Diamond in the Rough

by Shawn Colvin

  She looked at me, cocked her head to one side, and said brightly, “You know what I want you to do?” She said, “I want you to go home and watch comedies. I want you to find something, maybe on YouTube, that really, really cracks you up.”

  Are you kidding me? How do I explain what a ludicrous suggestion this is? We’re talking clinical depression here, clinical depression that I’d been diagnosed with and treated for since I was nineteen years old. It’s an illness. And her best idea was to try to make me laugh? That’s like suggesting a Band-Aid for a long, deep gash. No, it’s worse than that. It’s like asking a blind person to see. I paid the $175 fee for that gem of a suggestion and stumbled out the door. Another one bites the dust. She basically told me to snap out of it, by far the dumbest thing you can say to somebody who’s depressed.

  I got in touch with a big-shot doctor in New York. He thought since Elavil had worked for me when I was nineteen, we should try it again. But first I had to quit the Cymbalta, and he said—and I quote—“Cymbalta is a bitch to get off of.” To get off Cymbalta as safely as possible, I had to start taking … Prozac.

  This would put us at about March of 2009. My relationship ended in January 2008, over a year prior. It was impossible to tell at this point where the emotional fallout from that ended and the clinical depression began. I had certainly been depressed before and had been dumped before, too, but this time the convergence of chemistry and situation made for a sort of sinister alchemy. I can say with certainty that I’d been sliding downhill since even before the breakup. I was jumpy and massively oversensitive. I cried because I didn’t have the right jacket. I cried because we were driving on a curvy road. I cried because of the way the sun was shining. I cried because a car honked its horn. I was crying because I was depressed.

  Then the breakup. I admitted myself to a psychiatric facility in Austin at some point in the spring of 2008, because I was unable to do anything but cry. I stayed for a few hours, until I realized I was more comfortable crying at home. I got in a long nap, had some bad food, and called my mother for a ride. Oh, well. I’d always wanted to know what the nuthouse was like, just in case. Now I knew. I fired the comedy doctor, and the big-shot New York doctor came into play. It was during a music cruise, in February 2009, that I started the process of getting off Cymbalta. I had begun the taper two days before the cruise, and by the second day on the boat I was basically not functioning. I would wake up, if I slept, to a depression so profound and paralyzing and frightening that it required two or three milligrams of Ativan to deliver relief by knocking me out. By evening I was able to do a show. I don’t remember the shows, but I’ve been told I was not up to par, which hardly surprises me. I remember sinking into blackness within two hours of waking, crying uncontrollably, taking the Ativan, and shuffling around the deck until I knew I could sleep. Then I’d stay in bed until it got dark.

  When we reached dry land after a week, I consulted the big shot. He added nortriptyline. I started having massive anxiety attacks. He concluded I was in a “mixed state,” meaning a state of mania and depression concurrently. He scrapped the nortriptyline and added Depakote to control the mania. No change. A month went by, in which I did nothing but cry. The month of March 2009. Of course I thought of suicide, but I couldn’t do that to my daughter.

  My mother helped me in countless ways during all this, mostly to pinch-hit for me with Callie, getting her fed, entertaining her. I called her in the middle of the night on many, many occasions in the midst of an anxiety attack, and she would get up and drive to my house to be with me just as many times. I believe she would have done anything in her power to help me.

  I got another doctor, this time in Austin. Dr. Lynn Spillar. She took me off Depakote, raised the Prozac dosage, reintroduced Abilify, and had me take Lunesta to get my sleep pattern back to normal. Very slowly I noticed I wasn’t crying all the time and that I could function, however minimally, but I never fully recovered; there was a piece of me missing. I could function, but only at the most base level. I was flat and disconnected and anxious and full of dread, scared to drive, scared to fly, scared to perform, scared to leave the house. This is when, at Dr. Spillar’s suggestion, I called Sheppard Pratt, a psychiatric inpatient facility in Baltimore, to see if they had a bed for me. She also asked me to make an appointment with a doctor in Austin who administered ECT, electroconvulsive therapy. The meds weren’t cutting it, that was that. Time for the big guns.

  Dr. Spillar had one more idea before we tried ECT, and I thought it was a terrible one. She wanted me to try a stimulant. I’d all my life had panic attacks, and even a cup of coffee could put me over the edge. I was a drunk; I liked downers. A stimulant seemed counterintuitive, but I was at the point where I certainly had nothing to lose. It was November 9, 2009. Callie was scheduled to spend the weekend with her father, and I knew I couldn’t stand being in my house alone for three days. I got online and booked a Southwest flight to Providence, Rhode Island, by way of Baltimore, to see Carolyn.

  Carolyn Rosenfeld is my guardian angel. Look up “selfless” in the dictionary, you will find her name. When we met eighteen years ago, she handled corporate accounts for a graphics company in Providence, but, loving music as she does, she also did favors here and there for a great club called Lupo’s Heartbreak Hotel—things like picking up artists from the airport. That’s how I met her. Bit by bit over the years, I’ve worn her down and now she works for me for a tenth of what she used to make, and for twice the effort. Carolyn travels with me. Carolyn was on the boat trip. She walked me around the deck, put me to bed, got me up. Carolyn is my friend. She is my child’s godmother. It was Carolyn who stayed with me in Austin for an entire month while I was having what can only be called a nervous breakdown.

  Me and Carolyn Rosenfeld, 2010

  (Photograph courtesy of Lisa Arzt)

  I filled the script for the stimulant Concerta, normally used as an ADD drug. I threw it in my bag, determined to try it, but only once I was with Carolyn, so she could talk me down when I started to trip on this shit. I got to the airport in Austin, and it was the oddest thing—I boarded the plane, and there in an aisle seat was Dr. Lynn Spillar. She was attending a conference in Baltimore. I took the window seat beside her. I have to say this is one of the times in my life where I believe absolutely that I was witnessing a higher power in action. Truly, it was in my face, it was a sign. I couldn’t have felt safer if it had been Mother Teresa in that aisle seat. We didn’t talk much, but it didn’t matter. I got to Providence. It was Friday. I got up Saturday morning, took that damn pill, and set out for the mall. When in doubt, shop, that is my motto.

  I felt better inside of two hours.

  I felt better. Something clicked. I had that elusive, intangible something back—I felt like me. I could relax, I could laugh, I could think. I wasn’t just waiting to die anymore. There was the possibility of life being positive. The ex receded in my mind, became abstract, a phantom insect I could swat away. I wanted to cook dinner, I wanted to have conversations, I wanted to hear music. I swear, it was a miracle. I was back. Dr. Spillar was on the same plane home to Austin from Baltimore on Sunday. I told her what had happened. “You needed dopamine,” she said. Dopamine regulates one’s sense of pleasure. Jesus H. God.

  I looked over my shoulder for months, but it held, this cocktail of Prozac, Abilify, and Concerta. I told Spillar that the stimulant was the magic bullet. She stood up for the other two drugs, saying that for whatever reason there was a harmonic convergence among all three. While all of them may have played a part in leveling my depression, Concerta was the superhero that kicked its ass and took its name.

  21

  Her Favorite Room

  Me and Callie at the Grammys, 2010

  (Photograph courtesy of Carolyn Rosenfeld)

  Singing back home to you,

  Laughing back home to you,

  Dragging back home to you.

  I have two homes. One is in Austin, Texas. It’s eclectically chaot
ic. It’s colorful. The living-room walls are Brigade (a deep marine blue), the kitchen cabinets are Fig (chartreuse), the office is Flower Pot. For my bedroom I went with wallpaper called Chiang Mai Dragon by Schumacher in the mocha colorway. Very strong choice. I live with my daughter. This summer, at the age of twelve, Callie decided not to go on the road with me for the first time. She’s starting to make her own life, just as I did. I still talk to my friends from junior high school—Janey, Liz, Mandy, Joanne, and Todd. That’s what I wish for Callie, that she’ll have the kind of friends I do. She picked out the color for her own room. It’s Venetian Blue.

  My other home is with all of you.

  Whether it’s been in vans or buses, or limos or airplanes, I’ve spent much of the last thirty-five years on tour. It’s been my privilege to be wanted and to give what I truly love to give for all this time. I always wanted to play music, my whole life. My audience allows me to, and it’s an honor. I’ve played festivals, amphitheaters, state fairs, countless clubs and theaters in every single state in the Union (including Alaska and Hawaii). I’ve played the Dead Sea, Europe, China, Australia, and New Zealand. Even Carnegie Hall.

  And over the years I’ve been lucky enough to get the opportunity to meet and sometimes to perform with many of my heroes and colleagues. Now, bear with me. It’s a long list. But this South Dakota geek of a girl still cannot believe it. So here goes: Sting, Lyle Lovett, Jackson Browne, John Hiatt, Bruce Hornsby, Bonnie Raitt, David Crosby, Graham Nash, Neil Young, Paul Simon, James Taylor, Joni Mitchell, Jane Siberry, Victoria Williams, Elton John, Bernie Taupin, Paul McCartney, Neil Finn, the Band, Chris Whitley, Jesse Winchester, Chris Hillman, Stephen Stills, Odetta, Judy Collins, Rosanne Cash, Rodney Crowell, Bob Dylan, Elvis Costello, Chrissie Hynde, Roger Daltrey, Patti Smith, Bruce Springsteen, Carole King, the Eagles, Ringo, Eric Idle, Stevie Nicks, Sheryl Crow, David Gray, Chris Isaak, Richard Thompson, Loudon Wainwright, Emmylou Harris, Patty Griffin, Alison Krauss, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Dar Williams, the Cowboy Junkies, the Indigo Girls, Tony Bennett, Neil Finn, Sarah McLachlan, Brandi Carlile, Steve Earle, Paula Cole, Jason Mraz—even ’N Sync, Bill Clinton, Ernie from Sesame Street, and Spinal Tap. Blessed!

  “The Sensitive Ones”—Jackson Browne, Shawn Colvin, Bonnie Raitt, and Bruce Hornsby—on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, 1999

  (Paul Drinkwater/NBCU Photo Bank via AP Images)

  Me with Jackson and Lyle, 1990

  (Photograph courtesy of Lisa Arzt)

  Me with Mary Chapin Carpenter and Rosanne Cash at Bob Fest, 1992

  (Photograph courtesy of Joel Bernstein)

  Me and Neil Finn, London, 1992

  (Photograph courtesy of Simon Tassano)

  Me and Socks, the White House cat, 1993

  (Photograph courtesy of Simon Tassano)

  Me with Sheryl Crow and Bob Dylan, Grammys, 1998

  (Photograph courtesy of Kevin Mazur, Wireimage/Getty)

  Me and Mary Chapin Carpenter, Philly Folk Fest, 1988

  (Photograph © by R Corwin, Photo Arts)

  The road can be a fickle mistress. It runs from the sublime to the surreal. Take, for example, a gig I once did in Seattle. Or, more specifically, Federal Way, Washington. I ended up in Federal Way because I was the prize in a Gallo Wine sweepstakes. The people from Gallo approached me and asked if I would be willing to be the featured artist in a sweepstakes they would promote for the summer of 2001. At the end of the summer, the winner would be chosen, I would travel to the winner’s home for a private concert, and for this I would be paid. A lot. Well, hell, nobody loses, I thought. One of my ardent fans would be rewarded with my presence, and I would get some cash, and all for simply being the poster child for Gallo Wine for a summer. And so I said, “Of course.”

  It’s helpful to know a couple of things up front here: One, ask yourself who enters a sweepstakes? Do you? I don’t. Two, I don’t always travel well. The panic is most likely to set in on the road when I’m alone and disconnected, and I never know when this is more or less likely to occur—it’s a crapshoot. For this reason I always have a little pill with me called Ativan. It’s the same tranquilizer that Steuart Smith used in his planephobia cocktail. Now, let’s assume it doesn’t help matters if I go to Seattle and immediately have a gigantic mocha latte, just because I’m in Seattle, home of Starbucks. So here I am, alone in Seattle and tanked up on caffeine, which for me is basically an anxiety attack in a cup.

  I realize I’m about to go to a stranger’s home to perform. Up until that point, I’d made an assumption that whoever won the sweepstakes would want the prize. But when the Gallo people picked me up to take me to Federal Way, they looked sheepish and I sensed trouble. I got in the backseat of the car, shut the door, and began to think twice.

  Who were the winners? I asked. Nice people. Did they know me? Sort of. Was it a nice house? Well, there were dogs. Oh, Lord. What had I done? My fantasy was that the winners would be overwhelmed at the prospect of having me in their home. Their home, of course, would be perched on a cliff somewhere, and the throng that gathered would sip pinot and query me on the meaning of my work. Now I was forced to consider otherwise.

  I got that horrible, trapped feeling, like when your parents took you to see your weird cousins and you had no choice but to live in their funny-smelling house with the wrong food and the wrong pets and having to hear that prayer every night about dying before you wake. Well, I seized up. I was in a vehicle driven by strangers bound for the great unknown, and I suddenly had terrible misgivings and no time to consider them and no choice to change things even if I wanted to. My heart raced, my hands began to sweat, my head spun, and I couldn’t breathe. “Pull over,” I said.

  I got out of the car at a strip mall and called a friend to shore me up. “I’m having an anxiety attack, and my head is leaving my body.” The thing about panic attacks is that in that moment you truly feel that what’s happening is a matter of life and death, that you may have a heart attack or go insane or disintegrate or do all three at the same time. My friend told me to take an Ativan. “But I have to play,” I said. “If your head is leaving your body, I suggest you take a pill.” She had a point. Understand, though, that I had not nipped this episode in the bud when I felt it coming on and was now in a full-fledged, paralyzing, peaking panic attack. That one pitiful little tiny white pill seemed rather impotent, given the circumstances. So I took two.

  The folks in Federal Way were down-to-earth, lovely people with several Barcaloungers, and they had no idea who I was. The house was filled with doilies and ceramic frogs and Hummel figurines. I felt no pain when I finally got there to grace them with my presence. I said, “It’s your party, what do you want to hear?” A nice man mentioned that some Merle Haggard would be nice. So I played some Merle, exceedingly grateful to Buddy Miller at that moment. Next came a request for “Johnny” Denver. I stipulated that this was to be a sing-along, and when the chorus for “Take Me Home, Country Roads” came around, the Barcaloungers flew back in ecstasy and everyone joined in. And so it went. I don’t remember the drive back to Seattle, I don’t remember getting to the hotel, I don’t even remember going home the next day. The lesson learned here is this: Some of us don’t enter sweepstakes because we take them for a scam. I’m here to tell you, it’s not true.

  Not long after Callie was born, I was invited to be part of a show in Orlando, Florida, at Disney World—thanks to the success of “Sunny Came Home”—for a Christmas special they were taping. One of the other acts was ’N Sync. I remember being at a press conference with Justin Timberlake—he must have been about twelve—and I’m pretty sure Joey Fatone was making eyes at me. We all did a finale together of a bouncy Donny Hathaway song called “This Christmas.” I wasn’t playing guitar—we had a great band, and acoustic guitar wasn’t necessary. I think I may have made mention earlier of the fact that I’m not particularly coordinated. This is another reason I play the guitar. During a ballad I can manage having nothing to do with my hands if I have to, but if the
song is cooking along, I can’t resist dancing. And the finale song was a great, up-tempo, R&B-flavored tune. So here I was with this teenage-boy band, and they were kicking it. I couldn’t help it, I jumped up and down a couple of times—and from having just had a baby my pelvic floor got stretched out or something. I peed in my panty hose when I jumped during that song, which gave me the perspective in a very brutal way that I was a lot older than the boys in ’N Sync. I looked over at Joey, but he was done with me, off in another world. Now I keep my guitar onstage in my arms and my moves where they belong—at home.

  Then there was the one and only time I played in Columbia, Missouri. It was summer, and the gig was outdoors—that’s all I knew. I don’t need much information about where or when I’m playing, as long as somebody can point me in the right direction at the right time. As I was being driven to the site, though, I noticed something rather strange: There was a large marquee bordering the grounds that read FAIR. Usually in the summer I play festivals or city concerts in the park. I barely had a chance to consider what “fair” might mean when I read the rest of the marquee. Next, in gigantic letters, was:

  TRACTOR PULL

  and underneath that—

  Shawn Colvin

  Ruh-roh. Suddenly I was wide awake. Something told me I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, but strangely enough that’s almost exactly where I was. I wasn’t far from Kansas, and Kansas wasn’t far from South Dakota, so these would be “my people,” wouldn’t they? I looked around, and I wasn’t so sure. I saw fencing—stalls. I knew what that meant, but I asked anyway. “Are there cows in there?” My driver answered, “Yes, ma’am, this is an agricultural show! That’s where we keep the livestock!” He turned to give me a dazzling, friendly smile. “And,” he continued, “the people who pay to see the cows get to see you for free!”