Maybe it's The Artist's Way or maybe it's that my therapist is on a three-week vacation, but yesterday, suddenly, a lightbulb went off in my head about why, even after 8 years of therapy, I feel just as stuck as I ever did, albeit in a slightly different locale.
I had made a lot of changes. I started seeing this therapist in the summer of 2004, when I was suicidal over the Mentor, my relationship with my partner, my dreary apartment, my wardrobe that made me look totally sexless, you name it. By 2007 I had begun "dating", had a spot as a volunteer soloist at a Lutheran church, had one operatic concert under my belt, had gotten away from the Mentor, but had allowed his influence to linger inasmuch as I now had red walls, red sheets, and some new clothes that fit my curvy figure attractively. And I had plans for the future. I was going to produce a concert version of Samson et Dalila the following spring, and my play was going to be produced in Texas that fall.
Since then, here is what has happened:
September 2007: My partner, with whom I had not been speaking other than to be the recipient of nuisance threatening phone calls and hate mail, had a hip replacement. Whatever she felt about me, I determined to not only be there for her the day of the operation, but also, when I came back from Texas and she was out of the hospital, to spend Sundays "doing for" her. I considered it would have been inhumane not to. It did not make us a "couple" again.
March 2008: Our best friend "DJ" died. She was a huge support system to my partner, in that she called every day and helped my partner (who was beginning already to show signs of mental disorganization) "orient" herself. She was also a friend to me, in that she helped me tread the fine line between being "humane" to my partner and taking care of my own life. And she was the only person who could keep us from fighting.
May 2008: The day before my concert of Samson et Dalila, some unpleasantness surfaced at work, which was to haunt and torment me for the remainder of my time there, which thankfully was only another 18 months. I was not allowed one nanosecond to savor my turn as Dalila. Not one! This unpleasantness was front and center on everyone's radar screen. I don't even think anyone asked me how it went.
May 2009: My 93 year old mother fell down the stairs of her Brooklyn (rent controlled) walkup apartment, due to landlord negligence. I now had to spend two weekends a month "doing for" her. She had a cleaning lady, but would not, for example, trust her to use the ATM.
October 2009: I was blessedly liberated from the job I loathed, with a "retirement package" including health insurance for life and a year of career counseling. No sooner was I in a state of jubilation over a chance at a second career than my mother was diagnosed with bladder cancer.
November 2009-October 2010: While trying to have some "me" space to reinvent myself with the career coach, I was taking my mother (whom I didn't even particularly like, God forgive me) to a medical facility in Washington Heights, which meant getting up at 6 and picking her up in Brooklyn, and often not getting home until after 11. I now spent one weekday "doing for" her in addition to spending part of the weekend "doing for" my partner. During this period my partner was hospitalized for sinus surgery and upon returning home had a hemorrhage necessitating a repeat hospital visit via the emergency room. In late September 2010 my mother took a turn for the worse and the Visiting Nurse Service set up a hospice in her apartment. She died on October 10, with my holding her hand and telling her I loved her. Whether I really did or not is not relevant. I wanted to make sure those were the last words she heard.
I could see that there would be no exciting "encore career" for me. I was lucky to have health insurance and be able to work at home as a freelance editor, squeezing paid work in the nooks and crannies between caregiving. Other than my daily practice, my biweekly voice lessons, and my occasional choir solo, I really had no time for singing at all, except for a brief concert in a nursing home.
November 2010: I had been cast in a tiny role in an opera production with an orchestra (for which I paid $450). Despite coming there perfectly prepared to sing three pages of music that was not difficult, and having perfect French pronunciation, I was torn to shreds in front of a group of singers most of whom were less than half my age, for no reason that I could fathom. People were sympathetic - they had no idea what was going on either, but it left such a bad taste in my mouth that I have not really "ventured forth" to do anything I don't plan myself since.
Spring 2011: In addition to handling my mother's estate business, I now had to deal with my partner's huge decline. I was actively working with three or four social service agencies to try to get her help, preferably a place to live that was cheaper and where she could have help. The latter came to nothing but she did get food stamps, meals on wheels, a free life alert system, and a free air conditioner. She is now better, but it was hardly an environment in which I felt free to pursue my bliss and let the chips fall where they may.
So there you have it. Is it really a surprise that I've had no energy to milk my muse? I speak about having little time and little money, but I see that I also have very little energy and I'm speaking here about emotional energy. I just feel drained. I can't put singing first, or even second after my editing commitments. It's just way down the list. (When I speak of singing, I don't mean the act of singing I mean chasing and creating opportunities.) All I have energy for some evenings is snuggling with my cat and watching reruns of Downton Abbey.
It's on days like this that I wish I still had the pseudonymous blog, but I am just going to post this and turn it over to the universe.
No wonder I was musing about whether singers as a group (certainly the ones under 40 who write about nothing but their gowns, their onstage flirtations, and their latest headshots) are self-involved. They are, and I wish I could be too.
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