Still Grieving

Well, I'm still grieving, and I'm also angry at myself for grieving, so it's a double whammy.  I just can't make it stop.

I told my therapist I was experiencing postpartum depression and she said no, that was not true, that women with postpartum depression are in a deep clinical depression where they often can't get out of bed, or feel suicidal, and that is not how I feel.

I just feel endlessly frustrated and endlessly sad, that no matter what I do, how well I think I have done it, how much fun I had doing it, and how many compliments I get from the (tiny handful) of people in the audience, when all is said and done, and I am back to mingling with the tsunami of people from conservatories and music programs, who "work" in the performing arts every day (I put the word "work" in quotes because the issue isn't whether or not they make money, but the ratio of how much time they spend doing it to how much time they spend doing other things)  I feel that I am nothing.  Just a mature woman who sings in a choir and watches Masterpiece Theater.  Nobody special or artistic, not a theater animal.

No I don't feel suicidal; I feel like screaming. Like painting myself gold and standing topless in Central Park.  Doing something to make people gasp and stop and stare and engage with me on a level beyond the mundane.

Apparently this summer Little Miss Conservatory got into a YAP where she will be singing a leading role.  That must mean that she is exceptional even among her peers, not just in this choir.  Most people whom I have bumped elbows with over the years who had involvements with YAPs, even ones who ended up having careers, had to start out in the chorus when they were her age.  Of course I congratulated her and gave her a big hug; she is a lovely, lovely young woman and I don't begrudge her anything.  But I wanted to cry and cry and cry and cry and never stop.  The way the woman who always wanted a child and never had one might want to cry because it is Mothers Day.  I wanted to cry for the teenager who thought losing ten pounds was worth developing a two pack a day cigarette habit, who went clubbing when she could have been groomed for a singing career, who was satisfied with being the prettiest fem on the dance floor instead of putting in the hard work.  Who was told uptight white girls from Brooklyn Heights should take advanced math, not singing lessons. Who was told Lesbians don't sing opera; it's a patriarchal art form.  Who had friends who read beat poetry instead of practicing musical instruments.  I just wanted to cry and cry and cry.

However hard I work, however much ingenuity I put into planning something like this Carmen there is just never enough time, never enough resources, never enough validation.  What should impress me, I suppose, is that no matter how hard I have to fight to be seen and heard and acknowledged and engaged with, I don't give up.  I won't.  I can't.  I would rather sing than eat good food or have a nice outfit, or see a movie or buy gadgets.  The only thing, I suppose, that is more important, is the live of my loved one.  I told someone yesterday that she was the love of my life, even though now the relationship is mostly about caregiving.  This woman was very impressed and told me that even though she was almost 40, she had never met anyone whom she could consider the love of her life.  So I guess many people are grieving about something.

And the upside of this, is maybe Little Miss Conservatory will launch her career with a bang and won't come back.  Then everyone will be happy.  She will be on her way to success, and maybe I can have my little corner back?  Even if nobody notices, I am the only one of the "mature amateurs" who practices every day.  No, it's not a hobby.