I had my jury about forty minutes ago. It went pretty well. Though you know they had to pick the really fast song in F# major that needs a page-turner... But it went pretty well. I've really progressed over the course of the semester. With only a few days left of my semester (my French final tomorrow--yawn, a choir recording session on Thursday, and a little aria to do on Friday), I can safely say that my second first semester of grad school has been infinitely more rewarding and definitely less stressful than my first try. Yes, I will be returning in January.

And the fact that my jury wasn't until 5 P.M. afforded me luxuries to which I am not accustomed: I slept until nine, took a long bath, gave myself a pedicure, read the January Marie Claire (a.k.a. Cosmo with a conscience), and ran through all my translations several times. I got to campus at about two o'clock, checked my e-mail, then found a practice room, where I was able to listen to my last two lessons before I did any serious singing. And they were running about half-an-hour late. Anyway, the slow pace of things helped me not to get nervous until right before I had to sing. So now all I have to worry about is that test tomorrow--for a pass-fail class, where I've never gotten a grade lower than 95%--and the aria in Op Shop Friday. And the latter is somewhat stressful, but I think I'll make it.

Speaking of Op Shop--there was something important I didn't get to mention yesterday or last week. On Wednesday afternoon (during the storm) I met with Kala (the psychologist), where all this crazy shit came out. I had been talking in there about how my undergrad voice teacher has become this mean, creepy Superego taunting me inside my head about my singing, and I mentioned that the only time I really have performance anxiety is for my opera workshop. And it was pretty obvious why--because the professor reminds me of my father, and it makes me feel weird. But why? And he isn't the first teacher I've had this reaction to--Mr. Cartisano (my American History teacher) brought about a similar, if less potent reaction in me, for the same reason. Anyway, what it boils down to is that the reason this particular professor gets to me is because he asks us to be emotionally open (if only in a theatrical way)--and I am definitely not emotionally open with my father. And I've only been so a handful of times in my entire life. The main reason why is because he was never around when I was young--when he wasn't working, he was drinking, and though he wasn't abusive, he did neglect us. I basically grew up in a single-parent household. Yes, he was working sixty hours a week, but I needed more from him than money. And when my mother was in the hospital, he had his own shit going on--and I was basically running things and looking after my brothers. Nobody ever told me to do it--I just did. I was the "Caretaker Child", or whatever that shit is. At that time in my life--13, puberty, no friends, etc.--I needed a parent maybe more than at any other time since infancy. And honestly, I didn't have one. My parents were all wrapped up in their own problems--which were huge, to be sure--and weren't able to give me what I needed. And by the time I was in high school and things had settled down, I was "over" that mess. As far as I was concerned, I didn't need my parents for emotional support. I remember a specific evening in tenth grade when my father came into my bedroom and asked me if I was okay. I was doing Spanish homework, I think. Anyway, I told him I was fine. But what I was really thinking was, "No, I'm not okay. I'm pretty fucking far from okay. But you know what? It's none of your fucking business. You lost your chance to be a sitcom dad a long time ago, capisce?" So when he did want to be involved, it was too little, too late. And now I'm nearly 26 years old, I'm an adult, in a few years I'll be starting my own family...and this is still bothering me, manifesting itself in some crazy-ass ways. And my father is a wonderful person, don't get me wrong. We have similar personalities, we do things together, and we have a pretty good relationship...except that it's all on the surface. My mother is the one who knows the secrets--she's the one who really knows me. Oh, I'm sure this is a common problem--even in stable families--but apparently I'm still screwed up about it. So now my task is to try to build this relationship, one step at a time. It won't always be easy, but I think we're both open to it--I know that he cares about me, it's just that we've never talked about it. I just don't want to cry, you know? Because that would suck. I don't want it to hurt, because it's been hurting all this time already. But I guess that's too much to ask. So isn't it so crazy that over a decade later, this shit should come up now? That I should be driven to hysterical tears over something that I thought was already "dealt with" in therapy a long time ago? I guess that's just the way things are...

Anyway, sorry to drop that bomb and then leave, but all I've eaten today is raisin bran and a peanut butter sandwich...I'll write more tomorrow, I hope...

Current music: "Tu che di gel sei cinta"--Puccini (Turandot)...which was my first jury piece.