recovery and the music that guided me to it

“I’m so absorbed by worry, and so blinded by the ugliness in my brain that I’m forgetting how to live.”

These are words I would have choked out over the phone to my therapist in the summer of last year. By that point, I’d been existing in the shadow of depression for around twelve years, and for maybe eight years, I’d also lived in the company of a vicious swarm of wasps known medically as Generalised Anxiety Disorder. The depression kept me in gloomy corners and crept its way into every pleasant memory, dimming the lights and turning down the saturation. It even had the audacity to lull me into a false sense of security, of dense and sickening faux-comfort, and tricked me to accept the numbness it concocted. With anxiety, that swarm of wasps constantly buzzed nearby, and every now and again, a wasp or two would dislodge from its cloud and sting me. Sometimes, I’d react to the sting with meer annoyance, but other times, I’d entirely swell and forget how to breathe. I guess, with experience and over time, I learned how to see in the dark, and how to fend off the wasps from attacking my more vulnerable spots. But that’s not living.

I sought help at the end of 2019. I had two months off of work and was referred to Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) for something I didn’t even know I had: OCD. I didn’t actually pay this new condition any mind until maybe a month into my course of therapy when my therapist linked me to a forum, specifically a page that detailed all of the different types of this very complex disorder. As I read through it all, I cried so much, with both pain and relief. OCD had convinced me for so long that I was a sick person, that I was rotten, and had subjected me to horrific thoughts that I didn’t have the stomach for. I’d been continuously so disturbed by my own imagination that I’d unlearned everything I knew about myself and replaced my forgotten identity with a villain. Now, I could see that that villain wasn’t me. It was OCD. This realisation helped me more than I can possibly express, but it didn’t fix me, despite me believing that it would. The intrusive thoughts didn’t vanish, they just had a home now, a box to be stored in. I just needed to learn how to catch them and put them in that box.

My therapist’s response to all of this was to ask me something really very simple that even I, with my automatic thinking perpetually set to pessimism, could answer: what makes you feel alive? Of course, I gave expected answers: my loved ones, feeling the sun on my skin, birdsong, the smell of the sea. But she reminded me that these things, although very valid, weren’t always accessible. I needed to think of something that I’d always have at my disposal for when my mind got dark. I gazed around my room (for I took my therapy sessions over the phone whilst sitting on my bed) for inspiration and found the answer to be quite literally staring me in the face. I’ve been obsessed with music all of my life and collecting records since the age of fourteen. The corner of my bedroom housed the cherished collection that I had meticulously curated over the eleven years from the first record I owned; the seminal Kick Inside by Kate Bush, which ignited my adoration for Bush’s music.

I was encouraged to create a playlist and add it to my phone’s home screen so that when I needed to be reminded that I am alive, I am loved, and I am not my intrusive thoughts, it would be there to ground me, calm me, and pull me from the fog. This is that playlist.

1. Zoom! By Super Furry Animals, and being exposed to the world in all its archaic glory.

I can't get enough of it

Kiss me with apocalypse

An instant hit

Upon the splash that marks the entrance to this near seven-minute-long anthem, I am plunged into a serene caress of crystalline bliss, and cradled by cool water whilst the sun’s rays lick my floating limbs. The song soars from its heavenly intro into its smooth verse; it is rich with a multitude of separate elements that carry the tune, swooping down, and then flying back up again in a wave of careful chaos. Its melody stays the same throughout the song, but it seems to grow louder and bolder with every second. By its outro, it has become so deafeningly loud that I feel as though I’m being swept into a storm. It’s an unusual journey, a sensory overload, but it forces me to ride the wave and throws me into the eye of the storm, and hails the start of my journey back into life. It whirls me into rapture and has taught me that facing the beautiful, raucous, bedlam of the world is worth every moment that I’m living in it. This song has always been present in my life, and I regard it, strangely, as my most safe-guarded possession. I’m careful with who I recommend it to, and I try to keep it as sacred as it deserves to be. I don’t know if I could live in a world without it, and I thank it for making me feel alive.

2. Myth by Beach House, and falling in love.

You can't keep hangin' on

To all that's dead and gone

If you built yourself a myth

You'd know just what to give

Do you lie?

Oh, let the ashes fly

I met the love of my life in August, and in the week that we started texting (we met on Tinder), he recommended I listen to Bloom by Beach House. He’d described it as an illusion, in that some people hear how minimal of an album it is, but to him, it’s earth-shatteringly huge. I already knew that he was going to be special, but the emotional connection that he has for music - something that I had always felt quite (happily) alone in having - made me fall for him so fast, and with so much comfort and wonder. I was on holiday in deepest, darkest Wales, and had been particularly plagued with intrusive thoughts that I found so much trouble in disengaging from, as I was away from my routine and my usual distractions. I remember when he sent me this album, of which Myth is the opening track, I played it on repeat through my headphones and slept better than I had in months. It is, as he had said, earth-shatteringly huge, but in the most consoling way. We’ve talked about the album since, and funnily enough, where he regards it as melancholy, I regard it as hopeful. Perhaps it’s down to association because it was brought to me during a time in which I was letting go of so much, and opening my eyes to a new version of myself. Its wistful melody echoes with such a remarkably soothing ferocity that I feel small in its presence, and all at once, I am lifted but also grounded by it. When I hear this song, I think of him and our love for each other. I think of how he sees me for who I really am, how I'm supposed to be, and how he helped me become myself again.

3. Return by Katy J Pearson, and forgiving myself.

I've changed like the weather

I've changed for the better

I'm as light as a feather

And as dark as a cave

One of the most uncomfortable elements of having OCD is how much I torture myself for my mistakes. I can recall so many things that I’ve said wrong, and I don’t let myself forget any of them. In fact, I replay them, and make myself feel hot-headed or sick or dizzy or all of the above. Sometimes, I get so stuck in the past that I convince myself that I’m having a premonition and that the reason why I’m stuck thinking over something that’s supposedly long since passed, is because something terrible is about to happen as a result of it. During my course of CBT however, something miraculous started happening. I began to sit with all the uncomfortable memories that I was being flooded with so often, and learned to look at them with wisdom, and started to forgive myself. Katy J Pearson released this gorgeous album at the end of 2020, and I must have listened to this particular track on repeat for about a month. I was approaching my discharge from therapy, and it felt as though this wonderfully poignant piece of music had found me to hold my hand as I worked through my last few sessions. I can’t remember the last time a song moved me to tears, but this did frequently. The lyrics are what spoke to me, which are very much the focal point of the song. Its instrumentation is almost cautiously simplistic and as hushed as Pearson’s whispering vocals, until the last moments of the song when everything seems to let go. I imagine a weighted branch of blossom, delicately shedding petals one by one until the encouragement of a warm spring breeze takes the weight away, and paints the sky with pink. It’s a song of self-belief, growth, and relief. It narrated my journey and delivered my healed self to the life that I deserve to live.

4. Fixture Picture by Aldous Harding, and letting go of the past and living in the present.

Honey, your face is folding up

As the memory kisses you goodbye

It's better to live

With melody and have an honest time

Isn't that right?

What came after being discharged felt like a new life. I moved into my own flat in January. A year ago, I don’t think I could have possibly faced the discomfort of being alone with only my grizzly thoughts for company, but it was a challenge I felt ready for. I bought this album, Designer, on vinyl and it accompanied me in setting up my new home and gave me solace as I embarked upon my fresh start. It became a friend, and when I’m low I often put it on. I moved during lockdown, and while I was able to form a support bubble with my boyfriend, I am considered a key worker, so we can only see each other at the weekends. This means I’m alone during the week, which, at the beginning of my course of CBT, would have been a terrifying reality. But on the most part, I’m fine on my own, and my records give me such lovely company that I often look forward to recharging with them and a glass of wine. Designer has been my go-to, and truly feels like my dearest friend. Fixture Picture is the opening track of the album, and with its first chord, my chest is always filled with warmth. It’s a palette of honey, smooth and sweet, the heat of a fireplace beside an open window that lets in a salt peppered autumnal sea wind. Its chord progression remains more-or-less the same throughout, acting as a trustful backbone to its gentle melody. I trust it to guide me away from the charged storm clouds in my mind, back to shelter and to where I am safe.

5. Sunset by Kate Bush, and remembering that though the sun retires at the end of the day, it’ll always return in the morning.

Keep us close to your heart

So if the skies turn dark

We may live on in

Comets and stars

When anybody that knows me hears Aerial by Kate Bush, I hope that they think of me. I hold this whole album in the spot closest to my heart. It fills me with hope, with love, and with an appreciation for everything a human is capable of - even if that human is me. Aerial was released when I was ten years old, and my dad would play it as we drove around The New Forest, where we spent most weekends. I remember that, with its continuous theme of birdsong, it seemed like this album was written specifically for this cherished time and place. It’s an album for mothers and their children. It’s an album for artists and dreamers. It’s an album for anybody that has ever felt the warmth and safety that comes with being wrapped in the arms of a loved one. This song is possibly my favourite off of the album (though I do find it ridiculously hard to choose). Its first section is serene, a gradient of the pastel blues that come at dusk, and though it is as calm and as still as a horizon, there is something within it that brews with steady anticipation. The anticipation builds to the eruption of the second half, which comes as a burst of energy in colour; a tapestry of oranges, pinks, and reds that spread across the sky as the sun bids me farewell until the morning. It is possibly the most euphoric piece of music I have ever heard, and perfectly encapsulates the warmth of the sun. It tells me to cherish the moment, but in the same breath, be excited for what’s to come.

My recovery isn’t thanks to these songs exclusively. My recovery is thanks to myself. It’s thanks to the work I did through therapy. It’s thanks to the love of the people I have around me. It’s thanks to the world I live in, that I now have my eyes open to. But this playlist grew as I grew, and held my hand in my darkest moments. It calmed me and grounded me when my brain was at its loudest. It’s a catalogue of how far I have come, and I hope only to add to it as I paddle further into the sea of life.