Manifesting, but Evil: What I Couldn't Tell Anyone

Note: this post contains discussion of OCD.

Around age 11, I discovered that if I made deals with God, my stomach wouldn't hurt anymore. At least until the next time it happened. God isn't big on money or favors; he's mostly interested in meaningless tasks performed in exchange for a few minutes of relief. I learned how to make these cosmic trades after my parents decided to be trendsetters and get divorced just before the recession, not because of it. Shortly afterward, I developed routine stomach pains that felt like they were splitting my abdomen down the middle whenever I set foot in public school. They were more painful and more frequent than anything I had ever experienced, and because I was the type of child who never wanted to rock the boat, I told no one about them at first. My daily routine was built around staving off the secret stabbing sensation, which could last anywhere from two to six hours at a time but which — out of pure coincidence, I’m sure — only surfaced when I was at school, under pressure.

It would take at least three years before I finally worked up the nerve to tell a parent about the stomachaches, prompting a trip to the doctor to find the root cause. In the meantime, I felt like I had to take matters into my own hands. You have to understand that from a young age, I knew two things deep in my soul: I needed to make life as easy as possible for those around me, and if something was happening to me, I probably brought it on myself. I was still close to the age when I believed a Hogwarts letter might come in the mail for me, so it felt reasonable to jump to those kinds of conclusions. Which means that when I heard the voice of God telling me not to dry my hands after washing them in exchange for a temporary reprieve from my stomach pain, I listened and fucking locked in.

After that first deal was struck, I would squirm in my seat, fighting off the waves of pain, silently bartering with the Lord™ while my classmates were busy learning algebra. While it worked at first, God's voice eventually got softer, and the searing feeling only intensified with time. Finally, around age 14 and after missing too much school, a parent took me to the pediatrician. After several unsuccessful visits, the doctor recommended a child psychiatrist.

I didn't understand the meaning behind the recommendation or even what a psychiatrist did, exactly. I had no idea how someone whose profession centered on thoughts and feelings could help my very tangible stomach problem. But this was what the experts told us to do, so when I entered the room and met a straight-faced psychiatrist with a blunt bob, I had high hopes. For the first time ever, with no parent in the room, I dished every detail of my home life and inner monologue, hoping it would magically cure my ailment. But I was met with a lackluster response, again, because I didn’t understand the difference between a psychiatrist and a therapist. She brought my parent back into the room and carefully told them that I was having a severe response to anxiety and instability. That wasn’t an answer my household was equipped to understand. My parent said thank you, and we never formally addressed my mental health or stomachaches again. It's true; I was dealing with a lot at home, but everybody was doing their best with their own secret pains.

I gritted my teeth through middle and high school. The more autonomy I had, and the more emotional wherewithal I attained, the less frequent my stomach pains became. Slowly, then suddenly, I realized what was happening: Finding the word for it — anxiety — was a huge relief. After years of silent suffering, I finally understood that I was having anxiety attacks, and that my stomach aches were the physical consequence of psychological pain. And those conversations with God? Quirky and relatable. Pretend I never brought it up.

After moving to New York in 2017, I heard a lot about manifestation — fitting for the so-called City of Dreams. Psychology Today defines manifestation as "the idea that, through the power of belief, we can effectively 'think' a goal into becoming reality." I had never formally done it before, but after all, I did manage to get a foothold in the big city after a childhood spent staring at MTA and Broadway posters on my wall. Eventually, I even found a way to do music full-time even though that did come at the expense of, like, all my effort ever. When I signed my record deal in 2021, I felt like I had won the lottery. I was a girl from Texas with no significant prior industry connections, supporting herself through what felt like a pipe-dream career.

I went from making demos on my phone with GarageBand to appearing on The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon and playing for thousands of people. After that, I felt like manifesting worked. It was a head high I thought could last the rest of my life: I had cracked the code. I could think my way in or out of any situation.

I didn’t realize that I was just doing another version of my deals with God. And a mind that tries to find patterns in everything can have a hard time adapting to things going wrong.

After less than a year of ease, it seemed like all the things I had hoped for were starting to drop dead out of the sky like neighborhood birds after a dusting of DDT. Events constantly went sideways due to an endless variety of complications. A van got broken into on tour and our drums were stolen. I lost a huge campaign and funding for a music video because I got wildly sick the night before a shoot, despite wearing a mask everywhere and limiting the number of people I was near. The millionth collab or tour falls through because of scheduling out of my control. I was supposed to do a big life-changing performance, but it got cancelled after a string player tested positive for COVID. These are only a few examples, but at a certain point random events stop feeling “unlucky” and start feeling targeted — at least in a brain that’s built like mine.

My Faking My Own Death and Shaking Hands With Elvis eras were simultaneously the most joyful and stressful times of my life. Everything was moving so quickly, and I was learning more than I had the capacity to absorb. My schedule became so packed that I stopped seeing friends as often as I should have; I routinely worked at night and through weekends. And with my anxieties ever present, I believed disaster could strike at any moment. I tried to stay positive throughout this period, because I also experienced some of the most validating and exhilarating memories of my career while everything was still so shiny and new. But I was running on a deficit of self-assuredness, and without proper support from the people around me. My mental health became confusing and delicate; something I knew I couldn’t shoulder alone. But I tried anyway.

I did my best for years. I’d wake up every day, heart pounding in my throat, and swallow the internal screaming back down. Despite personal tragedy, depression, anxiety, team member changes, rejection, and illness, I continued to function. Why? Because I love being an artist more than anything and it’s all I know how to do well. I’m no stranger to the show having to go on regardless of what’s happening internally. Besides, that’s what you’re supposed to do, right?

While I was carrying on, a tiny but not unfamiliar voice took root in the slippery folds of my brain. It whispered an often contradictory web of lies:

“Artists that succeed don’t try as hard as you do. Also, artists that succeed try harder.”

“You want that tour? You don’t deserve that tour. Everyone can sense you’re being desperate.”

“That collaboration shouldn’t happen because you’re being selfish for wanting it.”

And finally, loud and clear, after surviving so many career devastations (that I probably shouldn’t write about) including being dropped from a major label, the voice settled on the biggest lie of them all:

“The more you wish for something, the less likely it is to occur. The Universe is punishing you and you deserve it.”

After all these years, I thought I had left the deals with God behind, but he came back to teach me another lesson. And I couldn’t wash my hands out of this one.

I knew deep down that the cosmic negative self-talk was my mind playing tricks on me. By the time this crisis reached its crescendo, I had been to therapy for years, practiced positive redirections, and started building a better support system. I was eating better, working out (or trying to), and crying whenever I needed to. If I ever vocalized it out loud, it would have sounded silly: Why would “The Universe” need me specifically to be humbled, time and time again, as if I were a character in a Greek epic? And why would I be singled out? On the other hand, that belief could be oddly validating: I was special enough to be targeted by fate. It was manifesting in reverse, or gone wrong, I wasn’t sure which. You can see how these thoughts cycle and spiral and feed on each other.

Here is the truth, stripped of the kind of thinking I still struggle with: For the past year, I have been addled with the delusion that wanting something means that I am destined to never get it.

This has affected my ability to promote my music, to reach out to fellow artists, and frankly, to hope for the future. This is something that I struggle to express to everyone, including my therapist, partner, and friends. I have sobbed to myself in the comfort of my own home on countless occasions, asking, “Why me? Why now?” and wondering if all of it is a sign to pack up the band.

Because let’s be real, working in music is mostly “rejection and repeat.” For every show you’ve ever seen, every song that’s ever come out, and every video you’ve ever watched, I guarantee something went so, so wrong. I often think about this when I attend concerts as a fan, wondering what kind of gear blew up at soundcheck or whose mom left them a stressful voicemail right before showtime. But without being close to them, I can never know. And when you never see the struggle of other artists, it can confirm the delusion that you alone are ill-fated. And when you already feel guilty for existing and taking up space, that delusion feels deserved.

Post-label split, those voices became especially tenacious. Touring last year initially helped, because the caring, thoughtful voices of fans could crowd out my own inner dialogue. But honestly, I sobbed the phrase, “I think there’s something wrong with me,” more times than I’d like to admit. (Shout-out to my partner for being a good listener by the way.) And outside my partner, I didn’t share this feeling with anyone except maybe… one other friend? Even then, it was the SparkNotes version. The worst thoughts were still reserved for me alone because they made me feel absolutely nuts — and that’s the dark magic of feeling like the Universe hates you while going to therapy.

I have struggled to write this essay because it’d be so much easier to report that I am a gold-star student who perfected my mental health in therapy. But that’s not true. And not telling anyone about these thoughts is precisely what gives them their power. So confidentially, to all of the internet, I want to say some things I’ve never shared before: With the added difficulty of facing rejection as an independent artist, this was the first year that I admitted it was possibly time for me to give up music. That the “Karaoke Queen Tour” might be my first and final headline tour. This was something I only uttered out loud in my darkest moments, but it was a soft whisper in the back of my skull for months, and I certainly couldn’t imagine sharing those fears with my fans.

So, what made me want to write this bummer of an essay?

Being on stage, on camera, and smiling 100% of the time is not authentic to who I am — and it makes the idea of people finding out I am mentally struggling feel like an existential threat. I am not the kind of person to struggle publicly; I have been through countless things that have almost broken me since I started my project alone. When I got dropped, I initially planned on telling absolutely no one, so Karaoke Queen was the first time I ever really shared a “failure” or hardship. I never want to be viewed as weak, undesirable, or unwanted. But, in sharing my reality, I felt more empowered and supported than ever. I thought I would crumble if I admitted I wasn’t invincible — that the things that have happened to me left scars. But instead, I was freed from one of manifestation’s most dangerous tenets: that positive things only happen to relentlessly positive people. I can be me and still succeed — on my own terms and with the help of people who know I’m struggling.

I have been talking more about these thoughts lately. In more detail with my therapist, in more detail with my friends, and in more detail with my partner. I have realized that what is happening to me isn’t some kind of Shadow Spirituality or new mental illness I’ve invented. Specifically, there’s a moment that stands out to me when a friend of mine recently opened up about the OCD she experienced in her religious childhood, and I laughed and responded with, “I never had that. But I did make deals with God when my stomach hurt.” Oh. I realized that maybe this feeling has been around for a long time.

I can’t diagnose myself, and I don’t aim to. But recognizing that these thoughts actually happen to lots of people under the veneer of daily life is the realization that has alleviated their effect the most. I am no stranger to having a poor mental health day and feeling like I need to allot a lot of time and resources to simply stave off bad thoughts. But, at the ripe age of 29, this is the first time in my life I want to be entirely transparent about some of the harder aspects of my mental health as it pertains to my career. Because frankly, I’ve realized that If I don’t talk about what’s underneath the hood, I won’t have sound enough mental health to have a career.

I am grateful to be doing a lot better now, to have a wonderful support system, and to understand myself more deeply after revealing that I have a boogeyman at the foot of my bed. No, it’s not gone. No, I don’t expect it to disappear overnight… if ever. But if you’re reading this, thank you for listening and being a part of the audience that makes this less shameful. Brains are complicated and no one is exempt from a hard time. But one thing I know is that if God exists, they wouldn’t want us to blame our pain on ourselves. There’s more to life than waiting on the other shoe to drop, and it’s easier when I have each of you to make me feel less alone. God is still offering me his little deals, but instead I’m making a deal with myself: to be honest, to be patient, and to still believe in the power of hope.

***

Thank you to Jensen McRae’s “The Thing I’m Not Saying” for inspiring this title and being a beautifully transparent and heartbreaking piece of writing. If you don’t know about Jensen’s work, music or otherwise, you will undeniably fall in love with her spirit.

If you think you might be struggling with OCD, here’s a link to the International OCD Foundation website. Talking to a professional could help. You are not alone.

And I would love feedback on this essay, if you have any. I have endless thoughts on this subject, but tried to say as much as I can without going in too many circles. Thank you for reading.

Stay Tuned,
Allison Ponthier