Brilliant … But Bouncy

My Music Choices Enhanced My Pain.

Being at home with my parents meant that I didn’t drink nearly as often. Occasional parties and time with complete strangers aside, since I was underaged in Pennsylvania, my drinking time was severely shortened.

My parents also didn’t approve of my smoking – which was a full-blown addiction already. They didn’t allow me to smoke “out my window” – which meant I had to go outside. And I didn’t feel comfortable smoking in front of them at all. So I felt a bit imprisoned by my summer housing.

My response was to dive headfirst into the only addiction that wasn’t trying to kill me: music. I woke up and turned on the radio. I had a stereo in my room, and I lived with my boombox beside me as a crutch to get me through those long, alcohol-free days.

I would sleep, too, as long as was humanly possible, to avoid my family. I would stay awake after everyone else slept, listening to music until I couldn’t keep my eyes open, then sleep until well past noon.

My parents worked so I fed myself. I would get up and make myself a bowl of cereal and then, a few hours later, I would make myself a “salad.” Because I wasn’t a huge fan of lettuce, my salads consisted of croutons with French dressing and Kraft parmesan cheese shaken on top. For a fancy meal, I would make myself a slice of Havarti toast, melting the cheese over bread in the broiler. I never enjoyed cooking so using the oven was “fancy.”

When my parents came home, I would get out of the house as quickly as possible – taking my boombox with me to the backyard, no electricity required.

In 1985, I was obsessed with Yaz, Prefab Sprout and the Violent Femmes, as though they were mentors. I’d lie in the grass on my back, staring at the sky as it turned from dusk to midnight, wailing about my woes. Singing at the top of my lungs and sobbing, I’d replay songs over and over and over and over, daring the sky to come down and swallow me whole.

Sometimes I actually expected it to happen, the angst was so great. And my music choices enhanced my pain. I believed I’d always felt this way, I was always going to feel this way; I would never recover, and the songs I loved echoed those sentiments.

My problem was always the world – my parents or society and its rules (the same thing) – never me or my use of alcohol and drugs. I was lost and alone in a sea of blame.

So I attached myself to songs the way others attach to people, and the Violent Femmes sang one of those songs. I listened to it over and over and over, but I didn’t connect any dots.

The song could have been a warning about addiction. It was Violent Femmes’ Good Feeling – enveloping me and spitting me out with every listen: