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London Symphony Orchestra The Phoenix
I was 23 when it dawned on me that I might be an alcoholic. It was a cold February morning and I was in a public lavatory in south London, decanting supermarket-brand vodka into an empty water bottle, so I could carry it undetected in my handbag. My morning routine centred completely on alcohol and had done for two years. If I didn't get it into my system as soon as I woke up, my body would begin to display hideous symptoms of withdrawal. Shakes, cold sweats, crawling skin, stomach cramps and dry heaves, to name a few. I would drink enough to get me to the nearest supermarket, where the vodka was cheapest, and buy more. Again and again, every day, like an unsteady automaton.
I knew on some level that this wasn't normal, but I was suffering from alcoholism, a mental illness that tries to convince the sufferer that he or she doesn't really have it. I had justified my drinking to myself and everyone who questioned it for a long time. On this particular morning, I caught a glimpse of my bloated face in the mirror and an unwelcome flash of reality hit. I thought, 'I'm in a public toilet, alone, drinking vodka before 10am. Doesn't that make me an … alcoholic?'
I tried the word on in my head for size. I can't say it fit immediately. I was a young, middle-class woman. I was a classical cellist, for Christ's sake. I didn't think the A-word could apply to me.
I've been sober now for seven years and, looking back, I've always been riddled with symptoms of addiction. Though my childhood was a happy one, I felt burdened with inexplicable fear and obsessive compulsive behaviours. I started playing the cello aged eight and loved it immediately. My ambition was to become an orchestral musician like my parents. It was all going to plan until I started to experience debilitating performance anxiety at the age of 14, which worsened and peaked in my early 20s. I was playing principal cello in the college orchestra when I had a panic attack so severe that I was forced to leave the platform, mid-symphony, to avoid fainting or vomiting in front of the audience.
The experience was so scary and humiliating that I vowed never to let stage fright get the better of me again. I was prescribed strong beta blockers by my doctor, and as a precautionary measure supplemented the pills with vodka. It was a huge relief to put on my black dress and perform like my peers, without a tsunami of adrenaline threatening to wash me off the stage.
The progressive nature of alcoholism meant that all too quickly my propranolol and vodka cocktail stopped working. I turned to Valium. It took more and more to feel normal, and the panic attacks started coming all the time, even when I wasn't performing.
I graduated from music college, put my cello in its case indefinitely and became a waitress. My drinking was out of control and I thought the answer was to change my profession to a less frightening one. Bewilderingly, the fear didn't magically subside as I thought it would. I was as frightened as ever and still drank to cope. The period that followed is a blur. I hurtled chaotically towards what recovering addicts call rock bottom.
When I stopped drinking two years later, with the help of a 12-step fellowship and the support of my family, I doubted that I would ever play the cello again. How could I, without mind-altering substances?
I spent my early recovery temping in admin roles, barely able to listen to music with strings in it without bursting into tears. When I was six months sober, despite the fear, I joined a quartet and relearned how to perform, drug- and alcohol-free.
Last year I was given the opportunity to be in a Channel 4 documentary, Addicts' Symphony. I considered the professional risk I would be taking by going public with my performance anxiety and alcoholism. I am, after all, working in a highly competitive environment. I have dealt with enough of my anxiety to make a living as a session cellist, playing with pop artists and recording film scores. However, I have avoided orchestral work. The formality of sitting in a huge orchestral cello section performing for long periods, before a silent audience, still fills me with panic.
To admit this publicly may amount to professional suicide. However, I'm frustrated with the classical-music profession and the fact that stage fright is still a touchy subject, despite the huge pressures on musicians. My story is not unique. Many classical musicians struggle alone, masking their nerves with beta blockers and alcohol, ashamed, as I was. For some reason, it is more acceptable to admit frailty in the world of rock and pop.
All the way through filming, I was aware that my taking part might help someone like me feel less alone. I trusted the integrity of the documentary's director, Dollan Cannell, from the moment I met him, and I knew I would have more strength to tackle my specific fear of orchestral playing in the company of the other addicts involved in the programme.
Together we composed our piece, Rhapsody of the Tamed, and performed it with pride with the London Symphony Orchestra last November. It was both heartbreaking and empowering to play a concert with the LSO and admit that I was full of fear. I didn't have to deny or medicate my feelings. For once I could be honest and, in the process, the shame I'd had about myself began to lift. It hasn't returned since the night of the concert.
• Addicts' Symphony is on 27 August at 11pm on Channel 4.
I was 23 when it dawned on me that I might be an alcoholic. It was a cold February morning and I was in a public lavatory in south London, decanting supermarket-brand vodka into an empty water bottle, so I could carry it undetected in my handbag. My morning routine centred completely on alcohol and had done for two years. If I didn't get it into my system as soon as I woke up, my body would begin to display hideous symptoms of withdrawal. Shakes, cold sweats, crawling skin, stomach cramps and dry heaves, to name a few. I would drink enough to get me to the nearest supermarket, where the vodka was cheapest, and buy more. Again and again, every day, like an unsteady automaton.
I knew on some level that this wasn't normal, but I was suffering from alcoholism, a mental illness that tries to convince the sufferer that he or she doesn't really have it. I had justified my drinking to myself and everyone who questioned it for a long time. On this particular morning, I caught a glimpse of my bloated face in the mirror and an unwelcome flash of reality hit. I thought, 'I'm in a public toilet, alone, drinking vodka before 10am. Doesn't that make me an … alcoholic?'
I tried the word on in my head for size. I can't say it fit immediately. I was a young, middle-class woman. I was a classical cellist, for Christ's sake. I didn't think the A-word could apply to me.
Music Symphony Orchestra
I've been sober now for seven years and, looking back, I've always been riddled with symptoms of addiction. Though my childhood was a happy one, I felt burdened with inexplicable fear and obsessive compulsive behaviours. I started playing the cello aged eight and loved it immediately. My ambition was to become an orchestral musician like my parents. It was all going to plan until I started to experience debilitating performance anxiety at the age of 14, which worsened and peaked in my early 20s. I was playing principal cello in the college orchestra when I had a panic attack so severe that I was forced to leave the platform, mid-symphony, to avoid fainting or vomiting in front of the audience.
The experience was so scary and humiliating that I vowed never to let stage fright get the better of me again. I was prescribed strong beta blockers by my doctor, and as a precautionary measure supplemented the pills with vodka. It was a huge relief to put on my black dress and perform like my peers, without a tsunami of adrenaline threatening to wash me off the stage.
The progressive nature of alcoholism meant that all too quickly my propranolol and vodka cocktail stopped working. I turned to Valium. It took more and more to feel normal, and the panic attacks started coming all the time, even when I wasn't performing.
I graduated from music college, put my cello in its case indefinitely and became a waitress. My drinking was out of control and I thought the answer was to change my profession to a less frightening one. Bewilderingly, the fear didn't magically subside as I thought it would. I was as frightened as ever and still drank to cope. The period that followed is a blur. I hurtled chaotically towards what recovering addicts call rock bottom.
When I stopped drinking two years later, with the help of a 12-step fellowship and the support of my family, I doubted that I would ever play the cello again. How could I, without mind-altering substances?
I spent my early recovery temping in admin roles, barely able to listen to music with strings in it without bursting into tears. When I was six months sober, despite the fear, I joined a quartet and relearned how to perform, drug- and alcohol-free.
Last year I was given the opportunity to be in a Channel 4 documentary, Addicts' Symphony. I considered the professional risk I would be taking by going public with my performance anxiety and alcoholism. I am, after all, working in a highly competitive environment. I have dealt with enough of my anxiety to make a living as a session cellist, playing with pop artists and recording film scores. However, I have avoided orchestral work. The formality of sitting in a huge orchestral cello section performing for long periods, before a silent audience, still fills me with panic.
To admit this publicly may amount to professional suicide. However, I'm frustrated with the classical-music profession and the fact that stage fright is still a touchy subject, despite the huge pressures on musicians. My story is not unique. Many classical musicians struggle alone, masking their nerves with beta blockers and alcohol, ashamed, as I was. For some reason, it is more acceptable to admit frailty in the world of rock and pop.
All the way through filming, I was aware that my taking part might help someone like me feel less alone. I trusted the integrity of the documentary's director, Dollan Cannell, from the moment I met him, and I knew I would have more strength to tackle my specific fear of orchestral playing in the company of the other addicts involved in the programme.
Together we composed our piece, Rhapsody of the Tamed, and performed it with pride with the London Symphony Orchestra last November. It was both heartbreaking and empowering to play a concert with the LSO and admit that I was full of fear. I didn't have to deny or medicate my feelings. For once I could be honest and, in the process, the shame I'd had about myself began to lift. It hasn't returned since the night of the concert.
• Addicts' Symphony is on 27 August at 11pm on Channel 4.