Beauty for Ashes Part 3

Black Balloon

Baby's black balloon makes her fly
I almost fell into that hole in your life
And you're not thinking about tomorrow
'Cause you were the same as me
But on your knees

…Comin' down the world turned over
And angels fall without you there
And I'll go on to bring you home
All because I'm
All because I'm
And I'll become
What you became to me

(Black Balloon, Goo Goo Dolls)

I would love to give an exact date for when I became mentally ill just to give clarity to a life that often seems smeared with all its volatility and colorful experiences.  My life sometimes reminds me of Christmas sugar cookies.  My mom would give me a bowl of red, green, yellow, and blue frosting for my cookies.  I would have a container with sprinkles that were tiny little cylinders of white, pink, and green.  She would give me bottles of colored sugar, one green, and one of red.  The final ingredient would be a container of tiny red-hots.  I would invariably mix all the colors together and crowd every topping onto the same cookie.  The end result would be a cookie covered in gray-brown frosting, and a menagerie of sugar accents.  My life has been much like one of my cookies, every color and texture thrown onto one surface to make an overdone gray-brown mess, personifying the nature of bipolar disorder.

            Bipolar did not really make a sudden assault. I think it was a gradual infiltration that was helped by environmental stresses over time.  I believe my personality made clearing a path to the takeover of my mind that generally happens with mental illness, much easier.  I am a person who feels responsible not only for myself but for others as well.  I tend to take on more than my share of worries in life, and I am, or at least tend to be, unwilling to compromise my ideals.  I am a perfectionist but I would not say I have a Type A personality.  I demand a lot from myself and am often very hard on myself when I fail.  I am not as hard on others as I am on myself, though I believe I used to be when I was younger.  I am also a visionary, and being so exacts its own toll on a life just as it gives rewards.

            In his book, Primal Leadership, Daniel Goleman describes a visionary leader as, “articulating where a group is going, but not how it will get there” (Goleman, 2002, p. 57).  Visionaries see the big picture.  Visionaries have the emotional intelligence (EI) to inspire others—to encourage them to catch the vision as we so often hear.  Another EI  characteristic of the visionary is that they are genuine.  They truly believe in their vision, and others sense that genuineness in them.  But the most valuable characteristic to a visionary is empathy (Goleman, 2002).   Empathy has the ability to link people.  Having someone identify with your situation is the quickest way for them to become your ally.  Understanding is what draws us together in that open loop of emotional communication Goleman references, and it is a powerful way for a leader to respond to the needs of his/her followers.

            Goleman relays negative aspects of being a visionary, but I prefer to deviate from his thoughts on the matter and share my own.  I know what the pitfalls of being a visionary have been in my life.  My ability to see the big picture offers great help to my friends when they are in need of consolation and problem solving.  However, for me, it is often too much for me to look at the whole view and highly stressful, especially when the best way to combat mental illness is to take it a tiny little piece at a time.  One needs to live in the present, for it is all we are guaranteed, but one also needs to see the bigger view or inspiration and progress will be lost.  How to marry the two?  I am still working to find that balance. 

When I was younger I didn’t understand who I was or that I was being stalked by a mental illness.  I just knew that life was bloody, and I seemed to be continually caught on the front lines.  I did not know I was a visionary type person or what that even meant.  I just knew I did not fit in my world, and I was continually looking toward a horizon I never seemed to get to no matter how fast I ran.  One thing I did understand at an early age was that people could not be judged by what they look like on the outside.  I was not compassionate, and empathy was not something I developed until I was older and had overcome the bonfire of anger that was raging through me.  Even so, I somehow attracted people to me who were broken, from bad homes, and needing someone to be loyal to them.  I was stunted emotionally, but I knew what honesty and loyalty were, and they were two commodities lacking in the world I lived in.  I think that is one reason my friends tended to be from rough homes, were oddities in our school society, and generally had substance abuse issues.  Had my parents known what my friends did and what their lives were like, they would probably never have let me leave the house. 

            My senior year of high school held four major events.  The first was obvious:  I was graduating.  The second was that my jazz band was invited to play in Philadelphia at the National Jazz Festival.  It was a huge deal, and we were so excited.  My rhythm section had been playing together since eighth grade.  We had won multiple awards because we were so rhythmically tight.  The trip would be the culmination of much work and tenacity.  However, the trip was almost squelched by the third major event.  We were moving.  Wyoming’s economy bottomed out and my parents were having a hard time making ends meet.  They decided to move three months before my graduation.  My band teacher personally requested that my parent’s let me stay to finish with the band trip.  I did not want to leave until after graduation.  I remember it was a bit of a question for a while, but some people from our church who lived in Riverton offered me a room so I could stay.  I was thrilled to be able to go on my trip and graduate with my class.  Even so, it was pretty difficult for me to be away from my family. 

The people I lived with didn’t trust me because I was a teenager.  They were good people.   They just did not trust teenagers.  I was working at a local restaurant and was struggling with the long hours they had me putting in.  I had finished all my credits the first half of the year, so I was simply marking time until graduation.  I missed a lot of school because I would work late and would then be too tired to go to school.  The people I stayed with had a hard time with this.  I was always honest with them, telling them exactly where I had been and making sure to call them so they would not worry, but they still did not trust me.  I think my mom finally intervened and told them I had never lied, and never would.  It just was not part of my nature.  I do not know what else they talked about but things got better.  I did not feel so pulled between them—school and work. 

            The final major event that happened my senior year was that I fell in love.  Hard.  I had had several boyfriends.  I even had a best friend who was a guy. We were always together, so guys were not a novelty to me.  I think that what happened to me my freshman year sort of eliminated any romantic notions I had about men.  And while I was wary of them and tended not to trust them, I found them to be really fun to hang out with.  I did not have to worry about the petty games girls tend to play. I could shoot straight from the hip and was understood and respected.  I had guy friends who treated me like a little sister, which meant that I was to call them when they were late for school, so they could peel themselves off the floor of whatever toilet they had passed out by, and drag their sorry asses to school.  I watched at parties to make sure those who should not be drinking too much were not, and I often castigated those who were doing too many drugs.  I guess I was much like the dorm mom or maybe just the hall monitor.  Needless to say, I provided a valuable thing for these guys, loyalty and safety, and when you are doing drugs and underage drinking, that is a very important thing. 

            Now there should be no misunderstanding here.  I did not enable these guys to practice their vices.  I spent a lot of time trying to get them away from what they were doing.  But when a person has gone down the road of self-sabotage, they cannot be talked out of what they are doing.  I just loved them in my stunted kind of way.  And I tried to make sure they were not destroying their futures as they were grappling to find themselves in their present.

            So my senior year, I met Aaron.  I must admit I have always had a penchant for bad boys. And he was a bad boy.  I met him at the restaurant where I worked.  He was the new cook, and I knew the first time I saw him that he was trouble. I was a good girl.  I did not tease guys or lead them on—at least not intentionally.  No matter how I seemed on the outside, I still wanted one thing, and that was to have a good marriage like my parents.  The only difference for me was that I also wanted to find some wild child and make him over into Prince Charming, like one would take a wild horse and turn him into the horse and buggy type.  Stupid.

            With Aaron I was ushered, full tilt down a dark hole into the world of drugs.  The title of this chapter is what that year of my life was like.  I was in a black balloon. Aaron had told me up front that he smoked pot, but he did not tell me that the house he lived in was a drug house.  There were three floors with three different apartments, and everyone did drugs. Aaron had been in jail for selling drugs before the age of 18, which was quite a rap sheet.  I was not foolish enough to be impressed by what he had done or was doing.  But I also knew that we are often victims of life, and sometimes the poor decisions we make are a direct result of that.  So I made it clear he was not to be high when with me, and we went from there, though I was mostly too naïve to know whether he adhered to that stipulation or not.

            I got to know the people who lived in the house with Aaron.  At first they were wary of me, considering me a little “goody goody”, but as time went on they accepted me.  I discovered that Aaron had made it clear no one in the house was to ever offer me drugs, but even if he had not, I would not have been tempted.  I had seen the ramifications of drugs in some of my friends at school.  I was not naïve enough to think they were any kind of an answer.  The couple that lived on the main floor of the house was trying to escape the grief over the loss of their two-year old little girl who died of leukemia.  Cocaine was their drug of choice but they were not opposed to immersing themselves in alcohol and pot as well.  I felt truly sorry for them, and I did not judge them, for young as I was, I realized they were up against something I could not begin to understand. 

            Aaron had a couple of roommates. They were guys who liked to party and live hard.  I often heard through the town grapevine of things they had done or trouble they had gotten into, but they were always very good to me and protective of me.  The other couple that lived in the basement liked hard-core drugs like heroine and acid.  I suspect they also did crank, the strongest type of amphetamine there is, more commonly known as meth.  The young woman did not like me because she liked being the center of attention, and when I was around, that did not happen as much.  She would often hit on Aaron just to try to get a reaction out of me, but I assumed that her perception was distorted due to the drugs and did not take it personally. 

The other couple who ran in that particular drug circle but did not live in the house were married and 

older than the rest of the people I knew.  I figured the average age to be early to mid twenties but Tim 

and Kerry were in their thirties.  Tim liked his pot, even grew it in their house.  Kerry just loved Tim 

and was much like me in the sense that she was with an addict but not one herself.  I once asked her 

how she handled it, and she told me it made her sad but that she loved Tim and wanted to be there 

whether he rose or fell.

 Many would argue with me that pot is not addictive, but then my question would be, “What do you 

call addiction?”   I suppose I could give the general explanation that pot is a doorway, and maybe so, 

but if you are a person who tends to make most repeated processes habitual, then addiction is easily 

accomplished.  So I guess my theory is that any substance, if taken enough, becomes a habit.  If it 

alters the mind and body from one state to another, the body becomes dependent on that substance to 

take it there over and over.  That is an addiction, body, mind, or both.  That is just my theory based

on about half a decade of watching drug use.  The pool was never large, but it was diverse, and I 

formed my ideas based on the way the drugs destroyed those I cared about.

      I remember Aaron going to a lumber mill every day for a month, asking over and over for a job.  

He badgered them until they gave him a job.  Then less than two weeks after he had started, he just

quit going to work.  Too much pot can kill the human drive.  I wondered if he was mixing in other 

drubs where he could, but he was mainly a fan of pot, and it was pot that kept him from moving 

forward with his life.  I helped where I could.  I never gave him money, just groceries, for I knew 

where the money would go.  I encouraged him as best I could. I tried to build him up and show him 

he was somebody, and then I finally realized I needed to let him go to become whatever he would

ultimately choose to become.  So I broke up with him.  There is much more to the story as is so often 

the case, but what matters most is what I am sharing on these pages. 

    One day I got a call after several months of not hearing from Aaron.  He asked me to come over

and help him pack.  He had finally decided he needed help and his stepmother and dad were going to

drive from Douglas, Wyoming to pick him up and take him to rehabilitation.  I agreed to go help him.  

I helped him pack up his stuff, which was not much, and then we talked.  He told me he was sorry

for what he had done to me, that I was the person he loved most, and yet I was the one he drove

furthest away.  He said many things that night, most of which I cannot remember. What I do 

remember is that somehow I had made a difference in his life, and that knowledge awes me still.

     I waited with him until his parents got there, and then he was gone.  It seemed that fast.  I saw

him one more time right before he went into rehabilitation, and that was it.  The effect having him gone

had on me was one of delayed shock.  Even when we had broken up, he was still in my life, still there

somehow. This person I had put all my energies and focus into was suddenly not there.  I was lost.  

It is corny to say he was my first true love, but it is the truth, he was my first and greatest, and there

are multiple reasons why it is important to share this in my story. For one thing, I learned about

compassion.  Life is not neatly wrapped up in boxes with labels.  There are really beautiful people who

 are caught up in the pain of life who do things that are not good.  That does not mean they are not

worth knowing, and it does not make them not worth loving.  I learned this from Aaron and those I

met because of him. I also felt very accepted and safe with these people.  There were broken places

in me that I did not even acknowledge; yet they called out to the brokenness in those I was with, and 

I felt like I belonged.  I also feel that this relationship was very substantial in my young life.  I became

 so much more dimensional during that half a year with Aaron.  I knew that we would not be able to

have a fairy tale life.  I began to understand that when you love someone who is a rebel, you cannot

make them to change, and often their choices interfere with their love for you.  Even though Aaron

was getting straightened out he would not be able to come back to me.  He would need to move

forward, and even though I was the one person in his life who was a good influence on him at the

time, I was also a reminder of all his failures and all that he must leave behind in order to move

forward and leave addiction behind.  He knew I had known him during his failures and he was unable

to look at me and believe I would not hold that against him in the future.  All this I knew and

understood with the insight of a woman much older than the 17 year old girl I was.

      I know now that a ramification of sexual molestation is to block off reaction to life events.  I react

to shocking events much like a person who has been punched in the stomach.  There is a point right

after the punch is delivered when the air has been pushed from the body, and it is not grasping for

more, it is simply frozen for a moment, trying to determine what has happened and what to do about

it.  The time elapsed is probably less that a second, but this feeling I speak of is where I’ve spent most

 of my emotional life.  I experience shock, and as it numbs me I straighten up from the hit and

continue on with my life, not stopping to begin emotional inhalation and exhalation once again.  This is

what I did with Aaron. The problem with not dealing with devastation or grief of any kind is that it

 must go somewhere.  For me, it became an ominous series of clouds that hovered over my horizon

waiting for just a bit more pressure that would usher in the dark storm of depression that would cover

my skies for the second time in my life.

            My family had moved to another state, as I mentioned before.  I went to college leaving behind all I knew, reminders of my life before, as well as my grandma who was getting older, and whom I missed dreadfully.  I was unable to grieve my missing Aaron as well as all the other losses, and on top of that, I was a freshman in college jazz band where most of the players were seniors.  I had beat out the other two bass players, one of which was a senior, and that did not bode well.  They gave me hell, and I was just not up to fighting with anyone.  I made it through half a year at the college, and then decided, regardless of the scholarship, I was over the whole experience. 

            I went home, feeling lost and fractious.  I felt like a flat line on a heart monitor.  Life was limp, and I was an unwilling participant.  My family moved while I was in college from Idaho to Montana, which was better for all of us.  I think my parents finally felt they could begin to gain some headway financially, and my siblings seemed to settle in better in school.  For me, it really did not matter.  I worked at K-Mart for a bit, but then decided I was not going to mark time.  I made a wise decision to go to beauty school. I found solace in envisioning three dimensionally on a head of hair.  I have always been good with my hands and inherited my dad’s artistic ability to look at something and see what it could look like as a finished product.  I discovered great contentment in the joy I could give to others, helping them like themselves better by changing their look.  There was satisfaction not only in creating but also in knowing a young housewife who felt dumpy and ugly had left my chair feeling beautiful, her husband practically drooling as he followed her out the door, not because of my work, but because he was once again seeing confidence and sensuality in the wife he loved. 

            I had no idea I could be a part of something so grand, and it changed me, slowly pulling me out of myself and back to a purpose.  I realized there was a connection between personal suffering and caring about others.  The anger inside was ever churning like furious waters, and I was often lost in judgment of others rather than understanding, but I knew I was on a journey to somewhere.  I felt it.  I knew that my life had a particular purpose.  I just didn’t know what it was yet.

            I finished at the top of my class in beauty school.  I was 20.  Before I even received my cosmetology license, I was on my way to another adventure.  I had no way of knowing where the road I was on would lead.  I was just glad to be headed somewhere.  My grandma always said, “It’s always exciting to think what might be around the next bend.” 

But I felt I was running from something, and I could feel it breathing down my neck.  My life seemed to me to be a series of disappointments rounded out by brutal life lessons, and I felt hunted and haunted; hunted by something I could not define that later would show itself as the mental illness that had been crouching inside me like a big slimy frog for most of my life, and haunted by loss and the realization that life is not always what you make it.  Sometimes it just is, and that knowledge made me cynical and unwilling to dream.  I turned toward my new adventure, hoping to find something beautiful about my life, something worth living for and dreaming about.

Beauty for Ashes Part 2

“…and There Shall be Music”

Tonight I watched our little girl climb ‘mountains’ of sand, and upon reaching the top, she would clap her hands and with sparkling eyes declare, ‘See Mama?  I made it!’

Several times she would sit on the edge of a hill and sing to the mountains around.  Not all days have been or will be as this one today.  But as days and years pass I pray that she’ll catch a glimpse of that little girl sitting atop those “mountains.”

(Mom about me at age two and a half).

There is a verse in the Bible that says, “…and the truth shall set you free.”  While I completely agree with that, I must say that when I was a child, music set me free.  In my family musical ability is like being able to breath.  On my dad’s side every single person in our rather large family has musical ability except one cousin who is tone deaf.  On my mom’s side, I think that all three of her brothers can sing, and my mom has a phenomenal voice.  The rest of us in my immediate family can all sing but my dad, my brother, Jayme, and I, all chose instruments as well, while Kati, Kelly, and my mom stuck with voice.  I grew up in a church that encouraged music and musical abilities.  I think I started singing in front of a congregation on my own when I was three.  Well, that shouldn’t be too surprising since I had no problem singing to strangers in the grocery store at age two.  My voice was the one thing that redeemed me in the eyes of those in our church who had decided I was a little brat and not wholly intelligent either. Too many people from church had kids who went to the same school I went to, and too many teachers from that same school went to our church.  As I mentioned, the pastor’s wife had been my kindergarten teacher, and she was indiscreet.

            When my parents pulled me out of the school I was attending, however, all that changed.  For one thing, at the private school I attended, I managed to catch up an entire grade level in one school term.  My test results showed that I was not an idiot.  I’m sure my mom appreciated having someone else second what she had suspected all along.  I had brains. 

            By the end of third grade I was attending a school in Riverton, Wyoming, 15 miles from Kinnear where I had spent my earlier years.  My parents had decided they didn’t want any more of their children to go through that school system, and they certainly could not have me in that situation.  So, rather than my mom driving us to school every day as she had me when I attended the private school, we moved to Riverton.

            I had mixed emotions about moving to Riverton.  I knew that I would have a better school experience there.  We were also moving to a really nice house that my dad had helped build, and my parents were really excited about it.  But it would mean not being able to see my grandma every day.  That was really difficult.  But she assured me I could stay with her every weekend if I wanted to, and the lure of having my own bedroom with blue carpet was just too good to pass up.

            My mom felt that I needed something to excel at, something I could feel confident doing or being a part of.  I had taken quite a psychological beating at my rural school, and she wanted me to feel that I was good at something.  It seemed only natural I turn to music, though my parents would have encouraged anything I wanted to pursue.  It wasn’t until I started fourth grade and met my new music teacher, Miss Duplicea, that I found my passion. 

            Miss Duplicea was amazing; the most amazing music teacher I have ever known.  She sang fun songs with us and had us move around as she played the guitar.  I was fascinated with her and the way she could play that guitar.  When she offered guitar lessons, I rushed home and begged my parents to let me take lessons.  We had no money for a guitar but my grandma had one with steel strings, a folk guitar, and I was allowed to use it.  It was very large for me, and the strings hurt my fingers but I worked on what my teacher gave me, diligently pursuing the calluses she said would come with time that would prevent my fingers from hurting when pressing the strings.

            Then on my birthday, after seeing I was serious about learning the guitar, my parents managed to buy me one of my very own.  I was giddy with excitement.  It was mine and I loved it.  It was not a child’s guitar, but full-sized with a rather wide neck.  My teacher told me I would have to really work hard to maintain correct hand position while playing, as my hands were small and my fingers quite short.  My guitar was a classical guitar with nylon strings, which were much easier on my fingers.  The wood of the guitar was much softer, and the tone when I played was beautiful.  I’ve played many guitars over the years but my Lyle still has the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.  I needed to be good at something that made me hopeful, and my guitar was that something.  I still have my Lyle.  It is now a collector’s item, but even if it were not worth much monetarily, there is no price I could place on that guitar and what it means to me.  The finish is wearing off.  It is not as shiny and beautiful as it once was, but when I pick it up I can still make beautiful sounds come from it.

            It wasn’t long before I outgrew my guitar teacher.  I wanted to move into classical guitar, as I found the music challenging and the sound cathartic.  I began taking guitar from a young lady who was a distant relative on my dad’s side of the family.  She was well known for her abilities in playing classical guitar.  I learned a lot from her and took lessons from her clear into high school.  I firmly believe had I not had the guitar as my main outlet I would not have managed adolescence as well as I did.

I used the guitar as a way of connecting with my inner self.  As I mentioned, I made a decision to cut off my emotions.  I was very young when that happened.  I remember my dad telling me one day that if anyone ever picked on me I should defend myself.  He explained that it did not matter whether it was physical or verbal, he would never punish me for defending myself.  I remember that conversation with him from my early childhood so clearly, and I believe it was a pivotal moment for me when I not only embraced anger as a source of power but also began to question authority.  Having permission to defend myself against whoever might attack me, freed me.  I believe that at that point I began to truly think for myself.  I decided that I would make my own decisions and suffer whatever consequences came my way.  My peers or those in authority would no longer overpower me, and I would never ever back down to domination again.  I am not sure that line of thinking was what my dad had in mind, but I believe, even in childhood, my thought processes had begun to head toward extremes.  I believe that for some, bipolar disorder begins slowly and accelerates with every triggering event until it blossoms into the full disorder.  That is what I think happened to me, and it started when I was five years old, building and building with every traumatic event I was forced to accommodate.

            I have had people in my life tell me that I have a problem with authority.  I suppose I do.  It comes from my childhood, being castigated by adults in authority over me, and my inability to protect myself.   One might say my parents should have protected me, but they knew very little about the daily trauma that went on at my school.  By the time I entered junior high, I had begun to understand the power of anger, and if applied to my extensive vocabulary it could render those who would attack me, immobilized by intimidation.  I finally felt I was no longer a victim.  What I didn’t know was that anger becomes uncontrollable. 

            Anger is like fire.  It starts out as a small flame, serving its purpose for the user, but it can very easily become a raging monster, consuming all in its path, taking on a life of its own.  My brother was a firefighter in the Marines.  I have heard him say that fire is a living thing and it eats or feeds on whatever is in its path.  That is what anger does.  I found that I was unable to control outbursts of anger.  Day after day of school, coping with classmates and teachers, doing things that I had to do because someone said so, compounded the anger that existed from wrongs done to me that were never made right.  I knew I needed to practice control, but I would use up all my energies just managing my anger throughout the course of the day.  If I had not exerted so much control, I would have been in a brawl with someone on a daily basis.  I would come home and run to my bedroom, slamming my door shut.  My mom would follow, goading me until I exploded, giving a verbal assault on all the details of my day.  I never felt peace or contentment.  I rarely laughed, and I found it difficult to relax. 

            Music was my only solace.  When I picked up my guitar and began to play, the anger dissipated, and I was able to connect with other emotions.  I was able to express myself through my music.  My parents remember lying in bed listening to my guitar music waft through the vents that connected their room to mine just below.  I would play for an hour.  I would play for 20 minutes.  No matter the time, I found relief.  During that time, I was whole—only to have anger consume me again, once I stopped.   

            Looking back I feel that much of my anger was triggered by my inability to handle environmental stimuli.  I was surrounded with too much noise, too many people, and too much input was needed from me.  I think that triggered much frustration and irritability.  I do not remember thinking, at that time, that I could not handle my environment.  The way I lived was all I knew.  However, I do remember feeling less equipped than others, often wondering if maybe I wasn’t as smart as my classmates. I remember my grandma Esther telling me over and over that I needed to learn to control myself.  I must learn to control my temper!  What a novel idea!  Unfortunately, I was ill equipped and ill advised.

            My eighth grade year of school was a very important year for me. At the end of seventh grade I tried out for the eighth grade jazz band with my guitar and got in.  The jazz band was a very prestigious thing.  Only a few kids got in.  It was a very big gig for junior high.  I was to play bass, so after promising to attend summer band I took the bass home with me.  I then proceeded to leave it in the case without even opening it.  I knew that it was different from the guitar.  For one thing the bass is in bass clef rather than treble clef like the guitar, so the music is different.  For another, there are only four strings and they are twice as thick as a guitar’s. 

            About a week before summer band, I opened it up and took it out.  It was electric, and I didn’t have an amplifier so I really was not all that interested in messing with it.  I was a little concerned, however, with the thickness of the strings.  It was difficult for my small fingers to press them down.  I was pretty confident with my abilities to read the different clef, having taken years of piano where I had learned how to read music and had had good bit of music theory.  As I mentioned before, my family is very musical, so from my mom and dad I learned about counting, rhythm, and many other aspects of music.  I had also played alto clarinet for two years in concert band in middle school, which fine-tuned my abilities in sight-reading. I felt pretty confident as I grabbed the bass and headed out the door for summer band.

            It was a hot summer day as my mom drove our red station wagon up to the chain link fence that surrounded the school building.  I remember the glare of the sun as it bounced off the pavement, causing reflection from the fence, as the heat rolled up off the ground in waves.  I grabbed my bass and headed toward the open back door of the band room, waving to my mom as I walked away.    

            Once inside, I noticed my band director and several older kids, most of whom I was sure were high school age.  Our summer program allowed kids from eighth grade up through twelfth grade to participate.  It was a little intimidating if you were one of the young ones, especially if you had only picked up your instrument a couple of times before coming to class.

            My band instructor motioned me over to the rhythm section area where I pulled out my bass and plugged it in, flipping on the power switch before tuning it.  I fiddled with the knobs on the amp for a bit, pretending I knew what I was doing.  I had played an electric guitar before, but not enough to create genuine confidence.

            The rest of the session has been deleted by time and my negligent memory.  I’m sure we warmed up, and I’m sure we exchanged names and such.  Actually, I know we did that because I remember a kid named Willy introducing himself as a junior in high school.  He was really tall and very muscular.  He was in all kinds of sports and played any saxophone you put into his hands.  He was incredibly gifted. But what I knew beyond any doubt about Willy after that first session was that he was an asshole of the highest order.

            I don’t remember the tune.  What I do remember is Willy playing a solo, but stopping in the middle to turn partly my direction, though making sure not to address me fully.  He said, “Where’s the bass?  I’m supposed to be playing a solo with the bass backing me up and instead all I hear is air!” 

            I was mortified.  I had been trying to figure out what I was doing.  Much of the sheet music in the jazz genre for bass is not written notes.  Much of it is just chords.  The bass player is to know the chords and the scale that goes with the chord.  From there the bass player plays a series of notes from the scale of that chord until the music changes to the next chord.  For instance, if I am given a C chord, I know it is made up of the notes C, E, and G, or 1,3,5.  The scale that goes with that chord is C, D, E, F, and G. So if I want, for the time that chord is written on the page, whether for one bar (measure) or two, I may play any of the notes in the C scale. 

            This was a bit beyond what I had done.  I wasn’t used to breaking down chords in my head as I played.  I remember looking at Willy, the pompous jerk, and feeling smoke pour out of the top of my head.  I packed that bass up and took it home.  I was determined to never be humiliated like that again. 

Later that year, around Christmas time, we had a concert.  The high school band teacher who happened to live across the street from us heard me play and commented to my parents and my band teacher that he thought I had exceptional talent.  He wanted me in one of his groups in high school.  That was wonderful, for it gave me a head start in high school in terms of finding my place. 

            Willy was a senior my freshman year of high school.  He heard me play and chose me over the other bass player who was a year ahead of me to play in one of his combos for State.  When asked why he chose me he said, “I want the best, and Lael is the best.” 

            I had detested Willy for some time.  What he had said, and the embarrassment of it rankled, but it caused me to strive and conquer that bass, quite possibly moving me beyond anything I might have been driven to become by my own volition.  I eventually began to really admire Willy and his dedication.  He was absolutely exceptional on the saxophone and he had an ethic I found myself striving to emulate.  I will never forget him taking a walk-on position in football at the University of Wyoming.  He had not received a scholarship for football.  He had people from all over the country trying to get him to play sax for them, but football was one thing he had not conquered, and that is why he chose to go to Wyoming to play.  I’m sure he never quit playing his horn.  That was a firmly established love affair.  He wanted to prove to himself he could succeed in football, and he did.  He played professional football for a time. 

            Willy is someone who stands out in my mind, a figure of great color and dimension because of his drive, ability, and unwillingness to compromise his dreams simply because someone else did not share them. What an amazing human being, and oh how he helped shape my life.  I found my truest contentment and serenity while sitting behind that bass driving an entire band, and much of that satisfaction I attribute to a hot summer day in eighth grade and a big blonde jock. 

            The first half of my freshman year was amazing.  I was in a play that was very fun.  I had a boyfriend who was a junior.  I was not allowed to date but could go places with a group.  It kind of worked out.  I made All State playing my contra bass clarinet, and the time I spent in jazz band playing bass was exhilarating.  I was on the swim team, which seemed to soak up the aggressive energy I continually lived with due to the anger that was ever ready to boil over.  Physical exhaustion was the only thing that seemed to keep me from feeling like I was about to spontaneously combust.  Academically, I was bored.  My teachers in junior high still felt I was of average intelligence, and had placed me in average classes in high school.  My English teacher in high school told my mom, “I have no idea what Lael is doing in my class.  She should be in an honors class to challenge her.  She is weeks ahead of the other kids and reads Louis L’Amour books every day.”

            Life was good.  And then it wasn’t.  It was as though the sun was out and then suddenly it went away.  It was gone for the second half of my freshman year and all of my sophomore year.  My parents were beside themselves, for with the dark came violent moods.  It affected the whole dynamic of our family.  My dad could hardly stand to be around me, for my attitude was caustic and my need to lash out like a cornered animal was unexplainable and inexcusable.  I didn’t really understand why I was that way.  If someone were to ask me back then why I was acting that way, I could not have told them.    My friends dropped me because they couldn’t handle the intense moods that were like violent storms.  It seemed as though I had turned a corner for some reason, and had gone down some dark corridor where no one wanted to follow and from where my mom feared I would not come back.

            I know now why, at age 14, I took a road that led to the labyrinth of mental illness.  Ironically, that labyrinth is what led me on the quest to finally become authentically me, and that is when I found an answer.  Now it makes sense to me and to my parents.  It is not an easy truth but “it is what it is” as my mentor professor often says.  I have often wondered why I did not know back then.  Why did I not see where the darkness was coming from, and why did not I say something to someone? 

I think I did what I’ve been doing since I was five.  I would take a hit, then get up no matter how bloody or damaged, shake my arms like a prize fighter, put my dukes back up and say, “Come on.  Hit me again.  I dare you.”  Anger had made it possible for years for me to keep getting back up. Kind of like an adrenaline shot.  But this time the hit was different. 

            When I think of what happened my freshman year of high school, I am reminded of one of the last scenes of Gladiator with Russell Crowe and Joaquin Phoenix where Joaquin’s character, Commodus, stabs Russell Crowe’s character, Maximus, a mortal wound, and then has his armor put back on him.  He then forces Maximus to fight wounded.  I think that is what happened to me.  I took a mortal wound, then put my armor back on and headed back into my life.

            We had just had major victory, all the music groups, band and choir, all four grade-levels.  We were driving several hours back home from the music festival, and everyone was sleepy.  It was dark on the bus, but for just a few overhead lights. I had crawled under the seat I had been sitting on, with my pillow and coat, so I could stretch out.  I was sleeping soundly, but became slowly aware of something touching me.  I was in the kind of sleep one has after two days of intense activity with little sleep—almost a delirious kind of slumber.  I could not quite determine what was touching me but felt whatever it was moving over my clothes.  As I slowly floated to the surface of awareness, I realized hands were touching me, groping me, moving under my shirt and pants.  I was confused and frightened, not sure what to do.  I tried to move away, to say something but he stuck his tongue in my mouth.  I was confused, caught off guard, half asleep, and all together uncertain how to react. Then he stopped what he was doing and left, leaving me with the smell of Polo and spearmint gum. 

            Later, after I was home, I thought about what had happened, and I knew who it was.  I was to have yet another involuntary moment with him at Christmas when we attended the same party.  He was a senior, full of himself and quite certain I could not get enough of him.  I had dismissed the first incident, trying to talk myself into believing it had never happened.  Nevertheless, I was afraid of him.  I was actually dating his best friend, George.  George was out of town with family, so I had ended up at the party alone.  Several things happened, all out of my control, which led to me being left alone with the guy who had molested me once already.  I remember he had been drinking all day because his family’s bar had been broken into and he was upset.  He smelled of peach schnapps and Polo.  To this day I can’t stand the smell of either.  I instantly feel that I am going to vomit. 

            I remember trying to make light of his advances, walking around the table to keep something between us.  When he did get a hold of me, I did not resist, for then his grip just tightened.   I acted as though I was not repulsed, but then moved away as soon as possible.  At one point I ended up in front of the Christmas tree in the living room of the house we were in.  There was a couch and I remember him pulling me down, rolling me toward the back of the couch, pinning me between it and him.  I felt his hands loosening my shirt and fumbling with the button on my pants.  I squirmed, trying to verbally protest, but he put his mouth over mine.  The taste of stale alcohol was enough to make me gag.  I squirmed, trying to pull away, but he held me tighter.  I felt the panic rising inside me.  I remember turning my head toward the Christmas tree, just praying someone would come back before it was too late.  Then I left my body—like a kite being loosed from its anchor—It was as though I checked out.  He could have done whatever he wanted to me because I was no longer there.  I don’t know where I went. I just wasn’t anywhere. 

            I never told anyone.  In fact, I decided it was another thing I was just going to move on from.  After all it wasn’t rape.  Someone had come back before it had gotten that far.  And I had not fought him much, so he could have said I was a willing participant.  I reasoned all this out in my mind and decided no one ever needed to know.  My friends who had left me alone with him might recall that I had begged them to not leave me with him and had ignored my pleading, but I could not count on that.  So I let it go.  Besides, I had bigger issues.  He had told George when he came back from Christmas break that he had “made it with me,” and then proceeded to spread it around the school.  From then on George wanted nothing to do with me.  I tried to explain over and over to him what had happened but he just looked at me and said, “I don’t believe you.”  The irony of the situation was that I was a “good girl,” and everyone knew it.  One of my buddies told me one day, “Lael, I know lots of guys who would ask you out in a heartbeat, but they know you won’t put out.”  What was done to my reputation was devastating, and the fact that the guy I had been dating was willing to think I would cheat on him was a major blow to me.

            Even though I had more successes in my years in high school, and more people in my life, I never got over that experience, and I had no idea it had opened the doors on a mental fragility that one day would cause my entire little house of cards to come crashing down.  However, I feel certain that because I had something to excel at, I was able to maneuver through high school after what happened my freshman year.  I became an excellent bass player.  The awards I won in music covered the walls in my room, and I was recognized by colleges as being exceptionally talented on the bass. Even now, so many years later, music is what pulls me deeply into myself.  It is a soothing balm and a gateway to my creativity and my deepest expressions.  It does not heal me, for only God can do that, but it illuminates the dark places, a candle guiding me through the dark corridors of my mind, and it calls into focus that which I am searching for in the lightning blur of my racing and distorted thought processes.