Singing is a small business, and I have been in it a long time, know a lot of people, and have done my share of small things, and my name would ring a bell for many of you. Many of you would be shocked to know who is writing this. My reputation for being a smart, savvy, well-prepared, funny, good singer didn’t make me immune to the crisis in my life of getting older and not making it. I don’t need you to know who I am for you to be able to gain some understanding of what it’s like to go through what I have. What you do need to know is that if you start not feeling like yourself, say something. Don’t wait to feel better, don’t feel guilty or weak, don’t hide it, don’t take no for an answer from your HMO. If that happens, make more noise than you ever did singing. Remember you are not only a singer, you are, above all, human, and that’s what makes you a singer.
If you’ve never been clinically depressed before, you can’t imagine what it’s like. It’s not like the blues that go away in a few days or weeks. It’s not like waking up one morning with a headache and saying, “Oh, I’m depressed.” It hangs on, subtly changing your life, until you realize that you aren’t who you used to be anymore. You have trouble sleeping, getting to sleep, and staying asleep. When you do, the mornings are hell, and you can’t get out of bed. If you can, you cry in the shower where no one can hear you. You can’t concentrate; you get up from your chair to get something in another part of the room and can’t remember what you wanted to do. You go to the grocery store and can’t remember anything that you need. When you look at two different kinds of milk, it becomes a paralyzing number of choices. You can’t keep your dwelling clean or organized; it’s simply too overwhelming to hang up your coat or pick up your clothes. You spend 12 hours a day in bed, exhausted all the time, needing a nap in the afternoon. You can’t eat, won’t eat, don’t even want to eat. Sex is not even on the list of possibilities.
I was so ashamed of my “failure” at not growing up to be a rich and famous opera singer that it was hard to be around other singers. I still find it difficult to do so, except for those that I feel close to. Mostly they seem so thrilled with themselves and their lives (no matter how they sing or how small the job) that they inflate themselves into Macy’s Thanksgiving Day float-like proportions. It seems that they think that if you don’t have something to contribute to their making a career, or that you aren’t singing as much as they are, you will be jealous if they discuss career things, or anything, for that matter, with you. They forget that I can still be thrilled for their successes and achievements even if I am not as accomplished as they are.
I am slowly and daily beginning to realize that I don’t have to achieve impossible, superhuman feats to be loved or lovable. I don’t have to leap three pages without a breath, like they do on the recording. I don’t have to simultaneously appear via satellite in three countries to have a nice life. I don’t have to be able to jump up on a minute’s notice and be ready to sing 10 operas in five languages. I don’t have to have perfect pitch to sing on pitch. I don’t have to have a photographic memory. I don’t have to be able to learn it in one read-through. I don’t have to be able to be perfect at every style, every technical device, speak three languages proficiently, or make thousands of dollars a year, or make recordings, to be a singer.
Being depressed is like wandering out from beneath a street light at night and suddenly finding yourself in pitch blackness, with unfamiliar terrain under foot, and slippery, high walls around you, with no discernible landmarks or road signs that point you anywhere. You keep stumbling along, hoping to find a way to get to the end of the road, but you’re not even sure you’re headed in the right direction.
I, luckily, was already in really good therapy, both individually and with my husband. And I have a great husband who is no stranger to depression himself. If I called him during the day or beeped him, he called me back immediately, no matter how busy he was or what meeting he was in. He could tell how I was just by the sound of my voice. After several months of discussing medication, I agreed to try something. I am extremely sensitive to any medication of any kind. I can’t tolerate a lot of medications, either over-the-counter or prescriptions.
My therapist and I decided to try good old Prozac, and after about seven weeks, I began to feel better. I had to begin to take Previcid, a heavy-duty prescription antacid, due to the severe acid reflux caused by the medications. This common side effect hits about 30 percent of the people who take them.
Soon, I started to feel not so terrible if I knew I had to go to the grocery store. I was able not only to make lists, but also to get a few of the things done that were on the list. I began looking for a teacher. I was able to watch a movie; I could pick out my own clothes again; I had days that were better and the bad days when my face was falling down became less frequent. I’ve been on the Prozac about three months now and am feeling immensely better. I don’t use anger as a substitute for my unhappiness, I feel less frustrated about most things, and am doing universally better. Am I singing more? No, not really, but it’s less life-threatening now not to be doing so. Am I singing better? You bet, some of the best singing I’ve ever done. I even think that I might look for another agent next year. Maybe. We’ll see. Do I feel terrible because I’m not a rich and famous opera singer? Sometimes. Am I glad I can teach, warm up, learn music, sleep, go to the movies, have a life? Yes.
