Heartsong

a search for harmony

Lisa Bell

Heartsong
A search for harmony

Lisa Bell

P U B L I S H I N G

First published 2011 by Quietspace Publishing A Quietspace Foundation Ltd business PO Box 3508, Sunnybank South Q 4109 www.quietspacefoundation.org Copyright 2011 Lisa-Maree Lockland-Bell The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of quietspace publishing. Cover design Bunnymoon Creative Design Typeset in Berkeley Oldstyle by Red Hill Publishing Printed and bound in Australia by Ligare Printing Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia http://catalogue.nla.gov.au ISBN (hbk) 9780987189806 ISBN (pbk) 9780987189813 ISBN (epub) 9780987189820 ISBN (kindle) 9780987189837 While every care has been taken in researching and compiling the information in this book, it is in no way intended to replace professional medical, psychological or emotional advice and counselling. Readers are encouraged to seek such professional help as may be appropriate. The publisher specifically disclaims any liability arising from the application of or reliance on any information in this book. Quietspace Publishing uses papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufactuing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

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Dedication
This story is dedicated to my two angels Johann and Lydia. I started writing this book for you both many years ago, wanting to explain why Mamma lives her life so differently to everyone else and why she eats so much moong dhal! I know you are still too young to fully understand many details, however, I pray, that very soon you will use this book as your guide to help you not just live, but thrive in this amazing world. My mantra every day is to be the best that I can be so that I can stay here, in this world, for you both. I am so excited to teach you all the secrets that I have learnt to help make your journey in this life a joy. X Mamma

Contents
Heartsong Music ix Prelude xi One ~ Somewhere Over the Rainbow 1 Two ~ Hushabye Mountain 13 Three ~ Cry Me a River 27 Four ~ Ave Maria 39 Five ~ I Dreamed a Dream 53 Six ~ La Canzone di Doretta 73 Seven ~ When You Walk Through a Storm 85 Eight ~ Amazing Grace 103 Nine ~ I Will Be Free 121 References 141 Acknowledgements 143

Heartsong Music
As youll discover in this book, music is incredibly important to me. It has provided me with great blessing and is a source of immense comfort and joy. When I started this project I had a vision: to create a CD as well as a book. I wanted each chapter in the book to portray a different emotional stage in my journey, and for there to be a song on the CD that reflected that feeling. As is so often the case, life threw me an unexpected curve ball. My debut album, Heartsong, was to be packaged with this book; however, that dream is not yet a reality. But I am excited to tell you that it is available in the iTunes store. Please buy a copy as it will truly heighten your understanding and deepen your experience of my story. I hope that before too long you will be able to buy my CD from a record store also. If you'd like to keep up-to-date with my music releases and live performances visit looloobell.com.

Lisa Bell
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Prelude
It was 1993 and I was midway through my final year as a Voice Major at the Queensland Conservatorium of Music. My voice studies were important to me but they were also the most demanding aspect of my life, so I looked forward to evenings of liquid escape. One cool August night, I shared a bottle of bubbly with my flatmate Jess, and headed out with friends to watch the Conservatorium big band play. This was the night that determined the rest of my life. Nothing would ever be the same. White hot pain struck like a bolt of lightning, slamming between my shoulder blades, leaving me breathless and in indescribable agony. Outside the taxi window, the universe continued on its course, unchanged. Within my parallel reality of pain, it all seemed curiously surreal. The last thing I expected at that moment was to be suddenly paralysed with pain, yet there I was, mute and immobilised. I knew instinctively this would not be a one-off experience. In the following months my anguish would steadfastly return each day at sunset to devour my very essence. The agony was

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a monster with talons entwined around my spine. This nightly ordeal would reach an excruciating crescendo in the wee small hours, retreating only with the first rays of morning light. Exhausted, desperate and with my self-worth plummeting to an all-time low, I eventually sought nightly comfort by relocating my mattress to the confined space beneath my desk. As I curled into the foetal position, gently rocking back and forth, I sought the consolation of the womb in which I had once been less vulnerable, surrounded by love, joy and wonder. Well-intentioned doctors, convinced I had damaged my back, treated me with medications, muscle relaxants and massage, none of which brought any relief. I was backed into a corner, battling something I could neither see nor understand, and I could not surrender to my as yet unidentified nemesis. Despite my internal trial, I soldiered on and in December 1993 graduated from the Conservatorium with a Diploma of Music, obtaining a Distinction in Voice (Classical Singing). It was a shining moment on an otherwise bleak horizon. On the face of it, I was riding high: young and talented, I had finally reached a point where I could honour my singing. Yet underneath it all I was in physical and emotional pain; my academic achievement had been masking the frightening rollercoaster ride I was on, heading into an abyss. I consumed alcohol like there was no tomorrow; in fact, I hoped there would be no tomorrow. I was burning the candle at both ends, seeking escape rather than looking at what had been causing the problems within. I didnt know it at the time, but alcohol was triggering the physical symptoms that I was attempting to drown, so I blindly pursued my quest for boozy oblivion with zeal.

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Prelude

It bemused me that during this period everyone took me for a mature, stable and happy girl. Clearly the crazier my private life was, the more skilled I became at presenting a plausible faade to the world. Inevitably, the way I lived my life would take its toll. Within my family, there is a predisposition to both physical (cancer) and mental ill health. My father was a Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde character effusively charming to outsiders, yet cruelly destructive within his own family. He was a perfectionist for whom nothing was ever good enough not me, not my two younger brothers, not my mother, not even himself. We spent every waking moment tiptoeing around him. He displayed many of the symptoms of what is now known as bipolar disorder, a condition characterised by extremely unpredictable mood swings. My fathers tirades had undermined my self-esteem, the worst possible thing that could happen to an already shy, sensitive and insecure little girl. I did everything I could to shut him out when he was in a destructive mood, cupping my ears and protecting my soul against the poison coming from his lips. Unfortunately his brainwashing tirades did not fall on deaf ears. By the time I reached my teens, I agreed with every one of his beliefs and took on the humiliating remarks he made about me. Constantly deprived of positive reinforcement, I fell easy prey to self-doubt, self-destruction and, ultimately, disease.

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Heartsong

I was damaged goods, both physically and emotionally. To fully recover, I needed to take responsibility for my condition by confronting the demons that had attacked my sense of selfworth the very demons that opened the portal to my lifethreatening illness. I could not sit around waiting for a miracle from God or rely on the medical establishment; I had to look for alternative solutions. Through my own research I began to comprehend how poor nutrition, mental imbalance and an overall lack of self-development had contributed to my deteriorating health. A long and perilous journey lay ahead, fraught with false turns. I had entered a vast desert, blindfolded and equipped with nothing more than the will to live.

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3
Cry Me a River
At 18, for the first time in my life, I was able to live on my own terms. I fled to Brisbane, the big city 100 kilometres away from the family nest, ready to study at the Conservatorium. Being accepted into the Conservatorium boosted my self-worth, making my dream of a successful singing career tantalisingly attainable. The only thing standing between me and Covent Garden was myself! On the outside, I was enjoying my preparatory year with comparative calm, studying music while boarding with a young family. Within the privacy of my room, however, I craved the torture of my dysfunctional family environment. While yearning to be berated, I would find myself surrendering to old fears that were directly connected to repressed, aggressive, hostile and cruel feelings. I would take the baton of redundant neurosis and

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mentally torment myself over silly, inconsequential things, with a tirade of, Youre not good enough and you do not deserve anything banter that would go on for hours, days or weeks. Trying to escape this mental state, I resisted my insecurity and shyness by attending social events with Conservatorium buddies. They were kindred spirits who shared my creative urges and enjoyed my zany sense of humour. Outside of alcohol, total escapism through recreational drugs was always available; however, I knew that doing such things would leave visible traces. I feared my father would see the evidence on my skin or in my eyes; the verbal torment was not worth it! In any case, I was addicted to suffering; that was my drug of choice. I was just starting to feel comfortable with my new life when my father made his move back into my daily world. Things had not gone well in my absence. Dads investments had failed to perform. He had overstretched his credit; the bank had foreclosed on his dream house. He was bankrupt. He planned to relocate Mum and the boys to Brisbane. Having emerged from my dysfunctional home, I had no desire to return to it particularly after spending the previous 12 months with a happy, well-adjusted family. My parents pleaded with me to come to their new home. It was as if, by reassembling the family under one roof, they could make the embarrassment and humiliations of bankruptcy go away. Why drag me into it? Somehow they had identified me as the lost piece in the psychological puzzle that passed for our family life. My pain made their dysfunctional world complete. Either way, Dad had been paying my board and now had no money, so I had to go back to the bosom of my remarkable family.

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Our new family abode turned out to be a run-down workers cottage in East Brisbane. To my father, this decaying relic from the late 19th century represented a cruel metaphor for his own failure. We lived in overcrowded pandemonium, in a few tiny rooms that offered little privacy. In an effort to make the grade among the talented and highly competitive Conservatorium students, I spent countless hours (but never enough!) on intrusive practice, which was torturous for the family.

My father was working as a car salesman and Mum managing a video store when they both discovered Amway, a pyramid selling organisation found on the principles of positive thinking. My father was about the worlds least likely candidate for anything based on positive thought, but he was hooked on the dream. He started reading self-help books, becoming a disciple of Wayne Dyer and Dale Carnegie. At the time I thought, good for him! Unfortunately, it did not alter his Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde personality, which remained intact when he walked through the front door of our family home. Having lost so much, he finally realised his problems might be more deep-seated than he first thought. He started to assume some responsibility for his illness, trying to understand it, slowly attempting to mend his ways. As far as I was concerned, his about-face came much too late. It would take more than a few self-help books to undo the trauma of a decade of mental abuse. My fathers feverish opinions meant nothing to me anymore. I was numb.

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Heartsong

I would no longer meekly accept his vicious attacks on my character and behaviour. I met his verbal abuse and belittlement with fiery defiance, arguing with him at every opportunity. We fought like tomcats; rebellion, anger, frustration and hatred were mine. I was young and feisty, and he had taught me exactly how to trigger his worst nightmares. One way was to bring home unacceptable boyfriends. It didnt matter whether I fancied the man or not. Subconsciously, it only mattered that my father would be appalled. I feasted on his discomfiture and laughed at his feeble attempts at conversation. This was my teenage revenge, but sadly I began exacting it just as my father was trying to heal himself. A seed of hope had been germinating in his soul: things can change; suffering need not be eternal. As my first year in a diploma course at the Conservatorium unfolded, I began to hit the town with consistent vigour. Friends were a novelty for me, and it was a pleasant surprise when I hooked up with Jess. We were fun-loving young girls enjoying youths rites of passage together, engaged in crazy adventures and lots of laughs. Jess was my ticket back out of my family home. We moved into a tiny flat together, and for the next three years were inseparable, studying, working and partying together. She became my world and in truth, I was dependent on Jess for the love, understanding and emotional support that my family could not give me. She taught me how to breathe, to try to relax and just be well, if that was possible. Raging around until all hours of the morning definitely wasnt the smartest use of my energy, but I found that by cutting back on sleep, I could devote more time to drinking. The narcissistic surfie boys who had given me the cold shoulder

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Cry Me a River

at high school faded from memory, replaced by worldly males who appreciated my almond complexion and voluptuous body. After years of believing no-one would want me, I discovered the art of seduction, relishing the thrill of my newfound sensuality. I craved affection, and casual relations was as good as it got for me. I assumed the role of femme fatale, frequenting Brisbanes bars and dance floors in search of a male who might scrub up as a possible husband. Yes, a husband. This was my back-up plan. At the time I believed that if I had a man, should I fail at my music, I could use the excuse of choosing a husband instead of a career. In fact, with my low self-esteem guiding my decisions, it seemed easier to fail at singing before I really committed myself heart and soul. Yes, I wanted to be on stage. All I had ever wanted to do, for as long as I could remember, was to sing for people, to convey emotions, to give my listeners a sensory gift to take away with them. However, fear overcame my very essence. I was scared of more ridicule and see, I told you so rants from my family and myself. Getting side-tracked with a plausible excuse was a tempting opportunity. Realistically, I didnt have the spare time for partying, with a full schedule of Conservatorium lectures, as well as working regular shifts in the video store. Like my father though, I vacillated from one pursuit to the next, rarely finishing anything, on edge, never satisfied. My frame of mind was manic, to say the least. My inner navigator had put me on a course for destruction. There was no relief or reprieve from the discordant mantras my father had imprinted onto my spirit and drummed into my brain: Be fearful. Trust no-one. Dont reveal yourself. The

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real you is bad. Be cynical. Be judgemental. Be two-faced. Hide anger. Conceal true feelings. Never seek help from the external world. Never question your family. Respect your parents, no matter how badly they treat you. If in doubt, explode.

The thing I loved most was the very thing I was running from: singing. It was accorded the lowest priority. If I did not give 100 per cent, then I would be less disappointed when I failed. I made procrastination into a fine art. I would clean the house from top to bottom, wash and polish my car, then do the shopping. I wasted time haunting trendy boutiques, sampling outfit after outfit in a quest to find some miraculous garment that would somehow transform my shape from generous to willowy. Of course, the best way to lose weight is through diet and exercise, but I lacked self-discipline. Instead, I obsessed over what I consumed, indulging in the guilt, while continuing to commit nutritional sins. I was left with a feeling of disgust whenever I ate. No meal was ever consumed with a conscious acceptance that this food was going to give my body the nutrition it needed. Rather than being grateful for the food, my mental dialogue while eating was: You eat too much! This will make you fatter. You are such a PIG. Virtually nothing in my diet promoted wellbeing or health. My diet was a blueprint for the creation of disease, with my metabolism being compromised by a quick-and-cheap dietary regime. I drank diet soda, tap water, alcohol and take-away coffee sipped from polystyrene cups. I ate white bread, sugar,

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biscuits, cakes and anything microwavable, like processed foods packed with hydrogenated fats and MSG. Thanks to a high salt intake, my body retained a disproportionate amount of fluid, leaving me to look and feel like a bloated fish. Red meat was consumed on a daily basis; I rarely ate seafood and avoided green vegetables where possible. I was literally self-administering poison through the pores of my skin, by my nave and over-enthusiastic use of chemicalbased cosmetics, shampoos, soap, moisturisers, perfumes and deodorants. Even the products I used for household cleaning contained solvents and bleaches and these too were inflicting damage. Alarm bells had been sounding in my body for years but, lacking the means to interpret the warning signs, I told myself, Just accept that this is how you are! Every step, every thought, took me closer to the brink of toxic overload. I had unconsciously turned myself into an embodiment of the acidic environment in which cancer thrives. If Id set out to create a fertile breeding ground for cancer, I could not have done a better job.

I continued to develop my curvaceous figure and nightclub persona. I wore the clothes, walked the walk and knew how to seduce a man with a glance. Jo was not immune to my charms, nor I to his, so when I locked eyes with him, I was instantly smitten. He was a 37-year-old Afro-American with a smooth

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line of chat, a winning smile and an astonishing level of physical fitness. He knew what to say, how to say it and when. He looked at me with such passion and sincerity, I was convinced he was my soul mate. When we came together, he tuned into my senses and took me so high I exploded with ecstasy. Jo was dyslexic and unable to read or write, yet he loved the magic of words. With childlike wonder, he listened intently to the poems I recited to him. He took his favourite book Illusions, by Richard Bach, with him everywhere. The book examined the gap between illusion and reality. This was something I would later discover he had a lot of trouble distinguishing between. Jo thought of himself as a free spirit. In fact, he was an illegal immigrant who had outstayed his tourist visa and earned drinking money by coaching a local gridiron team. Despite this, at the time, I had no doubts (or at least I ignored them) about Jo as far as love was concerned. Encouraged by his phone calls and the intensity of our couplings, I hoped that one thing might lead to the next. Perhaps he was my potential husband? I was deeply hurt when he told me he was living with another woman who cooked his meals and kept him in fresh underwear. The way he told it, hed simply become bored with her, but with a lack of finances and nowhere else to live, he had no choice but to hang in there until something (or someone) better came along. Clearly that wasnt me I was an impoverished student. At 19, I lacked the experience to interpret the clues that I was in a compromising situation, but I did know that dating a black man would incense my father to no end. I was blinded by his exciting stories of growing up in Los Angeles and travelling the world like a gypsy. It wasnt that he lied to me; he was simply selective

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with the facts. I listened sympathetically to his confession and decided that, since he had come clean, everything would be okay. Jos story was one about being born to a Mexican mother and Creole father, growing up in the housing projects of East Los Angeles as one of nine siblings with as many different fathers. He had married very young and was the father of a teenage daughter whom he no longer saw. While this should have concerned me, his incredible ability to tell stories in a hypnotising way blinded me from seeing some pretty obvious personality flaws. It was as if I were in a drunken stupor when I was around him. In reality, he was a tall, dark handsome womanising stranger, who at 37 had found a magical way to travel the world with no job and no possessions. We shared a few short months falling in love over clandestine meetings until the authorities arrested him. Within 24 hours, he was on a plane back to the United States. I was left feeling as though I had been nothing more than his bimbo on the side. Or worse was I one of a harem of gullible women in his little black book? It would be years before I saw him again and found out exactly where I sat in his not-so-little black book.

Jos deportation came all too suddenly; here one day, gone the next. So I slotted back into my routine of mental turmoil and continued on with my life and studies. I resumed my punchdrunk, wouldnt-have a-clue-why, totally pointless expeditions. In my head, everything I did was an expedition. For example,

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when I went to the bathroom the banter was, God, I have to go to the bathroom again! Should I wait? No, Ill go now! It will be good exercise! Should I go the long way? No, maybe just run up the stairs to make it worthwhile. This was my self-talk, whether I was at the traffic lights, at work, at the grocery store, at the servo or even at the vending machine. Ah yes, the vending machine of life, where I was free to choose my emotional hit for the day, whatever the cost. Oh, forget the cost! Should I choose sex (for chest-beating endorphins)? Should I choose a destructive relationship (for distraction of self)? Or should I choose family (for destruction of self)? Doesnt matter. Just choose anything to make you feel something! As I descended into ill-health, I was like a raw nerve, a powerline lashing around in a cyclone. When it comes to emotional eruptions, Im about as volcanic as it gets. No-one outside of the family home has ever seen the firepower when I explode; its best to just get out of my way! Usually, I was alone during these tirades. Occasionally, there would be a family member to verbally attack and blame. These explosions of mine directly correlated with my burning need for control. I would map out how I wanted things to go, and if they didnt go that way, I would get extremely upset. I needed to feel like I was in control, because if I was, no-one could get under my radar and hurt me. I could pre-empt a negative situation and divert it away from me. Anything could set me off, for example, if somebody left a dish in the kitchen sink after I had just washed up, I would descend into a spiral No-one respects me, no-one understands me, why is everyone so mean to me? I had never been taught how to defuse hostile situations. I had no way of coping with negative emotions. How could I

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successfully go out into the big wide world and survive? I was filled with angry thoughts and turbulent feelings such as fear, despair, powerlessness, worry, insecurity, frustration and selfdoubt. I know now you cannot control the thoughts or behaviour of others. However, back then I could not let things go. I would fight tooth and nail for the last word, even if I were wrong. There are many books available today on the effects of stress on the body. Through my own research I have come to understand that stress can spark a biochemical reaction within the body, changing its cellular structure. Its a recipe for disaster, and in my case, with my genetic cocktail of mental disorder and cancer, I was a serious illness waiting to happen. As the accumulated burden of negative emotions shrouded my spirit, I lost the strength to resist. Little by little, I was yielding to the beast pounding at the gates of my being. Everything I did, leading to my diagnosis, was propelling me towards a personal Armageddon.

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