Closed Down

When writing my book, I had that epiphany that I seemed, even in my teens, to be full of spite and venom and blackness, and that this wasn't after all, as I'd suspected, anger not getting out, but all the fond, loving happy and good feelings rotting in there, because I didn't know how to let them out.

   I don't cry.  I don't touch people.  I don't smile at people very readily or quickly.  I'm kind of closed off.  I can report any emotions to you, that you could want to hear reported, but that's not the same, is it?

   Today there was a huge performance by a visiting high school music program which involves making a huge rock concert which tours the province. The kids plan the tour, rehearse for it, and do all the lighting and sound and everything.  So I'm standing in the gym with half the gym full of teenagers singing and playing their little hearts out to badass rock songs, and I realize that I'm crying inside.

   What?  Why?  It's like when I watch Lord of the Rings and Eowyn says "I am no man" and kills the witch king.  Or when Ralph Maccio does a jump kick and wins the karate tournament despite a badly injured leg in Karate Kid.   It's like every cathartic moment when the hero gets up again.  I'm automatically holding in a torrent of tears.  They never do get out.  I don't cry.

   I think it's about beauty.  It's about the underdog winning.  It's about good panning out.  And today, it was about "When I was a suicidal kid staying home from high school, just barely managing to drag myself in Wednesday evening after missing the day of school, to do band practice and play TV and movie theme songs, what would it have done for me to have been part of this giant, loud, primal, incredible screaming performance?"  (rhetorical question)

   When I was a teen, I wasn't even able to listen to and enjoy those songs without shame and a judgmental spirit.  AC/DC. The Rolling Stones. Couldn't have felt anything but awkwardness and critical judgment of the artists and their wicked ways.  I was frantically fleeing pleasure and honest, frank, primal emotional expression.  That was all deeply trained into me.  Wielded stubbornly by me.  Unthinkingly.  Defensively.  On autopilot.  Making me judge the songs and artists instead of feeling and knowing them. Instead of seeing their humanity and their truth.

   But not today.  Today I was standing there in the dark, loud, vibrant gym with the lasers reflecting off trombones, drum kits, guitars and microphones, and when I talked about it after, my voice was wobbly.  There was a sob caught in my chest for about twenty minutes afterward.  It was caused by all those kids throwing themselves powerfully into loud, expressive music without shyness or hesitancy.  I could never have done that.  Would have felt guilty if I even liked the music.  Because it was loud, and fun and "of Satan," after all.  Abandon rather than control.  Open and outpouring of emotion rather than closed and denying it.

   But not today.  The tears were streaming down my cheeks.  Inside my skull where no one could see.