This is the Soundtrack to My Life

The prelude:

I used to be adamantly against Spotify. I thought the interface was weird and I’m a creature of habit. I liked the simplicity of Pandora: type in an artist and listen to genre-similar music to your heart's content.

That is until one day, after lamenting to my friend about how annoying the commercials were getting, when my friend showed me the wonders of Spotify playlists.

“Cierra, you’re a student, so you’ll get a discount, there are no commercials, unlimited skips, and (this is what intrigued me) you can make your own playlists.”

Stubborn through and through, however, I refused to let my friend make me an account. Instead, when she left, with all my pride still intact I made my own account.

And thus the playlist-making began. Currently, I have well over 100 playlists on Spotify, all specially curated to whatever nuanced mood I might find myself in, including one named “The Soundtrack to My Life.”

It features any song that demarcated a point in my life that has shaped me. Being an emotional and sentimental 25-year-old, you can imagine that it is an obnoxiously long playlist.

This fixation on music started when I was young. It was my escape. At every vaguely uncomfortable juncture, of which I can assure you there were many, there was always music to comfort me.

As an incredibly awkward child who struggled to make connections, I turned to music. It was my sanctuary. Music alone understood me, spoke to me, and comforted me in ways people simply failed.

(The irony here is that people create music— a conclusion my brooding, loner child self didn’t come to until after therapy. Alas, I digress.)

More Exposition

When I was born I entered into a life of unconventionality. My mom and father were not married and, in fact, were broken up for a while. My mom moved back in with my grandmother and focused on her career until I was about 2 when she started dating my stepfather.

When I was 3 they married and since then have had 2 more kids. This marriage, an attempt at securing a normal, nuclear, white-picket-fence type of life, ironically hurtled all of us into deeper unconventionality and dysfunction.

In a lot of ways, my unconventional entrance into the world and dysfunctional childhood are probably the roots of my feelings of isolation. These feelings started when I was younger. I was uncomfortably shy and deeply insecure about talking with almost everyone.

Unlike my peers, I didn’t seek comfort in talking with others. I was always much more of a listener.

With that comes my first memory of music and the first track on The Soundtrack to My Life.

Bringin’ Da Noise by *NSYNC

When my mom had work she would have family babysit me. One of my favorites was my Aunt Luanne. She’s my mom’s younger sister and is generally revered as the fun aunt. With her finger always on the pulse of fashion and trends, she’s always up to date on pop culture. *NSYNC was just getting acclaim as THE boy band of the 2000s and my aunt was obsessed. Shortly, I too became obsessed.

Whenever she babysat me I would request *NSYNC and proceed to wiggle and waver my little body to Justin Timberlake’s boy pop singing.

When my birthday came around that year I asked “Lulu” if she would get me “my own Justin Timberlake.”

I remember excitedly standing in my grandmother's dining room. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands,” my aunt cooingly implored. I squeezed my eyes as tight as I could and then felt the slight weight of a small box placed in my tiny outstretched hands. My eyes opened in a flash. I knew just what it was and ran upstairs to listen to my favorite song, “Bringin’ Da Noise,” on my aunt’s stereo.

Looking back, it’s funny that, as a self-proclaimed listener, “Bringin’ Da Noise,” was my first favorite song. However, it’s also eerily prophetic of the cacophony to come, but more on that later.

Speaking of cacophonies a flawless segue’s the next track on my life playlist is:

Master of Puppets by Metallica

Metallica’s “Master of Puppets” is number two on my soundtrack because it’s the second memory of music I have. Quite the jarring genre change, I know.

I forget most of the context of this story but my stepdad was driving our black Saab down a steep hill near my childhood house. Mom was in the passenger and I was behind her, in the back with my then-baby brother. The windows were down and we were listening to the radio when this song came on. I was hooked by the quick harshness of the opening riff and demanded that the volume be turned up.

Everyone in the car started roaring laughing (admittedly, there is something unexpectedly humorous about a little dainty toddler, bedecked in a floral dress and hair clips loving Metallica) while slashing our air instruments.

That was a moment of pure joy. Looking back, though, I can’t help but be in awe of how prophetic that song would be for us.

“End of passion play, crumbling away.”

It wasn’t long before my father and mother’s fighting started to mirror the harsh aggressiveness of Metallica’s music. The facade of a normal family life crumbled away and my parents became the ruination of each other— just like the song suggests, with the key difference being I didn’t enjoy the sound of them fighting.

While “Bringin’ Da Noise,” a pop song, marks the fun upbeat innocence of early childhood with a slightly ominous promise of the ruckus that will ensue, “Master of Puppets” marks the beginning of the noise, the fights, the resentment, and the vices.

Whenever their fights reached a fever pitch I would just grab my brother (and eventually my sister) and turn up the music in my room and shut the door.

Stay Together for the Kids by Blink182

Their anger hurts my ears

Been running strong for seven years

Rather than fix the problems

They never solve them, it makes no sense at all

I used to ask my mom why we stayed. She said she stayed for me and my brother (my youngest sister was a save-the-marriage-baby that came years later). As a result, I think she might’ve started to resent my brother, referring to him as a mini version of my stepfather.

I hated how much shit my brother would get so young and I would always feel a mix of guilt and gratitude when my biological father would pick me up and, like a fairy godmother, offer a slight reprise from the chaos of what I thought was normal.

Apparently, in the time spent with my biological father, we listened to a lot of Blink182. I think that makes “Stay Together for the Kids” an apt song for number 3 on my soundtrack.

It serves a twofold purpose in my life. First of all, it highlights the broken marriage that taught my brother and me guilt and a myriad of other things we were too young to grasp. Second of all, it pays homage to my biological father.

I used to look at my stepdad and my mother’s relationship and fantasize about what it would be like if she and my biological father stayed together. Now, I know that sometimes the best thing to do is walk away from what’s not serving you.

Early on, I was exposed to the harsher side of life. Because of this, despite all the bright frilly accessories that disguised me as a normal kid, I always had an “intensity,” as one teacher called it, that made it hard to connect with peers.

I found connection through lyrics. Why would I talk to people when I could have Music talk to me?

She Talks to Angels by the Black Crowes

She never mentions the word

“Addiction”

In certain company

Black Crowes talk about a young woman struggling with addiction, but the first lines drew me in and I made the song about me.

I was young when I found my first vodka bottle. Not mine— my dad’s. I didn’t know much about drinking, just that it was something my mom and dad screamed about. I didn’t know when he got violent and mean that he was drunk. I just knew there were a lot of empty vodka bottles— enough that I made a game out of rehiding them when I found them.

I barely spoke when I was younger. I spoke even less about my home life, even when I should have. On the rare occasion, I had a "playdate," I insisted it be anywhere but my house.

In my head, I was protecting my family from the curious scrutiny of my few friends. But, part of me was also protecting my friends from the chaos of my house— preserving their peace.

I didn’t mention addiction to anyone; in fact, I barely spoke to anyone until I was in high school, probably afraid of what truths would tumble out if I did start talking. While I didn’t quite talk to angels, I did find saviors in songs like "She Talks to Angels." They helped me feel seen without needing to show myself.

Soon enough it wasn’t just my dad's bottles I was hiding, though. As he got older, and as home life got more volatile, my brother started chasing the same escape and good feeling my dad found in alcohol, further muddying the inner dynamics of our "home" life.

Good Feeling by the Violent Femmes

When you live in a turbulent environment, you spend a lot of time looking for a good feeling. Sometimes people make a habit out of the wrong kind of good feeling. After all, it’s not the drug that makes the addict but the need to escape reality. We all have our good feelings, I got mine from music and books. Others aren’t as fortunate.

The Violent Femmes were my mom's favorite band when she was my age. On the track “Good Feeling” they personify “good feeling” and plead with her,

Won't you stay with me just a little longer

It always seems like you’re leaving

When I need you here just a little longer

Sometimes it feels like the good feeling is too fleeting. And as the singer bemoans, sometimes you’re too busy waiting for the end to enjoy the feeling while it lasts.

It’s a hard truth to face that good feelings end, people leave, and life is fleeting. It’s a truth my stepfather has never accepted, so he seeks the good feeling in drinking instant gratification. My mom seeks the good feeling in people, which is why her relationships always turn more bitter than my stepfather's booze.

The good feeling is what my brother was chasing when he overdosed. The good feeling is what my brother was chasing when he wrapped his car around a tree after a night of debauchery.

Good News by Mac Miller

From “Good Feeling,” we segue seamlessly into good news by Mac Miller.

On a shallow level, this song represents a time in my life when it felt like my family was just waiting for good news. Trouble clung to my brother as steadfastly as I clung to isolation. From standard school shenanigans to small legal issues, to substance abuse, he never struggles with bringing the noise. For every issue he found himself in, though, he always found a way out— we always figured it out.

The aftermath of my brother's accident felt much heavier than the usual lighthearted misdemeanor, though. His back and neck were broken and so were any illusions of him being sober. There was no more denying the extent of his drug and alcohol usage. When his back was healed enough he went to rehab.

It felt like we spent months waiting on good news.

I remember spending an inordinate amount of time in my brother's room during this waiting period— looking for any little piece of my brother, looking for any indicator of when things got so out of tune.

Instead, I found a Mac Miller hoodie that still smelled like my brother, only to shortly be replaced by the smell of me. As my world started to spin out of my control, I found solace and understanding in Mac Miller's melancholic confessional, Circles.

As I listened to Mac Miller plead for inner peace, I couldn’t help but hope my brother was finding his own, riddled with guilt over all the signs of his struggle that I missed. At the time, I remember thinking, "This heaviness must be how he [my brother] feels, too."

“Good News” is an important song to me because, yes, it does reveal the inner struggle of those dealing with depression and substance abuse, but it also speaks to the discomfort of waiting.

Good news, good news, good news

That's all they wanna hear

No, they don't like it when I'm down

But when I'm flying, oh, it make 'em so uncomfortable

So different, what's the difference?

When it ain't that bad

It could always be worse

. . .

I'll finally discover

That there's a whole lot more for me waiting

That there's a whole lot more for me waiting

Burn by Jorja Smith

The track “Burn” came to me while I was searching for the “more for me” that Miller alludes to on my previous song.

I have a persistent urge to prove myself and make up for the shortcomings of those I love. There’s an incessant voice in my head telling me to be more and do more.

“Why have one job when you can work four cotangently?” The voice chides. “Try harder. There’s no room for error.” It berates.

I needed to work and I needed to prove to myself and to everyone else that the constant turbulence would pay off with an awesome destination.

But then I hear Smith’s soothing voice remind me:

No silent movie and no puppet strings

Can't hold you up, you've got to hold yourself, no

Don't mean it's show time for everything

You never listen though

There she goes, there she goes

You burn like you never burn out

You try so hard, you can still fall down

You keep it all in but you don't let it out

You try so hard, don't you know you've burned out

There is no puppet master. I am my own person, fully in control of myself and fully accountable for my mental and physical well-being. From an early age I, alone, felt personally responsible for the total well-being of everyone in my family. I became a sponge, absorbing everything but never letting anything go.

This song is the anthem for all those who burn themselves out trying too hard to prove their value.

Heavy by Birdtalker

I don’t remember when I first heard this song but I remember that it was a sunny day and I was driving and as the band sang on I started crying. Not a sad cry and not a happy cry but the type of cry you have when you feel released or unburdened.

It’s such an intimate song that it compels an emotional response. I had no choice but to cry when I heard:

I want to see your sadness

I want to share your sin

I want to be your blood

And I want to be let in

For so long I allowed the circumstances of my life to control and isolate me— I had spent so much time trying to be everything that everyone else around me needed and feeling sorry for myself about it that I didn’t realize instead of running from the sadness and trying to perfect the weaknesses, I could just leave what was heavy.

Don't you just

Don't we all just

Want to be together

Leave what's heavy

What's heavy behind

Leave what's heavy

What's heavy behind

If your face is down

Take a look around

Do your fingers move?

Do your lungs inflate?

Are you tired, are you weary

Of the hidden hate you've been holding?

And did you lose that love?

Or have you never had it?

Are you feeling sad 'cause you did a bad thing?

Leave what's heavy

What's heavy behind

Leave what's heavy

What's heavy behind

Are you feeling fearful brother?

Are you feeling fearful sister?

The only way to lose that fearful feeling

Replace it with love that's healing

Are you feeling fearful brother?

Are you feeling fearful sister?

"Heavy" earned a spot on this playlist because the universe sent it to me just as I was starting my healing journey. It speaks to all the feelings that I had spent my whole life trying to quiet while reminding me that we're all flawed and all working through things in the best way we know.

Happy Accident by Saint Motel

Everything is just an accident

A happy accident

"Happy Accident" speaks to this playlist at large. All of the songs on here have accidentally found their way into my life at the precise moment I needed them, resulting in the very intentional interweaving of them into my story.

Everything in life really is a happy, funny accident. Unbeknownst to her, my friend sent me this song around the same time that I realized I was starting to fall in love. After watching my parent's love shrivel and turn into animosity, I had closed myself off to the idea of dating— can't make their mistakes if I avoid relationships. What I failed to consider, in all my genius, was that sometimes you can't really help but love people, even in the uncertainty of everything. And loving him really was a happy accident— an unplanned result of unexpected circumstances that I would never change.

If I never laid eyes on you

Would I feel something missing?

If you never laid eyes on me

Would you know something's gone?

But I don't think that I'll ever know

Let's just live in the afterglow

Let it go

Just let it go

What if we never met?

You love me, but you don't know it yet

Everything is just an accident

A happy accident

Saint Motel speaks of finding happiness in the serendipity of uncertainty of life. You never know what silliness life is going to throw at you, but having the courage to throw on some good music and dance along to the rhythm makes everything a lot more fun.

The Outro

The last few songs transition me out of childhood, through adolescence, and into adulthood. While this playlist represents the major bildungsroman of my life, it doesn’t capture all the smaller ebbs and flows. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “I cannot remember the books I've read any more than the meals I have eaten; even so, they have made me.” The evolution of the genres here illustrates the macro moods of periods of my life. The soundtrack to my life is an auditory illustration of my healing journey through an unconventional conception, into a dysfunctional life of self-isolation, to a warmer point of acceptance and unconditional love.

Try as I might, I can’t remember all of the songs that have resonated with me, but my life has always been seasoned by music. For every chapter of my life, there is a song to remind me that even on my worst days I am not as alone as I think and everything will be okay.