I grew up in a situation that I don't hear many people describing as their own upbringing. While I had some normal things in place, I also had some extreme oddities at play. These were the details that set me apart from other kids in the numerous schools I attended, and that still make me different today. At least that's how I feel. The evidence of my life's course would support this theory.
I just made an album about my "family". It's a challenging term to swallow lately, as the lonely truth is that only two members of my family of origin will have anything to do with me today. Neither of them is a parent. In a lifetime that handed me not two, but three parents, at thirty-five I can't call any of them to chat. I have one who was seemingly never interested in me and hasn't called in twenty years, one who resents the very ground I walk on, and one who has spent many futile years trying to make me into something I could never be. That last bit comes up again and again. Knowing who we can never be leaves us with a better understanding of who we are. This, I am finding to be more true on a daily basis.
When I was a child, I didn't have choices. Everything from my diet to my dress was dictated by the whims of the adults around me. I had one primary parent who held very strong opinions on most matters, and these were passed on to me as Truths. We like the Rolling Stones, we don't like Led Zeppelin, we love spinach, etc. I think this happens more often than not, and it's not so crazy when applied to trivial things like Richards vs. Page and your preference in leafy greens. It starts to get a little more complicated when applied to major lifestyle decisions, and other family members.
I was three when my brother was born. We share fifty percent of the same DNA, and the other halves are quite different. Mine came with an aptitude for playing sloppy acoustic guitar and weighing no more than a hundred and ten pounds in my lifetime, and his came with a love of the outdoors and dogs. The familial representation of my half has been absent from very early on. I am fairly certain that I'm not claimed as a daughter on that side, and haven't been for possibly all of my life. On my brother's side, however, the familial presence is mighty. His lineage is alive and well, and it's taking prisoners, if you're interested. In the absence of my own tribe, I was sort of absorbed into theirs as a young person. It was an odd fit from the downbeat, but again, as a kid... You just sort of run with the wolf pack you're in. A strange pack is better than none, you think. You think. Somewhere around sixteen, I raised some issues. These were not light topics about going-to-the-Janet-Jackson-concert (I wish), but rather I-don't-feel-ok-in-my-life sorts of things. What I received in response was anger with a side helping of shame. This pivotal moment would set the stage for another sixteen years of this pattern. To be honest and accountable, I signed up for it. There were things in it for me. There was a weird whiplash of love that was present from time to time, there was the hope that I could placate the need to be honest with myself in order to "make it all work", and there were The Gifts. In hindsight, I was straight up bought and sold. Check this out.
After that very first Shame Party, I was given a vintage diamond ring. In coming years, I would receive lavish gifts that included expensive clothing, travel, MY EDUCATION, meals and cold hard cash. I'm not proud of it, but I was a broke artist/musician with little idea of the damage I was doing in accepting it all. I felt a distinct mixture of confusion, shame and gratitude for most of my life until a few years ago. In 2006, I was given a guitar by that camp. One of them bought it, didn't like how it played, and moved on to what they considered to be a Better Instrument. The guitar came my way, and I accepted it with open arms. I had never owned an acoustic before and was just in the beginning stages of writing and recording my album Singer. I love that guitar more than I have ever loved an instrument. It stays on a stand in my bedroom, at the foot of my bed. I've written over two hundred songs on it, played it on four albums, and have performed with it at every show I've done over the last five years. Shortly after it came into my possession, a major trauma occurred in the family. The confusion I'd felt for all of those years gave way to harsh black and white clarity. Truths loomed over lies, winning out at last. I have never been the same, nor has my relationship the pack of wolves. We all readjusted our sails and went in different directions. I'm just glad we made it out alive.
So, here I am all these years later, living in Nashville, writing my songs, kissing my cat, and don't you know that the Big Bad Wolf just came a-callin'. A week ago tomorrow, I got a letter demanding that I give the guitar back. My guitar. The instrument that I have superstitious, sentimental and creative attachments to. Apparently, if I'm not going to become a wolf once and for all, I don't deserve to play a wolf instrument. This is the going argument from that side, I kid you not. Needless to say, I was livid. On top of that, all of the shame and fear that outline every single memory I have of my childhood came rushing back and I thought my heart was going to finally give out from the strain of it all. My default setting is anger, which sucks, but the best that I can do is keep it at bay. There seems to be no way to re-wire my system at this point. I swear, to not reply with a threat of actual murder or arson (at least) was a profound accomplishment. For anyone who has ever been bullied by an abuser, you know where I am with this. The pain in knowing that people who are supposed to love you would choose to punish you for what you are and are not capable of... It can't be measured. It can barely be expressed. (And believe me, I've spent years in the practice of doing just that.)
I went through every stage of grief about twelve times, and now I'm just tired. I've got no fight left, and I just want quiet. I'm sending the guitar back. Not because I think they're right (quite the opposite, actually), but because I just want to be left alone. Something in my heart finally cried, "Surrender, Dorothy".
In dealing with all of my losses, both in family members and outside people, I come back to one topic over and over: is love conditional? My hurt and rage tell me yes. I want to throw love up on the cross and burn it alive because I feel so betrayed by it. But my intellect and true heart of hearts tell me no. I think that this is the truth I sit with today: Love is not conditional, but admiration and respect surely are. I may love a wolf or two, but the respect has dipped into the negative numbers, and I'll be surprised if it ever crawls back up to zero. This brings me back to choices. I'm not a little kid anymore. I'm not at the mercy of the adults who were supposed to make sure I was safe and fed anymore. And furthermore, I didn't choose to be a wolf, and I'm not. Of that, I'm certain. I can eat kale, listen to Robert Plant all day long, and you know what? I think Mick Jagger seems awful. There, I said it.
Want to hear an amazing storybook ending to this cross-genre tale? When I finally let go, and breathed the sigh of defeat about my beloved instrument, I weakly put it out to the universe that I was in need of a new guitar. I don't have much money, and I'm not the Queen of Connections, that's for damn sure. I LOVE the exact make and model of the one I've been playing all these years, and honestly, just want the exact same one. She's a Taylor 714ce. A beauty. Phone calls were made, prayers were whispered, and within two days I had a Taylor endorsement. That is the craziest thing I've maybe ever written. I get to pick a dreamy new guitar out, they'll send it to me and I'll pay an artist's rate, which is a huge help. That elicited a shriek and a fan-kick from me. It doesn't fill the hole of the losses, but it's such a beautiful lining to my life-long raincloud. I can't wait to write two hundred more songs and serenade the cat with my new guitar. I'll have to keep that in mind when I pack up the old one and send her back to Wolfville. Sigh.
Now I have to put my red cape and ruby red slippers on to go see the Alexander McQueen show at the Met. I bet he knew a thing or two about wolves. Just remember this: you can take the slippers away from the girl, but she's still gonna find her way to Oz. Oh yes she is.
Thanks for listening,
buick audra, new appreciator of Led Zeppelin
Sending you a hug!
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