Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Saturday, January 30th, 2018▪️
The first time I pull the comforter over my head, and in the darkness and warmth of the bed at another random hotel, I begin the purging.
Recording #1
We talked so much but I've never told you about the secret me. The me only my lyrics and melodies know about. I've been hiding the person I don't want anyone to know exists for so long, I sometimes persuade myself she's not there. And the pills, they are an excellent solid door between me and the ghost of me I despise. I abhor her so much that some days I successfully forget about her. About the trauma. About anything that is not the present day. Those are the easiest days and the most joyful ones. That's why I choose the present. And that's why I refuse to revisit my past.
🎼🎵🎶🎙️🎧🎹
▪️Thursday, February 4th, 2018▪️
Recording #4
When I got out of the hospital in New York after the accident, my body was broken in so many ways. My hand betrayed me, and the future I designed—no longer an option. I fought for it, but I lost. The doctors were right. Even though Amelie's Dad showed me, there were other ways I could enjoy being one with my piano, it was not the future of my dreams. It was the alternate universe I had to accept.
My calls with Mike were a lot more exciting than the mini confessions that stuff the digital guts of my phone, but they fill some of the void Mike's presence leaves in my daily life. As days without Mike pass, the notes I capture for my lyrics multiply, and I spend more time in the studio on the bus than when Neil and I were building their new album. The recordings are not revelatory, but the truths I've never wanted to ask myself burst out of my mouth like I choked and expelling them is the only way for me to survive and not suffocate.
🎼🎵🎶🎙️🎧🎹
▪️Monday, February 8th, 2018▪️
Recording #7
The first months, the hurts were attacking me from every corner of my body. Living in a vessel where I felt my ribs, my skull, my skin because they ached, where I had to reconsider and adjust things I've never thought twice about like getting out of bed, taking a shower or feeding myself . . . Those simple actions became irritants, something to avoid. But my parents were there. They got me out of bed every day. They were my caregivers in ways they probably never expected. I love them so much.
I don't have answers, but I know better than to expect them so soon. After two weeks, instead of typing up messages for Mike and deleting them, I tap the record circle instead. Sometimes, it's another confession. Other times, it's a part of a song. I kick wide-open the door into the room in my head that I avoided for so many years. I peer into every corner, rub off the residue of gloom off the windows. It's not livable yet, not ready for new furniture and for laughter to echo off the walls, but I'm no longer dreading stepping inside, no longer afraid of the remnants of myself I might find.
🎼🎵🎶🎙️🎧🎹
▪️Tuesday, February 9th, 2018▪️
Recording #11
I recovered. My injuries healed. Month three, back in Chicago, I made it out of the house. Month six I enrolled at UChicago at my parents' insistence. The outside view of normalcy reassured them. If I was doing normal things, I must be doing better
And I was . . . doing better, but also wasn't. Instead of healing the gashes in my heart and mind, I covered those with the makeup of routine and everydayness. I wasn't lashing out. No extreme behavior. No incessant partying. No more lying in bed day and night. My life appeared to be that of an average first year college student: overwhelmed but studious, looking for independence but still living with my parents. I projected that image for my sake and theirs. Fake it till you make it.
During the concerts I watch The Whats and see the hard work, but also something I'm not sure I possess. They love being there on stage in front of so many people. I need the pills to get me through the experience and not fall apart. They gorge on the energy and the unpredictability of each performance. They are in the right place. I'm still watching from the sidelines, relieved the moment the spotlight moves to their set.
The best part for me is the writing, coming up with the words, the melodies, the meaning those components conjure in people's minds. When I write, I'm the creator of the experience. When singing became a paycheck, songwriting remained a thing I'd do because I craved it. It's not always easy, or painless, or even working. I have hundreds of songs I've never finished, or even truly started. But songwriting relieves my pain, while touring makes it worse.
🎼🎵🎶🎙️🎧🎹
▪️Thursday, February 11th, 2018▪️
Recording #15
I mastered a radiant smile to keep the outside world at bay, but underneath I still felt everything. Too much and at the same time. My mind wasn't on the lectures. I wished I could change myself overnight. Flip a switch and here I am, new and improved Angie, who doesn't have the baggage. There was no switch. There was therapy.
Therapy was a curse word when my general practitioner referred me to my first set of mental health providers. For me, the diagnosis didn't matter: PTSD, depression—giving names to the feelings that resurfaced every day, no matter my efforts, didn't seem to be helpful. I expected the doctors to scoop the charred insides and send me fresh and clean back into the life I've planned for myself. Therapy doesn't work like that. Therapy is a long game.
The nights on the bus, I run my fingers over the poster of Mike he got me for my birthday on the bunk above me. When I dream about the perfect life, I'm not in a cute cottage by the sea with a white picket fence and a Labrador, I'm no longer center-stage behind a grand piano breaking it with the force of my fingers, and I'm not visualizing myself on stage with crowds cheering my name. The image I come back to is Mike working at his dojang office I haven't even seen in person while I write my songs.
I imagine our future.
🎼🎵🎶🎙️🎧🎹
▪️Friday, February 12th, 2018▪️
Recording #18
Putting my body back together took less time than taking apart the rambles of the old Angie's mind. I loathed the time I spent in the stuffy office of my therapist and my psychiatrist, because why have one if you qualify for both. The endless hours I spent talking about things that supposed to matter maybe helped more than I wanted to admit, but the meds were the real reason I kept showing up at the psychiatrists' office when I had to.
The closest thing I could find to the insta-switch I was after. Drugs were a faster way to not only dull the throbbing in my hand, but more importantly, block the room in my mind that still had the fire raging. I could smell the proverbial smoke of my ugly thoughts and desperation. Taking a pill or two did the trick. The air in my head cleared, and I could turn my back to the carnage I hid and look at the bright happiness of the things I wanted to pay attention to.
As I let my story burst out of me, as my body sweats and sleeps off the chemicals, I know what to do and when to do it. I pick up the phone and call Marguerite. I ask Ben for the updates on the dojang when I send him my notes on his latest video. I spend a day with Neil and The Whats at the recording studio. I'm not sure this will work, but I'm ready to try. I'm ready to work for what could be if I give it a chance. I have a long road ahead of me, but I know I don't have to hide any longer.
