Letting Go: Of Staying Silent

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I chose this topic as a result of the WordPress Daily Prompt exercise https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/recite/ , which led me to the word Recite. And now I am here, questioning. I want to choose a new word, one with more seeming drama. Solitary? Visceral? Unfurl? Recite whirls in my head, emptiness at the thought of it. What do I have to say about this word?

Here comes a memory of me, on stage, at about the age of 11. I was dressed as the Town Crier (how ironic that is, lol) and “reading” off of a scroll to the townspeople. “Hear ye! Hear ye!” I proclaimed, and then suddenly…everything was blank. For whatever reason, be it nerves from being in front of the whole school on stage, or something else, I just totally and completely went blank. I had rehearsed this, and even performed this role many times with no issue. But that day, I went silent.

The only thing I remember after that moment was my co-actors scrambling to make it all seem like it was part of the play. I also happen to remember something about a “popular girl” that seemed to have it out for me at school being in the crowd, her eyes peering at me. Nothing else remains in my memory, only the sense that I somehow left my body during that moment and didn’t return for a while.

Up until that point, I had great joy in acting–reciting lines with friends, participating in monologue or acting contests–it was all such play for me. I loved dressing up, I loved it all. Yet from what I can remember, after that performance I stopped acting completely.

At the same time at home, I was in the constant aforementioned confusing chaos of my mother’s unpredictable expression of her rage and grief. I was becoming a teen, and I was fighting to become an individual, pushing away her intrusive pummeling vibrations. Around that time, as I mention in my soon to be published memoir Food Memories, I had another powerful experience with my voice. One night as mom was going on a rampage in the living room, and I felt myself get so frustrated, so angry that I burst out of my room and walked right up to her, mid-rant. I grabbed her and yelled at her to shut the hell up, shaking her violently in my strengthening teenage grasp. I remember the look in her eyes, of terror, and of the guilt I felt for seemingly having caused this reaction in her. I remember she was frozen, and silent, and then me crying saying I was sorry, sorry, sorry. I remember her walking away in a daze and me running to my room to hide from what I had just done. I had never done this before, I was the “good child” and had no idea what had taken over me to behave this way. Again, after this situation, it was very silent in the house. We both stopped expressing completely.

How that all ties into the eventual descent into depression, Anorexia, and the psych hospitals seems pretty obvious–without a place to express myself, and being immersed in my mother’s cauldron of repressed emotional intensity, something had to break. That something was me. My innate talent and joy for reciting, playing, singing, expressing my voice and thoughts and emotions broke down like our old rusty Pinto often did, sputtering and collapsing in the middle of the intersection of my life.

Its taken me a long time to re-find my voice, to speak it, and with that the practice of being with the feelings of terror it caused was necessary. Shaking, trembling, heart racing and a cold sweat quivering at my brow, each time I challenged myself to recite, I had to weather these reactions I was feeling inside. Each time, my body was transported back to staring into my mother’s petrified glance, her cold skin in my hands. Each time, I was back on that stage, pierced by the eyes of hundreds of judging eyes and laughter.

I laugh at myself sometimes, reflecting on how something that seems so insignificant in light of others’ horrifying traumas could have shaken me so much. But I can’t deny my body’s consistent reaction to speaking my voice, regardless of how silly I sometimes think it all is. The feelings are still really there and seemingly in my way. Yet by now, I have enough awareness to know that these are old feelings, not ones relevant to the current experience of recital. I know that I have to ride them, holding myself through it all, even through my own self-judgmental laughter.

Recite. I guess the prompt did have something to say through me after all :}

How Heavy Metal Saved My Ass, Pt. 2

Rite of Passage

Victim of Changes–Judas Priest

Continuing on the theme of how heavy metal served as a major assist to me is the topic of rites of passage–or rather how absent such intentional rites of passages are in western culture and how metal met that need for me. Driver’s licenses, the ability to vote, smoke, drink, and graduation from various levels of education form the bulk of a young person’s transition ceremonies in our country. Later on, its marriage, promotions, divorce, and of course the big one of death of loved ones and oneself. Yet none of these “ceremonies” really focus on consciously, intentionally, helping a person realize that they are leaving one state of life and going into another. Its a byproduct if anything of the action.

For me, as mentioned in Part One, attending that first concert was one of the first events where I became aware that I was no longer “that” and was now “this”–I was no longer a quiet child playing in the forest, the child who meshed with whatever was happening, or who tolerated and swallowed the toxicity of my family home–I was now a “metalhead,” and one who would express what I felt.

In many earth-based cultures, youth are encouraged to embark on a group or solo activity known generally as a Vision Quest. Part of this quest is intended to help them move from the state of youth to adulthood, as well as for them to start to forge a relationship with Spirit and what Spirit wants for them to do with their lives. It is also quite intense, often brutal, in ripping young ones away from their parents, or requiring grueling challenges for the individual to survive. Many times it was literally life or death–if you survive, you become an adult, and if not, well you’re just dead.

There are generally three stages in a Vision Quest: severance, threshold and incorporation. Going to that concert was like this quest, in that I ignored my mother’s warnings and went anyway (severance), then merged with a group of helpers into the unknown realms (threshold crossing into unknown), and finally as a result of experiencing the complete vibrancy of mosh pits, communality, crowd-mind-body-merge-cheering-and-screaming-as-one, I returned back home with a completely different way of wanting to be and show up as in the world.

It is not as intense each time, but I’d have to say that every concert I go to is in its own way a mini rite of passage for me. Even though the terrain is pretty familiar by now, it never fails that some intense learning experience will happen for me during these concerts, some awareness or understanding comes through. I always seem to enter a concert one way and emerge with a totally new understanding of something. Sometimes it is experiencing myself sob uncontrollably at the beauty of seeing thousands thrash it out in the pit, the tribalness of it all. Sometimes its losing a shoe in the middle of a raucous crowd and having to dive into the possibility of serious injury to retrieve it, to come out realizing my strength and the brother/sisterhood that helped (or provided resistance) in my forging of a stronger self. Sometimes I’m not sure what it is that’s changed, but I know for sure something has.


Breaking The Law–Judas Priest

I’ve never been a particularly willful person, evanescent if anything would describe me. I just kind of floated along in my youth, melted in, hung out in the periphery. I never really had a sense of being a certain way, wanting to represent myself as a certain style, etc. I remember much of my clothing in my youth came from my mother’s housekeeping clients, they’d give her bags of hand-me-downs and I’d delight in trying whatever came to me. Albeit this did not make me popular or the least bit cool, just kind of strange. When I found myself in therapy as a result of severe insomnia, I was given a label of “someone with depression,” so in a sense that was my first identity. Not long after when I stumbled into an eating disorder, I found yet another identity. Yet both of these were rooted in being someone with a disorder, not an incredibly encouraging thing to represent in the world.

Which is where heavy metal came in. The first time I started going to shows and being in the crowd with other fans, I felt for the first time a resonance with a way of being that was based on strength. It was based on something to be proud of, something to connect with others about that wasn’t rooted in sickness. It also had somewhat of a specific dress/look code that I found I really resonated with too–this was where I found that I really liked costumery that focused on dark matters, and it was totally exciting and fun to figure out ways I would present myself at each concert. The range of expression here was sort of limited to darkness and sexuality, but at the time these were areas I really hadn’t been able to represent with my clothing or looks, and at concerts it was like a free-for-all for me to do this experimentation.


Can I Play With Madness–Iron Maiden

Tribe is a closely related topic, and I’ve touched on it a little in this conversation. As a young child it was almost as if I didn’t really find most people interesting enough to want to connect with, or I found them confusing and overwhelming to be around–so I spent most of my time in nature or with animals. Especially as I started to have these intense and stigmatized experiences of depression, losing a loved one, Anorexia–the typical teen human didn’t really have much to contribute in relating with me except either fear, pity or some type of judgement. Yet in the songs of my favorite bands, I heard my experience mirrored. What they were singing about was what I was going through.

Oddly though, after the loss of my boyfriend and his tribe of metallers, it was difficult finding actual individuals I could relate with about the music, as I wasn’t particularly interested in partying, having sex, etc. I was pretty shy, traumatized and still pretty overwhelmed by the expectations of the social scene, so rarely knew how to make connections. Yet I knew that if these people liked this music, they could on some level relate with me, and that felt comforting despite my inability to make individual contact. A sense of “tribe” for me was felt more archetypally and with the bands themselves, and was what kept me attending concerts solo for decades. I am now only recently finding individuals that relate to my journey, want to discuss the depth, meaning and sacredness they feel in the music. It also feels like more bands are also starting to approach these themes more openly and I’m curious to see where the genre continues to evolve.

Regardless, over the course of my life, without this music and the reflections it gave me I’m not quite sure how I would have survived. In a world that would label my “symptoms” and feelings as a diagnosis, heavy metal seemed to tell me that what I was going through was completely human, logical even. That of course I was angry, of course I was depressed, of course I was confused or felt lost or what have you–as a result of living in our society, or going through traumas, having terrifying premonitory dreams/visions, or dealing with uncontrollable mind/body manifestations–that it was NORMAL to feel as I did. It also seemed kind of “cool” to be insane in the world of metal (again, we’re talking as a concept, not that the average concert goer really wants to stand next to or talk with someone that’s batshit crazy). Nevertheless, this way of seeing things, and myself, was a lifesaver.

In closing, I’m not sure how many more associations will come forward to share about heavy metal’s life-saving qualities, but I will share more as they come. I know there’s something in my head about how heavy metal gave me a place to explore my fascination with all things occult, we’ll see if words come to describe that!

If you’ve made it to the end of this post, thanks for reading. I’d love to hear how metal saved your ass, if it has.