Have you ever lost part of yourself? A big chunk of your
identity; who you are, how you see yourself?
Sounds sad, right? Well, it is a little sad. But it’s
also kind of awesome.
Once upon a time (a lifetime
ago) I was a musician. According to my shrink I still am, but if the definition
of musician is someone who writes, plays, or sings music, then I no longer
qualify.
I’m going to assume that singing badly enough in the car to
make both child and partner consider jumping out and walking doesn’t count. Trust
me, I’m right on that one.
To put this in perspective, you need to know that I was an
extremely shy kid. A kid who was always sick. Always bullied. Always a bit
weird. Not very bright. Always chosen last for anything at school. A kid who
listened to music nobody else liked. Read books that were too old for her.
Wrote weird stories and was generally on the outer. The kid who couldn’t buy
something in a shop if the price wasn’t on it, because she was too shy to ask.
Despite repeating Grade One because I couldn’t read, I
caught up fast and soon overtook my peers. I loved to read. I loved to write.
Don’t get me wrong, I was no introvert. Quite the opposite;
I desperately wanted the limelight. I loved performing in plays, being the
centre of attention. But off stage, I was terrified of everything. And everyone.
It’s not surprising then, that when I discovered a talent
for music, music became my identity. Music was everything, because the kid
underneath was nothing.
I started on that dreaded instrument of musical torture, the
recorder. Next came clarinet, tenor saxophone and flute. Clarinet was my real
love. How I loved to play that thing. It soothed me, became my best mate.
I still wrote and read but music took over and writing was
shoved to the back of my over-crowded brain.
Music didn’t solve my social issues or my shyness but it
gave me a much-needed outlet for my extroversion. And it was one thing
(finally) that I was good at. So good that I was lead clarinet in various youth
bands and orchestras. My music teachers loved me. They knew I was destined for
Big Things. I was “the next Don Burrows*” and I was accepted into the
Conservatorium of Music at Melbourne University.
During my first year of university I permanently damaged the
tendons in my hands. I couldn’t play. You can’t complete a performance-based
degree when you can’t perform.
I left university, and music, behind me.
My identity was taken away.
A tragedy.
You’d think so.
You’re right, I grieved for a very, very long time. I still
have rare days where the anger wells up and can’t be contained. I’ve made my
peace with those days and know they pass.
It may be hard to fathom, but losing music was a strange and
complicated gift – but a gift nonetheless. The loss shoved me head-first into
the real world, where I had no choice but to start to deal with my shyness. That
real world taught me to care less. It taught me that few people can hurt you if
you never take yourself too seriously. Laugh at myself, and steal the power from others laughing at me.
It also made me to realise that music wasn’t all there was
to being me. There was writing.
With music out of the way, the road was clear for me to
write again.
It took twenty years, but here I am.
If I hadn’t lost music, there'd be no stories about finding
live lizards in the bottom of my handbag, dead possums in my roof-space, and bongo calves who steal my airtime. I
wouldn’t be sharing tales of involuntary feminine waxing in public places, GPSs
with suicidal tendencies, and how buildings are smarter than me.
Imagine if I’d never been able to tell those stories?
Now THAT would have been a loss.
Have you ever had to re-build your identity?
How did you do it?
* Go Google him. I know. I’m old. But not as old as Don
Burrows. Sorry Don.
P.S. I have a bone to pick with American Pie. I attended many band camps and I can honestly say that I never pleasured myself with any of my instruments. Given that one of them was a tenor sax, that was probably for the best.
