What is it about music that helps us to heal?
This past week, I was on Spring Break. I teach 9th grade English and it was a much-needed respite from grading, planning, and teaching. On Monday, March 14th, one of my favorite bands had a show scheduled in Orlando and I made the drive down to see them at The Social in downtown Orlando. Touche Amore headlined and had three opening acts – Thirdface, Gleemer, and Vein. I won’t write about the first three, but suffice to say they were all very loud, very talented, and extremely enjoyable to see live.
I love seeing live music, as it has a power that can transcend the emotion felt on or from a recording. Touche Amore’s 4th outing, an album titled Stage Four is something that I’ve written about on this blog before. It is an album dealing directly with grief and the loss of a loved one – in this case, lead singer Jeremy Bolm’s mother’s passing. I, like many others, am no stranger to grief and loss. My great-grandparents, who raised my mother and quite literally saved her life, passed shortly after I moved to Florida from Utah. My paternal grandfather passed when I was about high school age. I have had various friends and acquaintances die prematurely, and I have had students die long before they were supposed to pass through the veil that separates this world from the next.
I have also been hospitalized twice in my life on a psychiatric hold – once for a suicide attempt, and once for suicidal ideation. Thankfully, I am still here. Having struggled with mental illness and complications from a severe mood disorder, medications, therapy, and other coping strategies, I can honestly say that at this point in my life I am the most mentally healthy I’ve ever been, which is a pretty profound statement when I step back and think about it.
So when I went to see one of my favorite bands in person by myself, I wasn’t expecting a terrible time or a particularly wonderful time – just a bit of time where I could enjoy the day and relax without feeling the weight of any responsibilities.
About halfway through the set, the band launched into the second track from Stage Four, titled “New Halloween.” I have listened to this song countless times – I have drummed my hands on the steering wheel, screamed it out loud in my car, listened to it in the shower, while I am writing, sitting at my computer, and dozens of other times and places. But this time was – for some reason I’m still not able to articulate – different.
While everyone moshed and pushed and crowd-surfed along to the words, I stood above the pit, watching everyone lose their collective minds and Jeremy screaming into the mic, sweat pouring down his head, and drummer Elliot Babin hitting the drums so hard he broke one of his drum sticks. With the energy and volume and utter insanity that was in front of me, I was, for some strange reason, extremely calm and on the verge of tears.
I have about one cry in me every 18 months. That is not some weird way of bragging about my machismo and stoicism but rather an observation that I think I am deeply broken in certain irreparable ways in regards to my emotions and how I display them. So I knew that, yes, while I was tearing up, I wasn’t going to cry because, while I may want to cry and show that emotion, I am, for some reason, incapable of doing so.
When the guitars hit and I recognized what song was playing, I had a strange calm wash over me. I was mouthing along the words to the song, but had to stop because there was a catch in my throat when the words before the first chorus came up:
I was told that you wouldn’t have known
Told myself I was where you’d want me to be
(But it’s not that easy)
I tried to be your light
Did my best to shine
Nothing I do feels right
As I went out all the time
“New Halloween” by Touche Amore from Stage Four (2016)
It was at this moment, with tears welling in my eyes, that I knew things were okay. Between moving jobs, dealing with mental illness, supporting family and friends, trying to start a family, trying to be a good person, living my faith daily, and staying mentally healthy, I had a lot on my plate. I still do. But I choose to have those things in my life because they make me better as a person. I do my best to be a light to others. I do my best to tell myself that what I am doing is enough.
And it can be better. It always can. But it doesn’t have to be.
I think that’s what I was meant to understand in the dimly lit area of The Social in Orlando – it’s okay to not be the best. You’re trying, and that’s enough. Hopefully I can keep doing my best even when everything I do feels wrong.
Nate Livsey 