Someone recently shared with me an article they wrote which explained how music - namely the Beatles - saved their life. This inspired me to do something similar.
I've always felt out of place. Yes, a straight, white, middle-class kid, raised in a Christian household in a Midwestern suburb always felt like an outsider.
It all started when I was 5 or 6, watching my neighbors playing tee-ball next door. I was just sitting; relaxing; and suddenly an odd, almost surreal sensation came over me. My head didn't feel right; I temporarily couldn't move nor respond; and immediately when this strange sensation passed, I ran inside and fell asleep for a few hours. Apparently my lips were purple; my mother called a neighbor who was a doctor; and this neighbor said I had experienced a seizure. Quickly thereafter, I saw a doctor; was placed on medication; and my life was back to "normal" again.
Fast-forward a couple of years - the summer of '89 - and a babysitter, who I had also considered a friend, walked over from a few houses down to play video games ("Ice Hockey" on the original Nintendo). During the game, he told me to come closer, before unzipping his pants; instructing me to do things (I'll spare readers the details); and once he heard noise emanating from the basement (my dad was downstairs and my mom was teaching at a Vacation Bible School), he zipped his pants back up; placed a pocketknife to my throat; and said, "You better not tell anyone."
I was 8-years-old. I had no idea what was transpiring. All I knew was that something didn't feel right and I was afraid. For the first time in a long time, I began having auras during this horrifying sequence of events (auras are like mini-seizures). I froze; didn't know what was happening; yet felt scared for my life.
Not long after, without offering any details as to why (for fear of my life), I told my mom I didn't want this guy babysitting us anymore. That summer afternoon in 1989 was when an 8-year-old boy's childhood ended.
Almost overnight, I went from this happy-go-lucky kid to severely depressed. I went from popular and extroverted to invisible and silent. I went from a fairly "normal" kid to a lost adult. There were times I'd just break down and cry in school or awaken from a dream screaming, as I saw his face in my bedroom window. There was even a time I pretended to faint at the end of recess. A teacher carried me to the medical office, before my mom took me home. I don't know why I did it. I guess I just wanted to be taken away; to be removed from this life and placed into another one; to not be afraid anymore.
This fear and misery only exacerbated in middle school, as not long after I was taken off my medication, I began experiencing seizures again. Unlike 5 years earlier, though, I kept them to myself. It felt like my life was spiraling out of control and I felt responsible for it, so I wanted to believe something, anything, was within my power and grasp. Any time I experienced a seizure (which was daily), I felt like I was doing something wrong. School bullies could see the fear in my eyes, the weakness I exuded, and took advantage of me as a result. There were many days when I'd go home feeling battered and bruised. For fear of having a seizure or accidentally letting it slip that I was sexually abused, I kept to myself most days. I tried being unnoticed in school, and immediately when I returned home, I fell asleep on the couch, just hoping it was all a bad dream, and I'd wake up in a different, better world. Unfortunately, that was never the case.
My social life and grades suffered as a result of all this. For fear of being bullied; having a seizure; or revealing the abuse and getting killed for it, I started faking ill and staying home from school. Oddly, home was simultaneously where I felt most fearful (it's where the abuse occurred) yet most safe. That internal dichotomy was perplexing and troubling to say the least. When I stayed home "sick" and my parents were away at work, I'd often hear noises throughout the house - at which point I'd grab a baseball bat; search every room and floor; and attempt to fight back against my abuser. He was never there. When I was invited to stay the night at friends' houses, I'd often find myself feeling ill in the middle of the night, for fear my abuser would find me, and I'd be taken home as a result. It was getting increasingly more difficult to keep up with my homework; I was losing friends; and I truly felt alone and like there was no one I could talk to. It even reached the point where, while I was home alone, I'd grab a sharp kitchen knife; place it to my neck; and contemplate ending it, yet I'd always bust out in tears at the last second; drop the knife; and decide to live another day.
While high school started out in a similar fashion as middle school, I managed to make a few friends; stopped faking sick as much, yet was still suffering seizures on a regular basis; was fearful of people getting to know me too personally; and refused to engage in any school events or extracurricular activities as a result. My grades were average. It was incredibly difficult trying to test during an outbreak of seizures (for the record, these were simple-partial seizures, which just made it look to outsiders like I was spacing off or daydreaming). Then, in my sophomore year, something happened.
It was October of '96, when my mom was driving my friends and me home after school, an alternative rock radio station previewed the brand new song, "The Beautiful People." My mom wasn't sure what to think of it at first, but all my friends and I were jamming out. There was just something different about it, angry, rebellious, and catchy as all hell. I was immediately intrigued and hooked. The song was from the upcoming album "Antichrist Svperstar" by an artist by the name of Marilyn Manson. Since there was a parental advisory warning on the CD, I asked my father to get it for me. He did, and that night, as I put the disc into the CD player; placed on the headphones; and pushed play, I felt an indescribable transformation. I remember as the final track, "Man That You Fear," ended, my eyes began to get watery. I felt a weight lifted off my shoulders; a renowned sense of confidence; and like I was no longer living in isolation.
Not long after, I began reading interviews of Marilyn Manson's. Who was this man? What was behind the lyrics? Were the rumors true? What I came to find was that this tattooed, lanky, long-haired, white-faced shock-rocker from Ohio was a misunderstood genius, who held a mirror up to the hypocrisies of America; legitimized nonconformity; and proved you can't judge a book by its cover.
For years, I had been fearful of questioning authority; of standing out in any way, shape, or form; of being myself. Instead of accepting my previous hardships and accepting myself as is, I wanted to deny all that and move on to a different life. In his own way, as if he were speaking directly to me through his interviews and music, Marilyn Manson told me I was fine the way I was.
I remember getting baptized during my middle school years. I didn't do this because I was convinced it would save me for all eternity. I did this because I wanted to be convinced it could save me from my past. No miracle ensued, however, and I started asking questions: How could God allow me to be the victim of abuse? How could he end my childhood so quickly? How could he bring me to the brink of suicide with seemingly no qualms? I had always felt guilty for questioning authority, but no more. I was no longer going to be blind and ignorant of myself and my surroundings; I was going to question; learn; evolve; and not feel any shame nor remorse for doing so.
Every time I listened to "Antichrist Svperstar," I felt better about myself. It was cathartic. From the anger in "Irresponsible Hate Anthem" to the pain in "Minute of Decay" and everything in between and beyond, I felt a spiritual growth - like there was a single person in the world who understood me. It was amazing - this preppy white kid in suburban Omaha, Nebraska felt like the so-called God of F*ck understood him.
This transformation reached a head on February 8th of 1997, when I saw Marilyn Manson perform at Omaha's Mancuso Hall. Not long before the show, then Omaha Mayor - Republican Hal Daub - for free publicity, went on the news to warn parents not to allow their children to see the shock-rocker. He spread fallacious lies about Manson - the unsubstantiated rumors we were all hearing around that time. Due to this, a couple of my friends' parents made them return their tickets. My mom was receiving a hard time from the community for allowing me to go. It reached a point, where I thought, "Maybe I shouldn't even go," but like those times when I dropped the knife onto the kitchen floor, something inside me decided to keep fighting. It was a cold and snowy evening in Omaha. My mom dropped off a neighbor and I off; we went to the end of the long line (the show sold out immediately after Mayor Daub's spiel); and couldn't help but notice self-described Christian protesters on the median. A couple were reading Bible verses to us; others were condemning us to hell; and some were cursing at and insulting us. A few snowballs were even thrown by the two parties at one another. As I walked into the building, a sliver of me feared the mayor, protesters, and my friends' parents were right. A knot formed in my stomach, as it almost felt like this show was me confronting my past; looking into the mirror; and finally moving forward with my future. Being dipped into water at a church was just wishful thinking. This night was my true baptism.
As soon as the lights dimmed, the stage lights appeared, smoke filled the stage, the band members walked on, and the starting chords of "Angel With the Scabbed Wings" appeared, I felt reawakened. Throughout the evening, even though the hall was packed, I felt alone; like the songs were being sung directly to me; and the full slate of emotions oddly running in accord with one another: pain, sadness, excitement, joy, heartbreak, and hope. It was as though my entire life was flashing before my eyes: the seizures, the abuse, the night terrors, the bullying, the suicidal tendencies, the self-shame and guilt was all brought to the forefront; washed away; and as the music dimmed and the lights returned, I felt reborn.
I remember walking outside; looking at the median where the protesters had been; and realizing how brainwashed and hypocritical many self-described Christians were. All the rumors were lies. All the scare-tactics were nonsense. All the so-called conservative Christian Republicans cared about was power and control, and they couldn't stand the mirror Marilyn Manson placed up to them and their hypocrisies.
This prompted me to write and send a letter-to-the-editor to the Omaha World-Herald, sharing my concert experience with readers, and calling out Mayor Daub and company for their rampant BS regarding the matter. Not long after, I received an email from Mayor Daub's office. His secretary informed me that the mayor was impressed with my writing and was curious if I had any other material I'd like to share. Once he finished reading my work, his secretary called; scheduled an appointment for the mayor to meet me; and the rest is history.
I was severely damaged as a child. I felt no purpose to life. I felt alone; like no one understood me; and that it was wrong to be different. I was on the brink of suicide, as I just wanted to leave life - figuring even no life at all was better than this one. But then music came to the rescue and saved me. I no longer shy away from my quirks; I embrace them. I no longer deny my past; I build upon it. I no longer feel shame nor guilt for what happened to me previously or who I once was; I place blame where it belongs and simply try to be the best person I can. Like Marilyn Manson, I've often been misunderstood and had false rumors spread about me, but I am who I am; am finally comfortable with that; and no matter what does or doesn't come from another life, I'm going to try to make the most of this one.
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