December 16, 2014
By Nina Donoghue
A month ago, I found myself walking away from the project that had been my whole world. Well, maybe walking is too abrupt. I told myself that this was a conscious decision, like ripping a Band-Aid off of a fully healed wound, but my departure was closer to a bandage soaking in lukewarm water until the ties are broken and it descends to the bottom of the sink.
I had been skirting around my issues with my punk band for months now, hoping my bandmates would get the hint and suggest a hiatus—I, after all, despised confrontation, and thought that this method of breaking up would be easiest on everyone’s feelings. I realized too late that avoiding confrontation meant eliminating communication, and to my friends I looked like a massive jerk who was ignoring them for no reason. Maybe I couldn’t be honest with them because I knew that they would never believe that our tiny, dysfunctional family could be something from which I’d want to escape.
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I was twelve when I first began to see my guitar as a release. I would spend hours sitting on my pink floral bedspread, pounding the strings and yelling about my parent’s rules, my secret crushes, and my budding sense of individuality. I had a huge Avril Lavigne poster hanging across from my bed, and I would channel her, picturing myself breaking hearts and skateboarding around town. My middle-school angst knew no bounds. By fourteen, I was writing songs, and I teamed up with a long-time friend who was beginning to learn the drums. We found a bassist in the grade below us, and all of a sudden, I was no longer the quiet girl who never raised her hand in class. I was in a band! I was special! I knew Avril would be proud.
For the first time, I genuinely felt like an individual. I mean, I’d always strived to be “different” (this meant a truly horrifying “scene kid” phase that I’m still trying to convince people didn’t happen), but now I had physical accomplishments to prove it. In my head, the band justified my every decision. I wanted to speak up to the sexist dudes in health class? Oh, I’m in a band, it’s okay. This is my third night of grilled cheese sandwiches in a row? People in bands are supposed to make rebellious dinner choices! My bandmates and I plastered the hallways with our stickers, and when we had an upcoming show, we would get around the principal’s “no advertisements” rule by scattering flyers in bathroom stalls, where faculty would never think to take them down. I strode down the crowded hallways like a queen because I felt like I was a part of something important.
It wasn’t until I performed onstage for the first time that I grasped the meaning of the phrase “escape from reality”. It’s nothing new for a musician to gush about “losing themselves onstage,” and I try to avoid this kind of sentiment because it’s basically devoid of meaning. However, playing shows was sincerely the most free I’ve ever felt. The people in the audience didn’t know who I was or where I was from, leaving me free to pick myself apart and rearrange the pieces onstage. For all these people knew, I was always this breezy and outspoken. The music conveyed a piece of myself that was too intimate to put into words, and I’d come offstage feeling a strange sense of connection between the audience and myself. And the validation that stemmed from strangers applauding my raw emotions was unreal.
Then, I woke up one day and everything felt…shifted. I wasn’t excited to go to band rehearsals anymore. Conversation between us felt forced, smiles felt faked, and the sisterly connection was gone. All at once, I realized the extent to which we’d grown apart. While they were still dressing to shock, I was dying my hair back to its natural brown. They were forever bitter at society, while I was attempting to fight my feminist battles with positivity. All my worst fears were coming true—I felt like a monster, reducing soul mate-level friends to strangers in a matter of a few days all because I didn’t feel the spark anymore. Since the band started, I was frightened that this bad feeling in my gut would start dissolving our friendship without warning. It was my worrying that kept me from noticing the recurring theme here: the overwhelming lack of communication that was tearing my relationships apart one by one. Regardless, I felt that the band was as good as over, and from then on, I could only try to find the least painful way to escape.
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It was Jack Donaghy who allegedly coined the phrase, “I need a vacation from this vacation.” Validating my belief that virtually any line from 30 Rock can (and should) be applied to life, I was struck by this sentiment. As a teenage girl, I can’t seem to get away from college counselors telling me to find and pursue my passion. But what happens when the passion fades? Humans are fickle creatures. Does my present love for grilled cheese sandwiches guarantee that I’ll be eating them on my deathbed? (The answer is definitely yes, though.) (This was a bad example.)
Yes, I believe that I’ll still be making music no matter where life takes me. The way things ended was not ideal, but the recent bitterness won’t ever soil the amazing things we accomplished. You know that quote that everyone totally hates: “don’t cry because it’s over; smile because it happened”? Sorry, guys, but it’s true. And I’m excited to be able to tell some of my insane band stories to my future kids (or cats).
Truthfully, I’m still worried about my strange ability to build up a tolerance for the people and activities that I care about. I can somehow pour every ounce of myself into a project until, without warning, I lose interest and walk away. It seems to never be enough for me; to paraphrase Jack Donaghy, “I need an escape from this escape.” But maybe there’s never one permanent escape. Maybe what makes life interesting is finding the next big passion that gives you a reason to wake up in the morning.
Fender Telecaster Paisley Red image (public domain) courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
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