Musical Lifeline

As the squeaky, often flat, melodies floated about the highschool auditorium, I felt transported back in time. Suddenly, my heartbeat was in step with the piano keys and my spirit rose and fell with the choral voices. Yes, it was just a highschool choir concert that I was attending this week, and it wasn’t all filled with talent, but there were moments while I closed my eyes and listened that the interlaced harmony felt like a warm, plush blanket wrapped tightly around me. The whole experience took me directly back to the days when the hallway between classes and the band room were my greatest escape. 

When I was in middle school, 7th grade specifically, I loved arriving at school early. The earlier I was, the longer I had to sit and listen in that hallway. A couple of the 8th grade boys were always seated at the piano on the other side of the door, plucking away at the small handful of different pieces of songs they knew. They never played through anything completely, or particularly well, but it was consistent every morning, the same few songs, the entire school year. Those barely in time notes were some of the only consistency I had that year. Eventually, I would get to the hour where I actually had choir as a class, and as I sang, I can’t say that pieces of me were healed, but the ones that were still clinging on, found a reason to stay connected. The music and my love for it kept me from completely losing myself. 

7th grade was a really tough year for me. I mean, I think turning 13 has its challenges for everyone, but I was also coping through watching my father lose his battle with addiction. When I did visit him, the visits were strange because I could see him slipping further and further away. I only became more hurt by him the older I got because I was realizing how much of my childhood was spent protecting the adult who was supposed to be fighting for me. Our relationship was strained, and when he would call to catch up, and I could hear him nodding off and not really hearing what I was saying, my heart would break all over again. I wanted my dad there with me. I wanted to feel loved by him, but the man I knew that year was a shell of the man he really was. 

It all escalated when he aspirated on his vomit and was left alone and unconscious for so long that he remained in a coma for a month. My dad had hit rock bottom, and he crash landed so hard, it cost him his life. I’ll never ever forget the last moments I had with him. He was alert, eyes wide open, lungs active, but that’s all he could move on his own. He was hooked to all kinds of tubes that were keeping him fed and monitored. My sister and I were small enough that we were each able to lay on either side of him. I’m certain he knew our voices and knew who we were. When we would speak to him, his open mouthed breathing would quiet and slow to a steady, almost relaxed pace. As soon as we stopped or walked away, the loud snoring would open back up, and his eyes would widen. 

In those few moments, where the rest of the world seemed to stand still, where I could only think about my dad not getting better and how difficult that would be for my sister, completely unaware of how any of it was truly affecting me, I turned to what comforted me. As we laid there, I sang through every song I had learned in choir so far. It didn’t heal anything, or stop anything bad from happening, but the music seemed to comfort what was left of my dad, and it was trying to hold me together too. The notes I sang weaved in and out, over and under. They twisted around my insecurities, my fears, my battered self esteem, and pulled tightly, holding some semblance of me in place. 

My dad was taken off of life support just a couple weeks later. Next month, it will have been 15 years since the day he passed. Growing up without a dad for all of the milestones that followed 7th grade was not easy. It still isn’t. I think about him everyday, and I wish he had the chance to know me as I am now. 

Six months before confronting the grief of my dad, my step father, Skip, was in a motorcycle accident that took his life. That man had become very dear to me. He hadn’t replaced my dad, but he did provide some warmth and safety while my dad didn’t have the ability to do so. Skip was one of the first people to share musical theater with me. We never went and saw any stage productions together, but I do remember that his daughter and him loved singing Phantom, Wicked, and Rent. Several months after Skip had passed away, after watching the Phantom of the Opera movie for the first time, I would listen to the Music of the Night every night before bed. I would close my eyes, snuggle under the covers, and remember Skip’s warmth. As the lyrics, “You alone can make my song take flight,” drifted from my iHome speakers, I would find sleep in the embrace of music. 

I cannot even count the number of times music became a therapeutic escape for me. Whether I was standing tall on kitchen counters or belting a dramatic number in the woods, when I ran away and got lost, music always seemed to find me. It was its own world where I could retreat far away from everyone and everything, from a world that seemed to really only continue to hurt me. In my safe, little get away I would find a peace, a calm that I couldn’t find elsewhere. My muscles would relax, my jaw would unclench. I could release any tears that needed to fall. Within the refuge of music, I survived adolescence. And if you think that I don’t use standing on tables and countertops and singing super loud when I am home alone as an adult coping skill, you would be wrong. I’m serious, if you haven’t tried it, it feels better than I’ll ever be able to describe. Turning up music nice and loud and dancing like I know exactly how professional dancers move their bodies and pretend I know how to imitate that gracefully, is so refreshing. Escaping into the angst of a character I’ll never meet, and singing out all of their feelings into an empty room, is the equivalent of a warm bath for me. 

All that to say, music is really precious to my heart and wellbeing, in particular showtunes and soundtracks of the movies I grew up with. So this is my reminder to you, reader, that you shouldn’t ever be ashamed of the music that you like. I don’t care if it’s a “guilty pleasure” song. That term shouldn’t even exist in the world of music. If there is a song that brings you joy, play it really loud this week and sing it at the top of your lungs. It’s especially helpful if you pick a bad day. Watch it shift your heart strings around. Music is truly transformative, and it is so deeply personal. Never let anyone make you feel shame for the music you enjoy. If it means something to you, please don’t feel guilty listening to whatever you want. If music is keeping you together, the way it knits me whole again, go and love what you love. Go love it nice and loud. 

You are truly and deeply loved.