Ushering in 2015

I honestly don't know where this particular blog post is going to end up. I have had a humdinger of a year and I just might be going through a mid-life crisis of sorts. Actually, whether it has to do with my age, I don't honestly know, I just know that I seem to be at a major crossroads in my life and something has to be done about it, because I cannot continue to feel the way I have been and survive. It's that simple.

Much about 2014 was good. I did a lot of singing and getting back on stage, as always starting with the NAMM show in January with my dear friend and fellow diva Debby Holiday. As a wonderful bonus I also got to see my friend Mary there, with whom I used to work in Nashville at BMI. I honestly don't think either of us could tell you when the last time we saw each other before that was, so it was a real blessing to have even a short time together.

↓ Debby, me and Mary at NAMM in Anaheim. ↓

Next was a long, hot summer of "Chew On This," a musical/cabaret show-type vehicle starring and written by my good friend Gilmore Rizzo which featured bubble gum pop tunes from the 50's through the 70's. We revived this show from a few years ago at the French Market. This time we did a weekend of shows in Palm Springs in July and then a six week run at the NoHo Arts Center in August and September. The music was vocally challenging, the cast and band was full of wonderful people I enjoyed working and spending time with and Gilmore wrote me a part that truly showcased my strengths as a singer and comedic actor. As with any independently produced show, we had some bumps along the road, but overall, it was a wonderful experience and I am grateful for it. AND my friend Tiffany got to come in from Canada to see it! She also brought me a bag of Canadian goodies. My kinda friend. 

↓ The cast of "Chew On This" in Palm Springs ↓

↓ l to r: Gilmore Rizzo, Barbara Shane, Jessica Buda and moi. ↓

After that I was invited to do a three song set at Oil Can Harry's for Lori Donato's Sunday Jam, which happens the second and third Sunday of every month. My long time friend and piano man extraordinaire Rob Bowers accompanied me on "Stuff Like That There," "Come Rain or Come Shine" and "I Keep It Hid."  You can see the videos from that on my YouTube page.

↓ Flyer for Lori Donato's Sunday Jam ↓

Nursing a broken heart, I needed to keep myself busy and distracted after that. So, I booked a free vocal master class in November, which went aces (I plan to do another one soon) and followed it up with a webcast concert called "Christmas at Darci's," on Concert Window.  The aforementioned Rob Bowers was my musical director and accompanist, my awesome friend Marie Pettit was my on-camera chat room moderator (and changed Christmas hats like Cher changes costumes in concert), her husband (also my awesome friend) Chris Gregson ran the camera, and we had a tiny handful of people in my living room to give it a "live" feel while everyone else across the country logged in to watch on their computers and other handy-dandy tech devices. It was so much fun and, I think, a smashing success. I'm very excited to do another one soon.

↓ Flyer for "Christmas at Darci's" ↓

↓ Me and Rob after the show. ↓

I also wrote , recorded and released a single for download on my website, "December Come Around." It was the first song I'd recorded in five years, the first Christmas song I've ever written and the first song I'd written without a co-writer since I lived in Nashville (so, we're talking at least 14 years, if not longer). I'm very proud of it and hope to pitch it this year (to Carrie Underwood or Jennifer Hudson, if a girl can dream). You can still get it on iTunes, if you missed it.

↓ Album cover for "December Come Around" ↓ 

Also, back in May I took a trip out to Fort Lauderdale to visit my dad and his wife and had a wonderful, relaxing time.  

↓ Con mi Padre celebrating my birthday. ↓

My baby brother just got engaged (wedding coming up in May)...

↓ The Travster and my future seester-een-law, Laura. ↓

...and my cousin Jenny had her first baby in November... ↓

...oh, and I mustn't forget that I had my first trip to Disneyland ever, courtesy of Gilmore Rizzo. At Christmas, even! ↓

Sounds like a pretty good year, right? Lots of good, good stuff.  

Well, in the midst of all that:

• I got my heart smashed to bits. I mentioned that in my last blog post.
• I lost several loyal students due to various reasons; one which I had to make the decision to drop because his mother made me hassle her for payment every month. Yuck. I cannot seem to keep enough students to survive, ever, even though I know I'm very good at what I do. Other friends of mine who are coaches have waiting lists...and for some reason I do not. I feel like I've tried lots of different things to get my name out there but nothing has worked. My students apparently don't tell anyone they're even taking voice lessons let alone who from, even while singing my praises to my face. So, word of mouth hasn't worked, either.
• When I did my Christmas webcast, I did it mostly with my Nashville and New York peeps in mind, because they're always squawking about how they miss hearing me sing or they wish they could make it to my shows but for where they live. I also thought this would be a great idea because people don't actually have to leave their homes and go anywhere, which in L.A. is a big deal. This saves them exorbitant parking fees, food/beverage requirements and travel time. Though I still feel it was a success overall, it was still really disheartening that the majority of people who logged in to watch were Californians and primarily not the people who are the loudest about wishing they could see me perform. Also, people complained that it was too complicated (it wasn't - if you can manage Facebook, you can manage Concert Window - my mother managed and if she can, anyone can). None of my extended family logged in.
• I sold exactly 13 downloads of my new single. That's One. Three. And not a single one to anyone who's said to me in the past, "Why don't you put some new music out?"  "It's time for you to record something new." "Why don't you ever record anymore?" Not a single download to anyone in my family, save for my sister Mandi. It cost 99 cents. I know, I asked people to break the bank. *note sarcasm*
• I have completely lost the joy of singing because I cannot seem to recover my voice to its former range and strength due to years of fighting sinus infections that produced a violent cough that made me lose my voice. While I seem to have found a way to keep the cough at bay now, I don't have what I used to, I don't sound like I used to, my instrument is not nearly what it used to be, which was what made me unique, and it's now so much effort to produce sound that it's not an enjoyable thing to do anymore. I never know if I can count on my voice, so booking something like "Chew On This" was a terrifying leap of faith. I don't feel comfortable trying to book other gigs because I don't know if my voice will be there on that given day. 

All of these are facts of what happened this year, all of which have led me to a place in which I'm asking myself, "What's the point?" Nothing I mentioned above is meant to lay a guilt trip on anyone personally (and I really mean that - okay at this moment I don't mean it for the heartbreaker, I kinda want him to choke on it), but I must wonder truly, what is the point of anything I try to do, when I can look back over the course of my entire life and career (if you can even call it a career) and feel like every attempt I've ever made at anything - music, work, relationships, certain friendships and business partnerships, et al - has failed miserably? When it seems like no one could possibly give less of a shit in supporting me? I have so many regrets I've lost count. So many "almosts" and "whatifs" and "couldashouldawouldas." A longtime friend of mine once said to me, "No one works harder than you and is more unsuccessful at it." He's right. 

He's absolutely right.  

I also had another longtime friend - who does not live here - tell me I've done nothing to get anywhere in my career. At which point I told him to stop effing talking if he wanted his nose to stay in the same place it is currently.  

So, there's that, too. How many more of you think that about me, I wonder?

But more importantly, things aren't the point. I work from home, which I've wanted to do for years and I enjoy my work. It is a blessing. I live in a great apartment that I love. I have wonderful friends all over the country. I love my family and can't wait to be with them all in May. Can't beat the weather here in SoCal most of the time. I felt my heart open up for the first time in years, when I didn't think it was possible for that to ever happen again. I consider that a damned miracle, despite the beating it took afterward. My family and friends are all healthy, except my Mima who is suffering from dimentia, but she's had a good, long life and possesses the constitution of an ox so she'll probably still be around for a while. I have everything I need. I want for nothing that matters. My fridge is full. My bank account is not, but I can keep a roof over my head, clothes on my back, food on my table and the lights on...besides I don't care about being rich.

And yet, something is missing. Something is always missing. To the point where just about a week ago I was sitting on my bed, bawling my eyes out and asking no one listening, "Did I have a twin die in the womb that Mom never told me about or something? Why do I feel like a part of me is missing? Why do I feel so empty?" Indeed, why have I always felt so empty, no matter how good my life is or how spiritual I am at any given moment or where I've lived along the way? All the work I've done on myself the last few years to think positively and choose joy seems to work for a New York minute and then burns out like the end of a match. When I was growing up in an evangelical household, I don't recall ever truly feeling God's presence in my life or heart. Never once, no matter how much scripture I read and memorized or how often I prayed. I have never in my life experienced any lasting contentment, let alone happiness. I have always felt like I'm never good enough, smart enough, talented enough, pretty enough, thin enough, funny enough, spiritual enough, obedient enough, financially stable enough, sexy enough, interesting enough, worthy enough, worthy enough, worthy enough, worthy enough, worthy enough, worthy enough...............

Something in me is desperately broken and I have to figure out what it is, or as I said, I will not survive. Don't worry, I'm not suicidal or anything like that, but I do worry that if I cannot make my way out of the level of despair I've been in lately, I will give up entirely. I will just beach myself on my couch and never get back up again and people in lab coats will have to break down my door and drag my comatose ass away to the funny farm where I will spend the rest of my days staring out a window and drooling on myself (should this happen, call my sister Jodianne to make arrangements for Pickle, please. Appreesh). 

↓ DangerPickleKitty ↓

I visited a psychic the other day, one whom I've seen several times, the wonderful Tysa Goodrich. You know when you've found a good one when you leave feeling like you've had a life coaching session instead of just "having your cards read" (note: if you're one of those who thinks psychics are a joke or of the devil, you can cram it - frankly, I'm not really in a place to be tolerant of your closed-minded, fear-mongering nonsense at the moment). In discussing some of these feelings I'm having currently, she had some amazing insights for me regarding the work I need to do on myself to get out of my crud. She brought up abandonment issues, confidence issues, self-love/hate issues, addiction issues, etc., etc., all of which I have been keenly aware for years and thought I had worked through. 

Apparently I haven't. 

She said, "I feel like something in you has died. When I see you in your younger years, your late teens and early 20's, you had such a fire in your belly. You were fearless and gung ho. But now...it's like someone or something just snuffed you out. And you've been this way a long, long time. You have a very wounded, lonely little girl inside of you and you need to deal with her or nothing's going to change. And my God, you're expectations are so low!"

This of course, made me burst into tears because I knew she was right. I'm so used to feeling like a failure that I have absolutely lowered my expectations in every aspect, thinking I'll be ecstatic if just one teensy little thing ever goes right but if I dare dream for more it'll tear a hole in the time-space continuum and destroy the universe entirely. My dreams have been small for a very long time. They basically consist of: 1) survive, 2) survive and 3) survive.  And I have put a happy face band-aid on for so long, trying to force myself to choose happiness and feel good just because I was SAYING I was happy and I felt good. It didn't work when Jesus was my band-aid and it's not working now. 

FOLKS, THERE IS NO BAND-AID.

That is not to say that you can't change your life when you change your thoughts. Amazing things have happened as a result of my deciding that I would no longer live by Murphy's Law and actively participate in hating myself. Definite blessings have followed, more so than in any other time of my life.

However, I simply think I am at a point where I have to dig deeper, down to the junk, the mess, the sludge and bile and acidic goop, walk into the shit storm, look the dragon in the eye and slay that hideous bitch once and for all. I need to see a professional who can help me do that and possibly find a spiritual teacher to work in tandem. Likewise, I need to learn more about being an empath, which I've suspected I am for years, but Tysa confirmed for me recently (I like to joke that it's the least useful and most annoying of the sensitive gifts, just sucking up other peoples' emotions. Why can't I just see dead people? I can do something with that.  ). It has much bearing on my inability to let things go like others can, I think particularly when it comes to romance. 

All that said...you may be thinking, "What a Debbie Downer," or "What an ungrateful bitch," or "She ought to try having cancer." Yup to all of it and so sorry to make you feel uncomfortable.  But my journey is my journey and my pain is my pain and it affects me uniquely and I'm not apologizing for it. I'm very, very weary of pretending it doesn't exist. I hate it and I want it soothed, healed, dispersed, obliterated. Okay...that's not realistic. Life is what it is and there will always be bumps in the road. I'm just trying to keep from driving entirely off the cliff at the moment, because that's what it feels like.

In closing (yes, I hear your sighs of relief)...this year is going to be a lot of work for me. And I'm going to be documenting much of it here. It's honestly my last attempt to make something of myself and my life - meaning to feel good about it and myself and be content in it and with myself - before choosing to pack up and move back home to little old Johnstown where I will shrivel up and die alone with my cat. If you choose to follow along on my journey, thank you. Maybe it can be of help to you.

I Am Not Broken.

I'm not even sure where to start this blog. So much is going on...and yet not going on...I can't even think straight at the moment. I seem to be in the midst of learning some seriously heavy and strange life lessons and while on paper I know it will all lead to my highest good, it is difficult to allow the moment to just flow. Because you see, I'm a control freak. And I'm extremely competitive with myself. And I was raised in an environment of fear, guilt and self-loathing. I work hard to try and stop myself from boarding the Crazy Train these days when things aren't going the way I think they should (or are simply going in a direction I can't clearly make out as yet), and I am indeed getting better. I think of myself ten years ago...hell, even five years ago...and I'm pretty impressed with how much better I deal with life's little turds than I used to. Like the proverbial onion, you peel back each layer. At least that's how I prefer it. I'm not a diver, I'm a toe-dipper. And I'm okay with that. Cuz for a long time I just sat in the bleachers and watched.

Regardless of the progress I have made reading various happy-happy books, looking up inspirational quotes, listening to enlightening CDs by the likes of the good doctors Wayne Dyer and Michael Beckwith, and enjoying Rev. James Mellon's talks online...there is always my one albatross I cannot get off my neck. It is not a cause, but a manifestation of the root cause. And while I chip away, away, away at my bad habits of verbally beating myself to smithereens and begin to talk lovingly and respectfully to myself - and to others - I just. cannot. stop.................................................

Eating. There was never an a-ha moment that indicated to me what the core of this issue was, even though my mom and bio-dad had divorced before I was even two and he was a total substance-abusing deadbeat, which clearly leads to abandonment issues. Knowing this to be a common cause of food issues in women, it wasn't enough to just know it to make myself stop. And being a person whose favorite classes in school other than music were psychology related, I've read EVERYTHING I can get my hands on about this subject. And of course also worshiped at the church of Oprah for 25 years trying to figure it out as well. I even went to a healer who claims to have The Stigmata (I saw the scars in her hands while she held them over my face, vividly -- is it real or is it Memorex? You decide.) and to a wacky weekend seminar where they deprived us of sleep and food till we were all literally in tears (even the men) and coddling our pathetic little inner children. I actually thought that worked for a hot minute...but about a week later it was same ole same ole.

I may however, have had a breakthrough at long last...two interesting revelations. I began reading a book a few days ago called "Women, Food and God" by Geneen Roth. Yes, I heard about it on the Oprah show. Ms. Roth's philosophy is, "All that you believe about love, change, joy and possibility is revealed in how, when and what you eat. The world is on your plate." Uh...what? How I feel about life is causing me to abuse my relationship with food? And here I've been thinking this whole time that my relationship with food is what causes me to hate my life! I'm intrigued to find out more. This is Revelation Number One, the lesser of the two.

Revelation Number Two got me like a 2x4 in the noggin. In the forward of the book, Ms. Roth is describing a retreat she hosts twice a year to help women with food addiction. A rule is that when it's time to eat, everyone fills their plates with whatever, sits down and has to wait to eat till everyone else has filled her plate and has sat down. This causes lots and lots of strife. Eighty food-addicted women with plates of food in their faces and not allowed to eat. Just wave a beer under an alcoholic's nose, for the love of Pete. This discomfort brings forth confessions and excuses, many of which I've read in a million other places in my search to bury this demon within..."I was abused...I can't live up to society's standards...I'm a child of divorce...I grew up in the Witness Protection Program and I don't know who I really am"...blah blah blah. But one woman said something that literally busted open the floodgates for me, because I realized it was MY story but never really knew it.

Directly from the book (no infringement intended, Ms. Roth!): 

A few minutes later, Nell, a student at the retreats for seven years, raises her hand. "I am not hungry anymore, but I suddenly realized that I am afraid to push the food away."

"Why?" I (Geneen) ask.

"Because..."--and she starts to cry--"...because I realize I am not broken...and that you will be angry at me if you know."

"Why would I be angry at you?" I ask.

"Because you'd see who I really am and you wouldn't like it."

"What would I see?"

"Vitality. A lot of energy. Determination. Strength."

"Wow," I say. "And what wouldn't I like about that?"

"I wouldn't need you then. And you would be threatened by that."

"Who are you taking me to be? Anyone you know who was threatened by how gorgeous you are?"

Nell starts to laugh. "Hi, Mom," she says.

The room erupts in a wave of laughter.

"She was so depressed," Nell says. "And if I was just myself, that was too much for her. I needed to shut down the bigness--I needed to be as broken as she was--otherwise she'd reject me and that was unacceptable."

Now, my mother was and is beautiful. And I know I wasn't thrown out the ugly tree myself, so it's not about that. But I was a very dramatic, vivacious, colorful, expressive, creative, gifted child...and my mother could NOT handle my "bigness." She could NOT handle my innate, burning desire to make the whole world my stage. And even while on one hand she did make sure I got all the musical training I wanted in the form of lessons, etc., she did everything she possibly could to snuff out my inner light. Suddenly realizing Revelation Number Two, my mind flooded with examples...

I started dance lessons when I was 5. It was interfering with my Saturday morning cartoons, so I told mom I wanted to quit. Her reply, "That's ok honey, you didn't really have it anyway." And she let me quit and I never took another dance class in my life, because from then on I believed I couldn't dance. And I still do.

Around the same age, I was apparently fond of standing in front of the mirrors over the produce aisles in the grocery store and reenacting every commercial I'd ever seen on tv...to the point that my mother had a hard time getting me to stop and she'd have to drag me away in protest. One day I was so out of hand that I brought her to tears and she picked me up and left the store, abandoning a full cart of groceries. Now, while this is actually a pretty funny story, it stings to know that I had embarrassed my mother so greatly just by being who I was.

As a teenager, after the fam "got Jesus," my mother decided for me when I was "spiritually right enough with the Lord" to sing a solo on any particular Sunday in church. And she used it as a tool of discipline, too. "Do as I say or I'll call Pastor and tell him you can't sing this Sunday." To this day, when I have a voice student who is quitting their voice lessons because their parents are using them as a form of discipline, I get infuriated.

Mom yelling down the stairs into the basement-made-into-a-rec room as I practiced diligently singing the soprano melodies from the hymn book: "Darci, you're an alto, NOT a soprano, just accept it and quit that caterwauling! I can't take it!" A few years later when I started taking voice lessons and discovered I was indeed a soprano after all (as my dream was to be the next Sandi Patty), when I told mom she sneered, "No you're not. That woman must not know what she's talking about. What are we paying her for?" (I will tell you this, if not for Liz-formerly-Bolibaugh-now-Belle giving me permission to sing with the voice I was born with instead of dumbing-it-down so as not to appear as if I was 16-going-on-30--which would mortify my mother--I'm not sure what I'd be doing now. Probably making money. But bored out of my ever-loving mind.)

Whenever we argued, as mothers and daughters do, she never once went without saying, "Oh STOP being so dramatic! You're not on stage, spare me the drama."

Star Search was a big deal when I was in high school and they were having auditions in Albany, the nearest major city to my tiny little town of Johnstown, about 45 minutes northwest (and I mean a real 45 minute drive, not an L.A. 45 minute drive, which would actually be 7 minutes without traffic). My voice teacher said I MUST audition. I told mom. Mom said no, because she simply wasn't willing to drive that far (this despite the fact that she was as rabid a fan of the great Sam Harris as I was). When I told Liz, she was livid and immediately got on the phone and chewed her out. "Darci is GIFTED! She NEEDS to do this! What is your problem?!" Mom's response, "She can do whatever she likes when she's graduated high school and no longer living in my house." Now, considering what happens to child stars nowadays, Mom's decision could be argued as very sensible. But I was a senior in high school then and the "I'm not driving that far" excuse was not acceptable.

The worst though...when I moved to college in Nashville, TN...the whole family made the drive down with me (we had family friends living there they could visit and I'm not entirely sure that if we didn't that I wouldn't have been unceremoniously stuck on a plane and sent off alone). As they left to go back home, Mom hugged me ferociously and tried not to cry. But when she pulled away she said, "You can do this, Darci Christine. You're tough. You can do this." And then in the same breath, "But maybe try not to be yourself so much at first, because these girls are genteel southern ladies and you might scare them off before they get to know you." (Little does she know that very often "Southern Hospitality" is nothing more than wearing a big fake smile while they're stabbing you in the back.)

These instances felt brutal back then. But realizing where it came from gutted me even more the other day. I was born a fearless, happy child, as we all are. But by the time I was born Mom had made an extreme mess of her life, marrying the wrong alcoholic, drug-addict guy, never had any dreams of her own, and later got remarried to a very kind man that she wasn't truly in love with to get herself and her two children (at the time) off of welfare. I represented vitality, life, strength, hopes and dreams and had inherited my no-good bio-dad's musical gifts on top of it (bass player). Mom just couldn't take my "bigness"...she couldn't take looking at the reminder of her own mistakes every single day and the possibility that I might accomplish great things in my life when she never did. My mother was broken. I was NOT broken. And so she, subconsciously for sure, set out to break me. And I began to turn to food to deal with my mother's brokenness. Because I could be as dramatic and full of life and music as I wanted to with food because it couldn't and wouldn't reject me or belittle me for being me.

Now, after reading all this you are probably thinking my mother is a class A evil witch hag. That's actually not true. She can be very loving, fiercely protective, tough as nails, adorable as hell and absolutely melts into goo when there's a baby around. She's smarter than she's ever given herself credit for and she never sloughs off a responsibility for anything. She's also the only person I've ever met who LOVES to gamble and somehow has  never lost her shirt. She is the Queen of Moderation. And she's never once pressured any of us kids to hurry up and get married and make her a grandmother. I love my mother so very much and the thought of anything happening to her makes me sick to my stomach. 

Alas, like so many of us, her darkness has overcome her. She's allowed her past to be her present and her truth, and lets regret be the god she truly worships, as opposed to the God she claims saved her when I was seven. As a disciple of today's evangelical fundamental uber-conservative "Christ" (the man-made one, not the Living Source of Love I now believe in), she's more worried about the states of others' souls than her own. Her job is to be miserable. It's not a good day if you haven't wept, rent your clothing, climbed onto a pile of ashes and gnashed your teeth! She simply doesn't know that she doesn't have to feel this way. She just doesn't know...and at 61, she probably has no desire to. I cannot judge that or be angry at it, because a) I know that she is genuinely concerned with the state of the world in the deepest parts of her being and b) I was there once, too. 

But I don't want that for myself. I cannot stand myself miserable. Others can't stand me miserable. Revelation Number Two is reminding me, though I've heard and read it a million times, that there's nothing wrong with me. I was created in the image of The Maker and therefore perfect from day one. Period. I do not have to take on my mother's pain. Or my bio-dad's. Or friends' or former boyfriends' or my siblings' or anyone else's. It's not my responsibility and I have to stop worrying myself to death about it with every bite I shovel into my mouth. Furthermore, I do not get the luxury of blaming anyone else for who I've become or not become, because everything that has happened to me, was said to me or done to me in the course of my life are just that...happenings. Big deal. They happened. They do not define me. Their effects are not irreversible. Suck it up and move on. It's never too late to start over and it's never too late to remember that I was not born broken in the first place. I was NEVER broken. 

I. AM. NOT. BROKEN.

Contentment of heart to all.

Next day edit: This is becoming a song...stay tuned...