Ego Death and Revival

I am a born musician.

I think in emotion, and I hear in song.

My head is constantly vibrating. The World around me vocalizes their thoughts without regard for the harmony of their words. The meaningless gossip and cruelty spewed by others rings out of tune, causing a painful clash of chords in my mind.

Before I was able crawl I was singing, then before I could run I was jumping onto the nearest stage-like surface to perform. The years that followed became gradually more tainted by suppression, fear, and violence. The vibrant little girl who would always sing her songs was forced into a different character. She became quiet, anxious, apologetic.

It was another ten years until she started high school and was able to try and make a life away from home. Through friends and choir and violin, the star beneath the surface was able to shine—just a bit.

In High School music was the entire structure of my identity. I was in the top choir and orchestras, dabbled in theatre, and took up responsibility as an officer for two of the three programs. When I was at home, I had to be silent. Watch my every move-- every breath.

Those organizations weren’t only a way for me to be able to take part in something I enjoyed, they became the sole place I could find myself, and the only family I really knew.

Eighteen years of my life were characterized by self-loathing and codependency. But, for those last few, I had a safe haven. I had a somewhere that I could express myself without tarnishing it with my living trauma. Somewhere that I didn’t need English to be able to be understood; To be loved.

I get migraines now, stemming from stress and trauma. They cause me to become easily overstimulated to light and sound, (oh the irony…) which just so happed to also be triggers to my PTSD.

About 4 months after I moved out of my mother’s home--during my junior year of high school-- the stress of a world without meaning or harmony became too much to bear.

I was about to be a note in that melody.

A lyric from Rent comes to mind as I reflect on the home I had made with the souls I created music with:

"Where all the scars of the ‘nevers’ and ‘maybes’ die.”

Going into college, I had a plan to major in Music education, as I was hoping to find a home again. But, if I were to be completely honest with myself, I knew didn’t want to teach music at all. I loved music more than anything, but I felt as if I had survived something impossible and needed to do something with the lessons and freedom.

Not long into my first semester the reality of it all came crashing down. I was struggling with mental health, the only family I had ever known was gone, and I was starting to lose resonance with the only ‘me I had ever known. That was when I truly lost myself.

But, that was also when I picked up a pen.

I rediscovered a way to express my inner self. When I began to write about things that mattered—as opposed to timed rhetorical essays about the usefulness of a penny—I was able to express my mind again, but this time I wanted to understand it.

I had spent my whole life thinking in purely feel and sound, so my thoughts hadn’t been able to come across coherently enough for me to introspect and heal.

Through writing, I’ve learned my worth apart from my talent, and I have found a medium to express the symphony in my head.

I am a natural artist.

I think in rhythm.

I hear in color.

I speak in song.