So, in all my naiveté, I thought, what worked before might work again. Music in my case. I had become very passionate about it in my teen years leading up to my High School graduation, then attending a private Jazz music school while I was still signed up for military service in my country, ultimately making a short professional career for myself playing clubs, resort hotels, casinos, discotheques. I was 23 and it was the 80-ies. I never made more money than in those days, I never had a better life and feel to it than then. Those were the days and they ain’t coming back.
25 years later, I thought trying to rekindle the passion for music and coming from a previous career in the IT industry, which had me burn out on the double stress of coping with C-PTSD and managing the manifold stresses of that particular work environment, was the thing to do to continue on a path of healing and possibly even come around from 100% disability, bankruptcy, poverty and overall isolation for not having the money to socialize. I collaborated with a US-based musician, who is well on his way of becoming a household name in Contemporary Jazz and Pop. I recently participated in a world premiere, starring an airbound pianist performing on his bright orange piano while being hoisted in the air by a helicopter. And from everything I was exposed to prior to, during and after that event, I now know for a fact that I can’t cope with all the crazy parameters prevalent in that particular environment. In fact, most of the artists are even more damaged and crazier than I had ever thought I was in my wildest dreams and darkest days. The feeling I get from their disorders is: Rage. As in: Can’t do. Simply can’t do. (I’m not talking about that airborne pianist, though – he’s a cool, likeable fella)
Which means: Coming back to music seems over for me. Actually, when I think really hard about it, my attempts of thinking I’d be best “accommodated” in that walk of life all harken back to the times when I felt more insecure about myself, actually felt like I had no right to feel anything, let alone have a right to defend myself and my feelings. In yet different words: The times when music felt good where the exact times when I was still under the impression that abuse was normal – when it’s not. Times, when boundaries were notoriously ignored and invaded on, times, when my “self” was that abused, invalidated, humiliated, scared lump of fear, trying to find shelter and safety when there was no such thing anywhere in sight (it still isn’t). Music and the respect I encountered for my talents was a place, where all of a sudden none of my history mattered any.
Today is a new day. I know my value. I know, I don’t have to apologize for being here any more. I know I didn’t do anything gravely wrong. Yes, I made mistakes, yes, I messed up a couple of times. But none of those “failures” were anywhere close to justifying abuse so horrible, it turned my elementary school friends away from my home, because they couldn’t bare to be an involuntary witness any more.
I had better grasped, understood and eventually applied the enormously liberating act of “letting go”. “Good riddance” to the past, “hello, dear friend!” to the present and future…