Today’s post is a writing challenge. This is how it works: participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post. All words must be used at least once and all the posts will be unique as each writer has received their own set of words. That’s the challenge, here’s a fun twist; no one who’s participating knows who got their words and in what direction the writer will take them. Until now.
My words are: mapping out, change is hard, decision, accomplish, dead end, indisputable truth
Buckle up, kids. It's a long ride.
____________________________________
It’s difficult to get to know someone, who they are now,
without knowing where they have been, who they have been. Nearly impossible,
really. The version of ourselves we are at the present is illuminated by and
carries the baggage of the past. We’re a sum of experiences, memories, genes,
views. Everything we are is shaped, at least in part, by everything we have
been. Mapping out all that personal tragedy (in my case) isn’t all that good a
time. But a soundtrack… A soundtrack is something else. It’s like a mixtape for
your life—using someone else’s words and art to relate the journey you’ve been
on, where it’s brought you, and where you see the road headed.
So here we are, seeing the landmarks on road I've traveled from beginning to end and beyond.
Cyndi
Lauper—Girls Just Wanna Have Fun
”Some boys take a
beautiful girl
And hide her away from the rest of the world
I want to be the one to walk in the sun
Oh girls they wanna have fun
Oh girls just wanna have”
I don’t have very many memories of my childhood. Those that
do exist are foggy snapshots in time, moments that fail to complete the full
picture. They provide just enough to know what things were like but spare me
the details I really don’t think I want anyway. But one of the true ones, an
absolutely crystal clear memory rare as they are, is of a very young me, maybe
3, dancing to the video for this song, amused and laughing…free. Maybe the
memory has stuck with me through all these years because it was the first time
I connected to music in a real way. Or maybe it was one of the few times I felt
safe and happy and unconcerned with the volatility that haunted most of my
childhood. Either way, that relationship with music still exists, lighting my way
through even the darkest times and making sure I remember where I came from.
Eric
Clapton—Cocaine
When I was 3, my parents were arrested for distribution of
cocaine. To be clear, it was my dad’s cocaine, but my mom lived there so when
the police took him off for the loads of it they found in our house, they took
her too. And then there was tiny me, a pawn in all of this, dressed and in
court every day to play on the sympathies of the jury. Between me and the money
my grandparents shelled out for an attorney (and possibly to grease palms a
little), I didn’t lose either of my parents for any real length of time. Was
that for the best? Eh. Jury’s still out on that one.
The cocaine though was an
ever-present character in my childhood. My dad loved the stuff. It didn’t love
him, but he couldn’t get enough. His nickname was Stormy because of his
reputation for being a mean motherfucker with a volatile temper. Maybe he would
have been that without the cocaine…maybe not. Either way, he lived by this song, man.
“If you want to hang
out, you gotta take her out, cocaine. “
It was never my thing. Despite the nights I saw him ride on
with a little powder, fist-pumping like a champ to this song, I saw how much
destruction it can cause, and I took a different path. I suppose sometimes our
parents are the best ways we learn how/who NOT to be.
Nirvana—Smells
Like Teen Spirit
Given I spent my teens in the 90s it seems a bit cliché to
include this song on the list, but I can live with that. Around the time I was
12ish my parents finally split. My mom put up with his drugs and drinking and
abuse for far too long and spent quite some time squirreling away money from
her weekly paychecks trying to save up enough to move out and leave him once
and for all. It took a long time for me to not fault her for staying so long,
but good fucking god, leaving was terrifying. He would show up at our little
rented place out of his mind with rage and drink and drugs and threaten to rain
hell down upon us if she didn’t return, but she stayed strong through it. I don’t
know how any of us did really. But even then I knew I would never let myself be
in her shoes.
It wasn’t long after their split that my mom took me shopping. I
had some money burning a hole in my pocket like it always seems to do for kids who have no concept of money, and I wanted music to soothe the
ache of life. This was the first album I ever bought with my own money—that I
picked out for myself. I didn’t even really know who the fuck Nirvana was at
the time, but when my mom saw the album cover while shopping with me, she did
that thing Moms do, that gasp of disapproval followed by a whole bunch of naggy
words about not understanding the world today or some such shit. Things old
people do. Of course that meant I had to have it whether I knew who the fuck
they were or not. I needed that rebellion. I needed to assert who I was outside
of who she was, who my father was, who all the adults were that I knew. I
needed to be something else, something different, something…more. That was the indisputable truth of the
matter.
It just so happened that putting this tape in, yes I said tape, awakened
all that in me and more. I don’t know if I can claim it was life-changing, but
it sure did its part to make me feel at home in my own skin, and I still
treasure the decision I made that day to get it. Music has done its part during so many times in my life to help me figure out what it means to be me, and this was certainly one of those times. The gritty, grungy sounds worked like sandpaper to soothe my soul and help me escape the road I was too young to have much control over. The only thing I could get a handle on was how much I really needed to be my own person.
“She's overboard, self
assured. Oh no I know, a dirty word.”
Stone
Temple Pilots—Sex Type Thing
My mom moved on really fast after my parents split. She had
been with my dad since she was super young, had never been on her own, and didn’t
really care to be on her own ever. It just wasn’t for her. I could say a lot of
things about that and the man she chose to marry as soon as the divorce was
final, but some things are better left off the Internet. What I will say is
they’re still married over 20 years later or whatever, and I guess that’s
something.
Her choice wasn’t easy on 13 year old me, though. Change is hard,
you know. I started drinking at that age to cope with all these things,
stealing alcohol from my soon to be stepfather’s stash and refilling the marked
bottles with water. It was a daily thing. I liked that fuzzy feeling and how it
smoothed out all the rough edges in my mind that wouldn’t quite fit together
like a puzzle should. I liked how it quelled my anxiety for a little while and
made me sleepy and forgetful and unfazed by the dead deer hanging on the walls
and the times I could hear them having sex in the next room. It's funny I'd get in trouble for drinking the few times i was caught, but no one ever seemed concerned about *why* I was drinking or even wanted to at that age--it was more a problem about me "stealing" someone else's alcohol. I was my father's child, and I guess being a drunk was just expected of me.
Anyway, I suppose my point
is that I wasn’t exactly making good decisions, and my dad’s house was the
place to be for bad decision making. That’s really the only reason I have for
moving back in with him when I was on the cusp of 14. I wanted my home, my
bedroom, my things… I wanted something to be the way it had always been, the
comfort of that. And of course there I would have unlimited access to all the
booze. He’d been giving it to me in front of company as a gag since I was a
baby. Why would he ever have a problem doing so when I was older?
That’s where I was alone the weekend I was “date” raped at
13. He had gone to Miami to pick up some drugs to sell and left me in charge of
myself with a fully stocked fridge and my grandparents just a few minutes down
the road in case of an emergency. So when this boy I knew, an older boy, stopped
by on his four wheeler insisting to come in, me on the cusp of 14 and getting
into boys already, I kept the bad decision train rolling steadily on its tracks
and let him in. We watched a movie together though the title seems to evade me,
and when he moved closer to me on the couch I thought I might die. When he
kissed me, I internally girl screamed so loud I just knew he would hear it. He
didn’t stop there though.
“I know you want what’s
on my mind. I know you like what’s on my mind.”
No matter how many times I said no more, I can’t, don’t, I’m
scared, please no, please don’t, please seriously I can’t do this or the fact
that I tried to get away from him stopped him from having what he wanted. No
matter what I said, he was sure I wanted what was on his mind, and he would
accomplish that goal whether he had to tackle me and take it or not.
The person I was died that night. I’m a wholly different
person than I ever would have been without that hanging over me more than 20
years later, but I’ve accepted this phoenix I am, reborn from the ashes of that
night with anxiety and a guilt complex that has stuck with me no matter how
many times I had to start over, no matter how much I think I have overcome it.
Bush-Glycerine
Everyone handles sexual assault differently. I didn’t really
know what to do. I just knew it wasn’t right. I confided in a friend who ended
up telling her mom, and she, despite me begging her not to, told my dad. He
blamed me and raged which I tried to tell her would happen—the raging anyway…I
honestly didn’t expect the blame. It was my fault for being such a whore, he
said, and refused to hear anything else about it.
I was already on track with
bad decisions. By this point, I was smoking weed, still drinking, hanging out
with older kids (the kids of his many girlfriends actually), and I took that to
heart, I suppose. Sex no longer meant anything to me. It was just a thing to do…a
fun thing to do.
The first time I had sex after the rape at 14, it was with a guy almost
5 years my senior who I snuck out of the house to see. I knew it wasn't supposed to mean
anything much, and I didn’t care. I just wanted to feel something, anything
other than the pain. I wanted that control. We listened to this album during it—one
of my favorites—and I managed to sing along at some points. I don’t know what
it was about that night, but something that should have been cheap and mean
nothing for either of us actually connected us in ways we couldn’t have
predicted. Sort of like the characters in Zach and Miri Make a Porno. We kept
in contact for a lot of years through his stints in prison and even after he
finally returned home. He even asked me to marry him at one point. I fucked a
guy in a Cavalier or something equally as shitty when I was far too young
listening to Bush of all things and still get butterflies if I see him around
or hear from him.
“Must be your skin
that I'm sinking in
Must be for real 'cause now I can feel.”
As much as I have told myself sex is just that over the
years, that song still makes me think of that boy and that night, and I get a
rush. That’s certainly not “just sex” or just getting off, and if I’m
completely honest there are some people, some connections, some intimacy worth
letting your guard down for no matter how much pain it causes you in the end.
Neil
Young—Rockin’ in the Free World
My dad had these two girlfriends once…. How someone like my
dad had two women who didn’t mind each other screwing around with him and traded time with
him is beyond me. The drugs maybe? Either way, their kids were a bit older than
me and had friends who were in a band. Do you know how awed I was at 13/14 to
have friends who were INABAND?! They did
a few original songs and a couple covers. One was Weezer’s Say It Ain’t So and
the other a version of this song that actually wasn’t bad.
Picture it, a field somewhere in South Georgia, 1994. “Got fuel to burn, got roads to drive.”
My life was kind of like the Moontower party on Dazed and
Confused at the time. I was staying out too late with kids far too old to
really be my friends, having sex and doing drugs, fucking up… I suppose that’s
why I still love that movie—nostalgia. I was also super awkward, unsure of
myself… I tried too hard to fit in instead of being me. I was Mitch and Sabrina all rolled into one with an extra dash of social ineptitude. I couldn’t see it
then, but I learned a lot about myself during that time or rather what kind of
person I really didn’t want to be. It was important to figure my own shit out,
to be my own person rather than just going along with whoever I was around
because those motherfuckers did NOT have their shit together no matter how much
I looked up to them for awhile, and the longer I was around the more able I was
to see it.
Beck—Loser
“Kill the headlights
and put it in neutral.”
When I was 15, 9th grade, my dad came back from a
stint in prison, a short one even, for trafficking, and he was worse than ever.
I had managed to pretty much stay out of his hair enough and did enough of his
housework and laundry to keep him from beating my ass too often, but that
changed. He was doing more drugs, driving himself drunk more often instead of
making me drive (I drove for him even at 13), and one night he pinned me to my
bed and headbutt me hard enough to bust my lip luckily missing my nose in a
rage I couldn’t even begin to fathom. He kicked one of my new stepbrothers
across the yard for being fat breaking a few of his ribs. He broke my stepmom’s
clavicle erasing all that shit she ever said about my mom just not loving him
the right way. It was either move out or risk something more serious happening
to me.
By then my mom had been remarried for awhile, my stepdad had
nearly killed my dad in a drunken fistfight, and they moved into a rich, white neighborhood
in town. I didn’t have good options, but I went where it was at least not
violent, and oh man did my friends make fun of me for it. Good naturedly of
course. A couple of my stoner friends really made this my theme song, and I
loved, like really loved, this girl who used to sing it to me. She was funny
and beautiful and jerked me around. She was the first girl I ever really had
feelings for, and it opened up a whole new world for me. I suspected before then that maybe I was different, but with her I knew it for sure. Back then I didn't really know much about how to label myself. Bi was as close as it came, but reclaiming "queer" as a label has been fitting and important, and it works better than anything else.
RHCP—Under
the Bridge
“I don’t ever want to
feel like I did that day.”
So there was this boy… THE boy of my teens probably. We met
in 8th grade when I transferred schools after my parents’ divorce,
and despite me being a fucking weirdo (I’m still a weirdo. I just dress better
now.) he overlooked it and saw me for who I was. I went to all his soccer
games, traded notes with him in every class we shared, watched movies with him
on the phone when we were both grounded from actually hanging out… he was the
first person I ever had phone sex with and someone I naively thought I was in
love with for a long time.
When he was 20, someone broke into his apartment while he
was gone. He came home while they were still inside, and the guy murdered him.
He never really made it past his doorway. The call I got that he was gone
nearly killed me. I fell to my knees in my apartment floor begging it not to be
true, and for a long time, I spent a lot of nights visiting the cemetery where
he was buried pouring my heart out about what was wrong with the world and how
much I missed him.
His death, the way he died, him being so young when he died,
and the fact that I never really got a chance to say goodbye had a deeper
impact on me that I still don’t really understand--from my career goals to the
types of guys I end up being drawn to.
I had known for a long time that I wanted to go into the
criminal justice system, but that event pushed me even harder and warped my
thinking for a long time. I was angry and emotional. I supported the death
penalty, long-term prison sentences, and mandatory sentencing laws which are
pretty much the opposite of who I am today. The research I did in school
eventually caused enough cognitive dissonance to get me to look at my stance
objectively instead of tied to his memory, and I was able to see things more
clearly. For so long, letting go of my anger seemed like a betrayal to his memory,
but that was never who he was. This event changed my life in so many ways, and
even now, even with all the changes and even though it’s been 15 years, I miss
him so much. Sometimes I still dream about him and wake up heartbroken all over
again.
He loved this song. We listened to it so many times together, and all it takes is a couple seconds in for all those memories to flood my mind, make me smirk, and feel the sting of tears in my eyes. He may be gone from this world physically, but a part of him lives in me always and forever.
The
Deftones—Passenger
The change I made in my beliefs about “justice” didn’t
happen overnight. It was a process I honestly fought tooth and nail for a couple,
few years. Towards the end of that, I came across a pen pal site for inmates
that focused mostly on death row inmates who had murdered people in cases not
much different than the one that had cost me Mat.
My anger about that was scary. How dare these people reach
out and expect to find friendship they didn’t deserve… But I kept going back to
it. My morbid curiosity was undeniable, and eventually I decided to write
someone. I think part of me wanted to meet a monster, so I could still hold
onto that righteous anger and stand on my judgmental soapbox, but that’s just
not the way it worked. Don’t get me wrong—it was a completely emotional
decision. The person I chose to write looked and acted a lot like my fallen
friend and was accused of a crime not that far off from what took him. I
honestly could come up with a million different reasons why that was my choice,
but either way, looking back at all the irrational and emotion-based steps that
led me to it, I still feel like it was the right choice. 11 years now I have
been writing people, and even though I lost that guy, Robert, in October 2017,
to execution, even though he and I had our ups and downs as friends and didn’t
see eye to eye on a lot of things, writing him and others has made me a
stronger, better, more well-rounded person, and I wouldn’t give it up for
anything. Even battling chronic fatigue syndrome since 2016, I still find time
and spend some of my spoons on writing and helping and taking care of my pen
pals (who are more than just pen pals).
It’s not an easy thing, though. You go into it not knowing
where you’re headed, how long you have, or how it will go. It’s always a
gamble, and you’re never the driver. You’re just along for the ride.
”Mirrors sideways
Who cares what's behind?
Just like always
Still your passenger”
To be able to do this the right way no matter whether the
person may have a life sentence, a shorter one, or a death sentence you have to
be prepared to relinquish control and let the journey take you where it will.
11 years I invested just to lose someone, and I wouldn’t change it. He wasn’t
even the first I’d lost, and he won’t be the last. Others I have written have
beaten their death sentences and proven their innocence or had their life
without parole sentences reduced… You just never know. And that’s kind of the
beauty of it. The friendship comes without pretense simply because you have no
fucking idea how anything will ever turn out, and once you embrace that, once
you make the commitment to let yourself really be open and vulnerable and
genuine since you really have no idea how long it will last and you don't get the comfort of hiding behind conventions, you can forge the kind of human connection that changes lives—theirs but
also your own.
”Roll the windows down
this
Cool night air is curious
Let the whole world look in
Who cares who sees anything?
I'm your passenger”
Don
Henley—Heart of the Matter
Oh man Don Henley fucking sucks, okay? I know it. You know
it. There was nothing good that came of that album, but I have a lot of
memories tied to that song. My dad played it every time he was drunk (every
day) and always about my mom, and I never understood it. He surely hadn’t
forgiven her. Maybe it had a lot to do with them listening to it together when
towards the end of their marriage. Maybe he figured out it meant something
different to her even then… who knows. Maybe it was crack or meth or cocaine
fueled psychosis. Or maybe this first stanza hit him especially hard right in
the feels no one ever thought he could possibly have:
“I got the call today, I didn't want to hear
But I knew that it would come
An old, true friend of ours was talkin' on the phone
She said you found someone
And I thought of all the bad luck
And the struggles we went through
And how I lost me and you lost you”
I can’t ask him why that song was such a big one for him
because he died in 2006. I got the call I didn’t want to hear in March of that
year. He’d been diagnosed with cancer at 52. It had progressed to, well, pretty
much everywhere, and with treatment, if he was lucky, he had about 6 months to
live. I wasn’t exactly sure how to feel at the time. Mostly I was just numb. We
never had a great relationship, but part of me did and always will love him, so
in my own way, I also took it pretty hard.
He opted for treatment and lasted almost exactly 6 months
being buried on *my birthday* (thanks to my darling of a stepmother to that
idea) in September that year. I visited him more in that 6 months than I had in
the 10 years since I’d moved out of his house. I called to check on him, let
him spend time with my son, and hoped somewhere along the way that I would get
some kind of apology for the hell he caused me. Hope in one hand and shit in
the other, you know?
Not long before he died, the radiation he went through to
shrink the cancerous spots on his brain made it so he couldn’t really talk much
anymore. The words just wouldn’t come. I called late one night and talked to
him on speakerphone with my stepmom there. He wouldn’t say much of anything,
but towards the end he took the phone from her and kissed it. He loved me. I
never really felt it in life, but on his deathbed he managed to communicate it
in little ways.
After he was gone, I felt like the best thing I could do for
either of us was to forgive and move on, to let go of the resentment and anger
and just let his memory rest if not for him, for myself. But the harder I
willed it to happen, the further from it I got, and even with a tattoo on my
arm to signify his passing and my badge of courage for making it through the shitfest
he made of my life, I still couldn’t get to a point where I felt okay.
My stepmom called my brother and I out to the house to pick
up a few of his things she felt we might want (and let’s be clear it wasn’t
much. She kept as much as humanly possible for herself and had burned all our
things long before). In it was a stack of records (including that Cyndi Lauper
I loved to dance to so much) and a whole box of 45s. Most of the singles were
warped from being in the attic in the South Georgia weather and unplayable, but
I couldn’t part with them, so I used them to form this huge music note on one of my
bedroom walls with it stuck between framed copies of some of *my* favorite
albums and posters from shows I’d been to and the Cyndi Lauper, of course.
Somewhere along the way coming home to that note on the wall
and listening to his old records, I found the peace I needed. He’d given me
that connection to music. He showed me how good it feels to share a song with
someone you know they’ll really love or one that changes everything for them.
He gave me my assertive, take no bullshit attitude, my will to be weird, my
potty mouth and dirty sense of humor. So many of the things I love about myself
were his influence. He didn’t really know how to be a good father, but in the
end, he’d taught me more than I ever realized about who I wanted to be not just
the things I knew I’d never become.
“There are people in
your life
Who've come and gone
They let you down
You know they hurt your pride
You better put it all behind you baby
'Cause life goes on
You keep carryin' that anger
It'll eat you up inside baby”
I guess Don Henley got one thing right—it is about
forgiveness.
Baroness-Coeur
I was married in 2004 at 22 ½ years old to someone I had
been dating for a year. I got pregnant the next year, and my kid was born in
October of 2005. Somewhere in that time and in the years of losing my dad,
dealing with my lingering emotions about Mat’s murder, picking up writing, and
trying to work full time, go to college full time, be a first time, new mom and
still take care of most of the housework and cooking and bill paying and
yardwork….I lost myself. I lost connections to music that was my own and just
sort of gravitated to whatever my husband was into or whatever my friends
suggested or what played on the only decent radio station around. I saw a lot
of bands in that time. I loved a lot of songs, but it wasn’t the same kind of
feeling as the first time I played Nirvana. None of it released my demons and
made me feel like the Earth was on fire or made me feel like a part of me was
flying free untethered by the bullshit of everyday life. I was
Mom/Wife/employee/friend/student. I played roles. But I had failed to keep
ahold of my true self, and it showed. I. Was. Fucking. Miserable.
To maybe no one’s surprise we divorced in 2008. It was too
much for me to take care of a grown ass man and a child along with everything
else I was doing. I was resentful and angry and unable to move past the fact
that in all those years even with a child he hadn’t grown. If anything, he
regressed. The fighting was too much; I put up so many walls he couldn’t feel a
thing from me but icy rejection, and it ended. It wasn’t one big thing; it was
a thousand tiny cuts that bled the life from me little by little day after day,
and I think we both finally had enough. We’re still friends. We raise our kid
together fairly well for people who were once married and couldn’t hack it, but
my god it was fucking heaven being free.
Not long after I joined this social media site away from people
I knew in real life (at the ex’s recommendation actually). I met a lot of folks
through it (some I still keep in touch with) and that’s where I really started
rebuilding. I wrote things I actually let people read. I talked openly about
the horrors of marriage and dating as a single parent. I was a bit of an
exhibitionist. And I fell hard for a guy from the Boston area who antagonized me
purposely at every turn…like Mat and I used to do to one another. We’re still
close. He’s just one of those people who left his mark on me that I can’t let
go of nor do I want to. A part of me will always, always belong to him and vice
versa.
But when he told me that I didn’t know real music early on
in our friendship, I took great offense to it. I mean, I was kind of livid. I
didn’t want to admit it that he was right about anything ever for one thing,
and for another, music had always meant so much to me that it felt like a punch
in the gut to hear those words. He sent me the link to this song though, and I
sat back in my computer chair with a glass of wine in hand to listen, fully
expecting to hate it on principle alone.
But my god it spoke to me on a level not much else had ever
done. I was lost. I listened to everything the band had available and I wanted
more. I wanted that feeling over and over and over again, that fluttering rush
of something that resonates so well it shakes something loose in your brain and
wakes you the fuck up.
“Earth burns
Earth turns
Coeur dans la mer (heart in the sea)
Corps dans le vert (body in the green)”
And so my relationship with music was reborn along with a
part of myself I hadn’t even realized I let die all thanks to a boy I still
call “cricket” just because.
Classico—Tenacious
D
There was
never really one aha! moment when it comes to being a geek mom with a geek kid
that links our relationship to just one song or one band. I wasn’t ever sure I
even wanted to be a mom, then all of a sudden I was pregnant. Having him almost
killed me, and it took awhile for me to get into the swing of things. I read
all the books. I know how other moms are and how they completely adopt “mom” as
their main (only) role, but I had to do it my own way. I don’t know if most
people would really understand it—I homeschool him, let him swear at home, and
discuss things with him that a lot of parents seem to avoid i.e. what being
gay/asexual/trans means, racism, systemic oppression, feminism, how U.S. involvement
in foreign affairs has funded and created a lot of terrorist groups, why I am
atheist, what my past was like… I don’t keep a lot from him, but I also make
sure all of this is used for good and try as much as I can to foster empathy
and the heart of an activist within him. In that same vein, I don’t really moniter
what he listens to (though I don’t have much to worry about there since it’s
mostly game soundtracks) nor what he watches (as long as it isn’t extremely
graphic in terms of violence and/or sex). That’s how he came to be such a
Tenacious D fan. We watched the movie together one night, and he was hooked.
Most days you can hear him rocking it while he does schoolwork, and he knows
all the words to most of the songs from the movie as well as others.
But most of all it just fits with who we are, him being a
little mini-me—music-loving, weirdo geeks with inane and often dark senses of
humor. Goofballs. Masters of the Swear. Often inappropriate at home. And
massive nerds.
“'cause when you rule,
you fucking school all of the fools, out of their jewels,
'cause if you think it's time,
if you think it's time,
if you think it's time to fucking rock.”
It’s always time to fucking rock.
Childish
Gambino—Redbone and Shakey Graves—If Not For You
”But stay woke, but stay
woke”
I’ve come into my own in my 30s in a way that was so
unexpected. I was so used to seeing the trope of women crying and screaming and
being dragged into the big 3-0 that I really had no idea that it would be this
amazing to be a 30-something. I have felt more at home in my own skin at this
time in my life than any others, and I have given fewer fucks than ever about
the opinions of others when it comes to what I do personally while still
managing to give all the fucks about what a state the world is in.
I can’t pinpoint a time when it all became clear to me, but
I feel like I woke up one day after having just said “I’m not like other girls”
the night before to being an intersectional feminist with fervent interests
along the sociopolitical spectrum and highly focused on identity politics. It’s
been a slow transition. I know that intellectually. But it doesn’t feel that
way.
And along the journey, that growth led me to other arenas
mostly focused on self-love. I struggle with it. I struggle with discussing my
past, my demons, my mental health, my chronic illness, where I am from, my
biases, and my self-image, but I fight the battles every day (and mostly I win).
Music has been a big part of the struggle.
I listened to a lot of hip hop in my teens. I also listened
to a lot of metal. I don’t know how to tell you those two things work together,
but I suppose a large part of it was rebellion. I dropped the hip hop along the
way at some point, and I could never bring myself back to it. For a lot of reasons
that are probably “obvious” to a lot of people, the genre itself seemed at odds
with my politics.
“I used to know but,
now that shit don’t feel right. It
made me put away my pride.”
Someone I wrote for
awhile had me digging a little deeper on the genre sharing songs he loved. The
lyrics were often politically driven and just as much about love and
relationships and every day trials as any other genre I loved at the time—maybe
even more so. It wasn’t the kind of misogynistic and violent tone so many people
often associate with both the genre and culture surrounding it. I found myself sorting
through all kinds of artists who saw things like I do, who had actually felt
those experiences that I know need to change, that wanted something better for
all people… Music didn’t have to be just an escape, but a way to feel less
alone in your own thoughts and to give you the energy to keep fighting. That
was the origins of hip hop anyway—activism and revolution. I know better now.
I put away my pride and learned a thing or two even about a subject I thought I
already knew everything about (music).
Childish Gambino was one of the first artists of the genre
that I really fell in love with, but this album in particular is everything. It
has so many roots in the kind of 70s black culture and music that felt like a
strike back at the volatility of the times and something sorely needed today
given the way things are now. If anything could represent that part of me that
wakes up every day wanting to fight the good fight, it’s this album with this
being the first song I heard off it. It gets stuck in my head for days, and sometimes I find myself craving the experience this album is. It's not just a record. You live it from start to finish when you put it on.
In a similar vein, I never really wanted to listen to
anything too country or folk sounding because I needed to set myself so far
apart from everything I know in South Georgia. Being comfortable with every
part of yourself means not denying something you enjoy just because of how it
might make you look to an outsider (like a country bumpkin hipster pretending
to be cultured perhaps). But when my
closest friend and I first heard Shakey Graves we fell in love with the sound.
I mean, we were full on obsessed. If Not For You was that song, and while the
lyrics might not really apply to our friendship, I can honestly say if it wasn’t
for him, I don’t know how I’d make it in this world. We threw caution to the
wind about a genre so far outside our norm that day (his being punk and mine
being stoner metal or really anything but that), and it was beautiful, and it bonded us even more. I will
never hear Shakey without thinking of him no matter whether life keeps us
together or throws us a million miles apart, and my story wouldn’t be complete
without at least a chapter for him. But even more than that, embracing the
sounds that I have so often rebelled against with everything else imaginable
under the sun was just one more way to really be my own self, and that’s been
the overall theme of my 30s. Give zero fucks and be genuine to the core.
The
Staves—Tired as Fuck
I’ve been battling chronic fatigue syndrome since May of
2016, and honestly for the first year of it, I felt like my journey might have
hit a dead end.
“Oh, I'm tired as fuck
Nothing no one ever can do to bring me back up
Oh, I'm tired as fuck”
Tired as fuck doesn’t even really begin to cover the kind of
severe fatigue that’s one of the main symptoms of the disorder. There are days
I’m not even sure how I am going to make it out of bed (I always do…because who
else is going to get shit done?). It’s been a fucker of a thing, and it’s taken
a lot out of me to come to terms with the idea that this is a lifelong chronic
illness with no cure and symptoms that are spread across nearly every bodily
system. My immune system, muscles, joints, gastrointestinal system, endocrine
system, my cognition, my vision, cardiovascular system, and personality have
all been affected. I’ve had to spend a lot of time and energy I don’t have
relearning who I am and what my limits are and how to not equate my worth with
my productivity levels. It’s not something I asked for, but it’s something I
still have to keep a handle on it. And I do…mostly. It’s been a life changing,
me-changing illness ever since it started. The pain, brain fog…feeling everyday
like I am drunk with the flu when I rarely even drink…it’s almost surreal.
But
at the same time, it’s taught me to do some serious self-care not
just fake it, to take time for myself, and to always appreciate the little
things (I don’t have the fucking spoons for the big things more times than
not). I had to give up being independent
to a fault and learn to ask for and accept help instead of trying to do it all
(still a struggle not to feel guilty over that). I’ve had to unlearn the
pressure I put on myself to get ALLTHETHINGS done in one day or in a certain
time period, and now I have to get to it when I get to it. I still sometimes
feel that pressure. I have a long way to go, but even with this monster of an
illness I feel more in tune with life and myself. I even give myself breaks
from the news (whoa!).
I can’t say it’s been good for me because let’s face it I
wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy, but I’ve been able to make some good out
of the situation, and that’s all you can really ask for out of life.
Daddy
Issues—Unicorns and Rainbows (boyfriend)
If I had to pick just one song to be my theme in life, it
would be this one. The sound, lyrics, girl power, angst and grunge are
everything that I have been and am from that little girl dancing to the very
countercultural icon Cyndi Lauper to 36 year old me still wearing flannel and
Dr. Martens with purple hair and tattoos and an eat shit attitude covering up a
pretty soft interior.
“Haven’t you heard
I’m a sheep underneath all this
fur
You should have known
I am full of shit not unicorns
and rainbows”
There is nothing much else to say about it, but that I feel so
ridiculously happy every single time I hear this song, and I am happy it’s
mine. (thank you to Tommy for sending this band my way and so many others and how much that friendship means to me)
Rolling
Stones--Can’t Always Get What You Want
I don’t know what the future holds for me. Most days I’m just working
on getting out of bed and doing what I have to do lately. Who has the energy to
imagine what the future might be like when you never have enough to make it
through the day you’re working on without a pot of coffee and careful planning?
I’ve had to re-evaluate my goals—career and personal. I won’t ever accomplish
the things I set out to do when I was in my early 20s, and I’ve kind of come to
terms with that. I’m happy with who I’ve become. I have people I love that love
me. I have all kinds of fur kids, massive record and book collections, and a
good support system. I have taught myself to sew and create as much as possible,
and my letters keep me pretty fulfilled. I can’t say I have everything I could
ever want, but I’m good. Despite where I’ve come from and the c.f.s., things
are good. Life is alright. And that’s enough.
“No, you can't always get what
you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometime you find
You get what you need”
________________________________________
If you made it this far, thanks for sticking with me. Here are the links to the rest of today's participants:
Baking In A Tornado
http://www.bakinginatornado.com/2018/01/voluntarily-housebound-use-your-words.html
Bookworm in the Kitchen
http://www.bookwormkitchen.com/
On the Border
https://dlt-lifeontheranch.blogspot.com/
Cognitive Script
https://cognitivescript.blogspot.com/2018/01/organized-sniffles-uyw.html
Part-time Working Hockey Mom
https://thethreegerbers.blogspot.com/2018/01/use-your-words-turning-tables.html
The Bergham Chronicles
https://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com/2018/01/stable-layne-pt-6-useyourwords.html
Southern Belle Charm
http://www.southernbellecharm.com
The Blogging 911
http://theblogging911.com/blog
