrollable--the kind that could be set off for no reason whatsoever and stay there for weeks on end. It was also the kind where his fists and face would turn so red in anger that I knew if he ever did pop, I was a goner.

I was an only child until I was 16, so I completely blamed myself for his rages, thinking I simply wasn't deserving of all the love and good humor he seemed to heap upon others. To the outside world, he was everyone's favorite uncle, and justifiably so, as he was a gas to be around. But behind closed doors, he could be someone else entirely...a dark, brooding soul who could hate indiscriminately.

I know now that my dad probably suffered from some type of mental disorder (most likely borderline personality disorder, which does damage not just to the patient but to all those in the patient's life). And I've forgiven him completely; I carry no resentments, and my time with him now is cherished, as he's much older, and as a result of a small stroke 10 years ago, he's much quieter. I miss the feisty party guy and all the good times, but I certainly don't miss the specter--that looming dark figure who could so terrorize my mom and me (and later, my sister).

So I suppose the phrase "love in his fists" is a good metaphor for how I feel about him. There was love and rage, always. Ben Horowitz at The Newark Star-Ledger once observed about my music that I create worlds "where joy and peril walk hand in hand." I've always loved that review, as I didn't see that in my own work until Ben did. That's the mark of a good critic--revealing truths back to the artist in a type of sacred dialog.

I also have a lyric in my song "A Better Haircut" that says, "Ya gotta stop popping me in the jaw." That line always startles people, because the song is a type of "East Village Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend" (observed by another reviewer)--light, silly, glamorous and pissed. So what the hell is that line doing there? It seemed to fit the tone of the song in a James-Cagney-shoving-the-grapefruit-in-the-blonde's-face kind of way, but still, it's disturbing.

Fists, rage, hatred, terror, all mixed with love. No wonder I'm in chronic pain.


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Fractured

Am I really doing the best I can when it comes to this pain mess? My pain meds have been changed, from Vicodin to OxyContin, and if I screw up with Oxy (if i take too much as I did with Vicodin), I'll be in serious trouble.

Last night, I took an extra pill, not because I needed it, but because the addiction was screeching in my head. It took hold and completely obsessed me, which is the bitch of being hooked. You're battling your own brain chemistry, your own desires. I didn't want to take it, but like the person who can't resist having one too many, I crumbled and didn't feel very good about it afterward.

I've been researching a lot of alternative theories about addiction other than the 12-step approach, which is very deity-centered and touts the disease model of the condition. While recovery folks will say that you can be an atheist and still work the program, I'm not sure that's true. When notions of a loving creator are profoundly challenged, all the talk of God working in everyone's lives can sound like chatter, even delusional. I don't go to meetings as much as I once did (I used to go every day, now just two or three times a week), not because I don't want to get sober, but because the spiritual words ring hollow.

I must say, I do love the friends I've made there, I like the social aspect of getting together, and I love the experience of such genuine love and compassion.

But in my case, I'm going to have to find either an alternate or supplemental treatment that will resonate. I have to get to the root of my problem, which I suspect runs deeper than I imagine.

On the surface, I'm suffering from an organic, latent infection in my jawbone that has only partially responded to surgery. But on a different level, this disease is a continuation of something very familiar to me, which I've written about in other posts. I'm used to battling as far back as I can remember. There's always been some evil force keeping me down, oppressing my fundamental nature, my desires and my outlook.

It's easy to just escape into pills and television. The harder road would be to explore the metaphors, which I've been doing most of my adult life. It's been a tough, meaningful journey, but when the pain crippled me in '04, all bets were off. When I became suicidal, the pills were necessary in order to buy me time; they also provided a type of comfort that chemically was impossible for my own brain to generate.

But what about now? This past week or so, I've been asking myself, "Am I doing my very best today to get out of pain and get sober?" The answer has painfully been "no" each and every time. I could do better. I could write in my journal daily. I could go down to my art studio, where there is silence (unless I play music) and creative materials all around me. (I tend to create in silence, for some reason.) But in my studio, I'm alone with me, myself and I. I don't want to be alone, perhaps to avoid loneliness, but also to avoid the issues I don't want to think about.

I know what I should be doing to help matters, but if I went off the pills, there are feelings there I don't want to deal with...or perhaps I should say, no feelings at all. When it comes to certain problematic areas of my life, I've hit a brick wall, even with the years of therapy.

Yesterday, I stumbled upon a web site that used language I've never heard before, about what happens to someone with post traumatic stress disorder. It talked about dissociation, feelings of unreality, hypervigilence and loss of identity. While I've overcome a lot of this and have gone on to live a relatively full life, there are gaping holes that I still don't know how to fix.

I was encouraged by this site, as it so precisely described what I experienced as a teenager...what happens when a psyche splits into a type of duality as a means of coping. While I've improved tremendously in this area, I still avoid the pain of the fractures that remain.

How in the world will I ever get better if I think that "going back to life" will be fraught with this low-level psychic ache that never goes away, despite all efforts to resolve it?

This site gave me hope, as apparently there are therapists trained in this precise area. I've been in touch with the site's owner who will try to help me find someone in Manhattan.

Fingers firmly crossed.


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Part I: Blood, Guts and SpongeBob

Part I of the Whole Story

I'm beginning to wonder what it's like NOT to suffer. I honestly can't believe that I haven't yet gone stark raving mad.

Wait...back up a bit. I actually DID go nuts in 2004 and ended up in a psychiatric facility. Oh, brother. Who'da thunk? I was SO depressed that I couldn't even walk the two blocks to St. Mary's and had the suicide hotline call an ambulance to come pick me up. You know things are bad when you can barely find the motivation to walk into the kitchen. I honestly believe there are thousands out there, maybe millions over the eons, who've killed themselves over far less, as I can assure you, I don't think an ounce of serotonin was left in my brain that day.

Things had been gearing up to this point for a number of weeks...actually months. For the 18 months or so prior to a massive internal hemorrhage in March '04, I was feeling quite saucy and slick. Yes, I battled daily abdominal pain that occasionally required Vicodin for "breakthrough pain" (maybe one pill two or three times a week), but other than that, Tylenol handled the job, and I was happy to have survived a major blood clot in my liver (portal vein thrombosis and Budd Chiari Syndrome) in September 2002 (the cause of the abdominal pain).

I was so happy, in fact, that I seemed to find enormous new meaning to my life. And the coumadin I was now taking had two remarkable effects: it eliminated my chronic fatigue syndrome symptoms that I'd been suffering with for 15 years or so, AND it significantly decreased my jaw pain that had started in 1999.

To say that I was a happy camper during this year-and-a-half window is an understatement, for never had I felt so joyous. Every day felt like a gift, and my life was expanding in new and unexpected ways. As my freelance writing was going well, I was able to upgrade to a new large art studio, and I suddenly produced a prolific output of new paintings.

I also came up with countless creative ideas, one of which was the short-lived talk show "Highball! With Mary Ann Farley" at my local bookstore.

The idea of it was to celebrate local artists and personalities, with the format of it first being a Q&A over highballs ('natch), and then the person would perform.

I thought of everything. I had local sponsors pay for a nice spread for audience members, I had the video fireplace (long before other talk show hosts stole my idea :)), and I had glamour in spades.

The idea garnered such quick attention that The Bergen Record did a Sunday feature on the first episode, and I was getting hit for "bookings" long before we even did the first show.

But then something strange began to happen with my health. The abdominal pain, which had been a daily companion for 18 months, was starting to go away as well, and I thought for sure all of my good Law of Attraction thinking was manifesting in spades.

My relationship with my "creator" felt so solid that I decided to get oral surgery on my jawbone to rid myself of any remaining infection and facial pain, and really shoot for a completely pain-free life. Not only were things looking up, but I felt somehow that I had finally arrived, that so much of the awfulness of my life was now behind me, and I was in the moment for perhaps the first time in my adulthood. All goals were short-term, and I expressed my newfound loopiness by wearing clip-on ponytails of all kinds just about every day...long, short, curly, straight. I think it's fair to say I had a grin on my face just about every day.

But then...

It was a Sunday morning and I awoke feeling very achy and thirsty, thinking I was getting a bug. But by the time the afternoon arrived, I knew I was in deep trouble, as in going to the bathroom, I discovered that my stool was absolutely jet black, a sure sign that I was bleeding internally--something I'd been warned about.

As the clot in my liver had calcified, the pressure in my stomach had caused varicose veins, and in being on coumadin, I was in constant danger in having one of them burst at any time. The tar-black stool was confirmation that the inevitable had occurred.

As I'd been in the hospital so many times up until this point, the idea of packing up a bag and walking over to St. Mary's was just plain boring, but dutifully I gathered my paperwork, my toothbrush, my journal with a few art supplies, then took my place in the emergency room.

As usual, I called my dear friend Lynda, who'd come to St. Mary's with me numerous times back in 2002, to tell her simply that I was there, and that there was no need whatsoever for her to come over and be bored with me, despite her offer, once again, to keep me company. I now wish, of course, that she had come, simply to witness the events that were just a few short hours away...events that I haven't even seen in the most grotesque movie or TV dramas of extreme emergency room scenes. It was something you'd see more in a horror movie, where you'd say, geez--what sick mind dreamed this one up?

It came up upon me quick, without notice...a sudden urge to vomit, and as I had nothing to throw up in, I quickly grabbed the liner of a garbage can, while yelling to nurses that I needed something to get sick in.

At first, it was just spitting up blood into the bag, but when the basin came and landed on my lap, I began projectile vomiting volumes of pure unadulterated blood that made the eyes of the nurses around me go wide and their faces go pale.

Unbeknowst to me at the time, I'd also aspirated a fair amount of blood back into my lungs, which had the effect of suffocation, or drowning, and I could feel my vision going black. "I'm fading," I said, "I'm fading," and I thought for sure this was it...that I was checking out for good, and I turned to a young nurse next to me and asked her point blank, "Am I going to die?"

She was way too young for such a question, and answered, "Well...um...we're going to do everything we can to...um..."

She couldn't even answer the question when I felt another surge of vomit rising to the surface, only this time they couldn't find a basin in time, which meant I projectile vomited even more blood over the side of the bed, trying to aim for the garbage can that I'd removed the liner from previously.

Again, I felt myself fading to black, which I have to say was the single scariest thing I've ever felt. To feel the life force begin to drain from your body in such a violent way is chilling, lonely and just plain awful.

I then turned to the head nurse, Nurse Betty, and again asked, "Am I going to die?"

"Not on my shift!" she yelled back, and I immediately wondered what time she clocked out.

What then ensued is something you see in a scene of ER. The bed was whisked away into another part of the emergency room, and suddenly I must have had half a dozen people surrounding me, inserting tubes into veins that, because they're so tiny, would not expand wide enough to accommodate the insertion of new, thick blood.

Ultimately, a handsome Indian doctor inserted a line into my groin, which had to be stitched on, and at last the new blood was finding its way into me.

By this time, my pal Lynda had arrived, and unbeknownst to me was told by Nurse Betty that I had lost an enormous amount of blood and was in critical condition, and that she should walk into the room with a smile on her face.

She did, but with big watery pools in her eyes, which perplexed me, as it still hadn't sunk in just how bad things were. It was only when I overheard her a few minutes later on the phone with my mother, and hearing the words "critical condition," that I knew this was bad.

Yet somehow, I knew I was going to live, and Lynda and I began joking with the various personnel helping me, especially "SpongeBob," the gay nurse, who teased me that I was "a big baby" for complaining about the unanesthetized stitching process going on in my groin.

Obviously I made it through the night, and the next morning they were able to find and clamp the popped vein in my stomach. It turns out that I'd lost 70% of my blood volume, as ultimately I'd need nine pints of blood and six units of plasma to replace all I'd lost. (I was to vomit again at 5 a.m. the next morning.)

I stayed in the hospital for a week, fighting off fevers from the new blood, and mentally preparing for the surgery I would ultimately need at Columbia Presbyterian to reduce my gastric pressure, so that this wouldn't happen again.

As bad as this all was, things were to get far, far worse.

Next up: Three months of hell, followed by my descent into stark, raving insanity.


Note: Drawings were done my first night in ICU.
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