For The Girl Who has an emotional attachment to music...

Can you tell me the name of a song that gives you goosebumps? Do you remember the first album that you purchased? What about the first concert you attended? Are there tracks you can listen to that will invoke all different types of emotion in you? Anger, fear, sadness, relief? If so, you might be a little bit like me.

Ever since I was a little girl, I have had an obsession with music. I was much pickier and more judgemental about music in my younger years, but luckily as I’ve gotten older I have learned to appreciate most types of music for what they are. I can remember as a small child playing cassette tapes on my walkman, and walking around the yard trying to keep pace with the beat of the song. No wonder I took up drum lessons around 7 years old. 

Unfortunately, this didn’t last into my adult life, and I put the sticks down somewhere arond 14 when I discovered that boys were more important. I spent several years learning (but never getting very good) at guitar, and I sing every single day, no matter how awful it sounds. I’m no prodigy, I have very little musical talent, if any at all. But this goes deeper than that.

For me, music isn’t about being the one playing or writing or composing. No, I’m interested in being the end user of this experience. Music is my outlet, my therapy, my shoulder to cry on, and so much more.

If you aren’t crazy about music like I am, you’re probably reading this saying “dude, this bitch is nuts.” You’re probably right. I probably am. But that’s okay; this MEANS something to me.

Music brings about a spark in me that I cannot comprehend. I start my day with music, and most days I end it with music. There is almost always a tune playing, be it through my headphones or just in my head. Even now as an adult, seldom do I walk anywhere without trying to match the beat to what’s playing on the radio or what’s playing in my head.

The emotional response that I have to music is truly a thing that I appreciate about myself. I can relate myself, my life and my experiences to different types of music that I hear. Regardless of what I’m feeling, or going through, I’ve got a song for that. I’ve got a track that will make me smile if I’m feeling low, I’ve got one that I can rage to when I’m pissed off, and I’ve got one that will let me cry if that’s what I need to do.

(Let’s be honest, I’ve got a lot more than one of each.)

I will always believe that people connect through music. Going to shows, talking about our favorite artists, sharing songs with each other, new or old, the experiences are endless. Few things are more therapeutic to me than driving around with the windows rolled down and singing my heart out to songs I love with amazing people in the car with me. These are moments I truly cherish. I’ve made some great friendships based in the music scene, and continued to grow in existing ones once similar tastes were revealed. And there’s one undying common ground: we just fucking love it. 

Some days, music is the only thing that helps me feel better. And it’s always going to be there.

For the Girl Who wasn't believed about abuse...

Submitted by Amanda F


I don't know how to trust people. Hell even saying that much makes my chest tighten. My muscles in my shoulders, arms, legs; my entire body tightens. My stomach churns and snarls. I want to be able to just say #metoo and leave it at that, but silence doesn't make the trauma disappear.

I told my mother I was molested. My mother who is supposed to protect me. My mother who is supposed to love me. My mother who I should be able to trust and confide in. My mother who shouldn't be the poison in my life. She called me a liar. She called me dramatic. She used those same breathes to tell me not to tell anyone else my lies. Afterall, it would ruin the family.

I spent so much time not talking because I was a liar. Was I a liar? I spent so much time not talking because I was being dramatic. Was I dramatic? I spent so much time not talking to protect the very delicate image of my mother and her perfect little family where nothing wrong or nasty or perverse or terrible ever happened. I wish I could live with that fantasy family.

I was being gaslighted. It took me 20 years to figure that out; 7 year olds don't understand those kinds of words. Especially lying, dramatic, family ruiners. I stopped talking to people because I couldn't trust them. I didnt know how to make friends because I didnt trust their kindness, their loyalty, their compassion. I knew these things to be fake; I saw my mother fake them my whole life when we went outside the house.

I'm slowly starting to heal, mostly by talking about it. I'm starting to trust people and build relationships. This didn't happen over night. This happened over time. Afterall, once your in hell the only way out is through. It may not be easy, but every day that I try it gets easier and easier. I just keep trying and now look at me, here, writting this to you.

You should tell someone, they should believe you, and if they don't, find someone who will. You are not being dramatic. You are not going to ruin your family. You are NOT a liar.

For the Girl Who lives with mental disorders...

I live with bi-polar disorder, borderline personality disorder, anxiety and OCD. It took me a very long time to come to terms with this and be able to say it out loud. 

I was originally diagnosed in my teen years. Spent a short stint in a mental hospital. Went through a gross ton of meds and dosages trying to find the right combination. It made me tired, made me angry, made me want to give up hope of ever feeling better. Eventually I did give up. I stopped taking meds, going to therapy or even acknowledging that I had a mental illness at all. 

As I grew older, I assumed I got my shit together. I assumed I grew out of my childish "issues". I assumed I was a smarter, cuter and all around well rounded individual who didn't have problems. I assumed everyone else was the problem. 

I didn't have anger issues, you just didn't listen. I didn't need help, you did. I didn't need friends, they were all assholes anyway. I WASN'T MY MOTHER. She was the one with mental health issues my whole life, and I couldn't be like her. 

I was loud, I was obnoxious, I was full of pride. I didn't care who I hurt, I just had to say what was on my chest, and feelings be damned. I was a bitch, and my illness told me it was the only way to attract the right people who really "got me". This inevitably pushed people away and left me feeling alone. 

As time went on I became so clouded in my thinking I literally couldn't remember what I'd just said to you. It was so frustrating and disheartening I eventually shut down. I stopped sticking up for myself, I was incapable of self reflection, I was a shell. 

It all came to a head and I could deny it no longer. I saw a therapist who said "you're fighting for your life" and I was forced to face the fact that I was. I was fighting. I was fighting and I was losing. I had to let go of my stubborn thinking and allow myself to get help. It wasn't easy, it took a lot of work with therapy and medication. I had to tear down my old way of thinking and build back up something healthy. 

So here I am today, a medicated individual. Medicated and better equipped to deal with every day.