A Love Letter to Music & Poetry

Instagram reminded me that ten years ago today, I was in the front row at The 1975's concert. Which means a little over ten years ago, I crawled my way out of a dark relationship.

I didn’t know where love ended and abuse began, but he called all of it love. I knew which parts were wrong, I knew which parts I didn't like, but I believed every word he said afterwards. Ten years ago when I left, I was not licking my wounds. I was not even beginning to reconcile myself, much less rebuild her. I had forgotten that she was there altogether. Looking back, I think maybe she wasn't. I think maybe she went away long before the abuse ended. Ten years ago, I simply did not care where I went missing, or whether I lived or died when I returned to the distant vessel of my body. There was no anxiety, no outward depressive symptoms, just a deep, settled feeling of indifference. That’s been the hardest part about trying to relate to survivors or grievers: reaching deep enough to find something I haven't buried, something firm enough to share.

But music unearthed me. I remember this day clearly in 2014, I saw The 1975 live and I thought the experience must have redistributed my brain cells. I was numb, but I was dancing. I was a waitress when I was leaving that relationship, and I’d listen to The 1975's self-titled album on my breaks. I’d close my eyes and travel someplace else—wherever the rest of me ran off to. I wrote down their song lyrics when I still had no words, when they were all still buried. I’m not a cliche, okay? A band did not save my life. But music snapped me back into a reality that no warm body nor touch ever could. Music was mine, nobody else’s. And poetry… if poetry was amplified like music we’d all be better for it. No social movement, no support group, no therapist could have satiated me like music and poetry. I was never looking for someone who could relate to me. I was just looking for mirrors. I was looking for myself in everything, for signs that I was still alive. I did not want to be brave, or anything more than an active participant in this life. And I don't have to be. But I think if I keep writing, I can lure home whatever pieces of me are still out wandering.

I suppose this is my love letter to music, specifically my love letter to The 1975’s tour of 2014. And to lyrics and poems that reached me in my state of colossal indifference.