Concerts Make Me Question my Relationship Making Abilities

I am normally not one to think about my single status. Not that I don’t want to be in a relationship or that I am actively avoiding it but in general it just does not cross my mind. It’s just kind of like it’s there.  It’s a fact about me that I am sporting that single statue and it does not bother me for the most part. I typically get on with my day just fine without a partner. But one of the times that I am the most aware of my single status is when I want to go to a concert. A concert that no one else in my life wants to go to. And all of a sudden, I wish that I had someone in my life that I can force this experience upon. But that is because, the role that music plays in my life…. is different compared to most. Almost freakish.

It’s not just the sound. It’s the experience as a whole. The feeling of the music pulsing through your body and it’s almost like your very blood comes alive. The bass throwing itself into your nerves, jolting your bones with ever beat. The hairs on your arms stand up and you can almost feel your pupils dilating. The way I’m describing my general concert experience right now, it may sounds like what happens to you when you get into a very lively club, which it sometimes true to some extent. But a concert to me at least is a whole different ballpark. For the most part, I will only go to concerts where I am devoted to the artist. And not to oversell the value, but having completely devotion to an artist is a big deal for me. Deal breaker quality stuff. It typically means that I had a connect to the music. And as I am writing that sentence, I know just how it sounds pretty fake on paper, I know but for me it’s the most real that I personally can get. There is a place/moment that I get to when I literally lose myself in music. (que Lose Yourself by Eminem) It’s almost like an out of body experience. I feel real and alive and strangely protected. Like I’m in my own sphere of sound and all that matters is me in that moment, listening to that music in this specific time of my life. I move, I dance, and as I mentioned at the beginning of this part, I fully throw myself into experience. So long story short, concerts are some of my favorite experiences of all time.

My only problem is that a combination of my strange taste in more unpopular music and my standards of seating (I will pay more than most of my friends for pretty terrible seats because the sound is all that matters to me, not always necessarily seeing the performer in question. Although that is fun too I’ve heard.) I normally have a difficult time finding someone to go with me. I have gone to concerts alone before (read the post about my first and currently last trip in a police car for an example) but it’s not always as fun. I also realize that my description of myself at the concert and what I go through out the show overall would make it seem that I would actually prefer to go to the shows by myself. And it also seems that normal people would not necessarily want to stand too close by me during a concert, even friends that I know and people that care about me. While both are true to some extent, I cannot help my fear of going alone. It’s human nature right? Or is it because I’m a girl and I partially worry about my safety. Part of my mind is constantly aware of my surroundings and I’m not able to fully put myself into the show itself. But in reality, if I’m going to honest with myself, it’s not just the companionship but the actual presence. The need to share the experience. Music should be shared….. but also and mostly the fear of being judged when seen going to a show by one’s self. How duplicitous is that statement from someone who just explain the impact that music has on her. Why should I care so much about going alone? What does that say about me as a person? A literal “losing of myself, in the music”.

Putting the Fuse in Confused,




“BECAUSE SHE IS A FUCKING MORON!!!!” I was screaming at the top of my lungs and actually jumped up in the air, hitting the ground hard with a resounding thump just in case my voice didn’t convey how angry I was. It was almost reminiscent of a child’s tantrum, if my anger wasn’t so great and intense and dare I say fearful. The second of silence that filled the hallways was almost loud. There is a weird pause that lingered in the air right before I forced myself to take a breath. My roommate looks at me in total disbelief. She has never heard me scream like that. In a truth, I actually don’t think I have ever screamed like that intentionally ever in my life. I yell all the time, don’t get me wrong. But that scream was very, very different. It erupted out of a seriously dark place in my soul that I did not even know actually existed. I was out of breath and my noses flares had a mind of their own. I could actually feel my heart beating in such a way I had previously only recognized from after a seriously hard multi-mile run in 90 degree heat. The heat was practically radiating off of my red cheeks. That was not normal to go from practically calm to… whatever this was in that short of  time span. I actually think it was not normal to feel this angry or to let my body take over in this manner, in general. As my mind came back to me I tried to evaluate how I got here. And then it hit me. I became my father. And that terrified me. But probably not in the ways that most people would interpret that sentence. You see, I idolize my dad. He is my biggest male role model and influenced me in the best possible ways my entire life. I love him as much as a daughter could physically love her dad and then some. I am the person I am today based on the ways that he and my mother showed the world to my brother and I. Some of my legitimately happiest moments are when I can make my dad smile. I want to take after Dad as much as I can. But this was something that scared me beyond belief.

The scariest words that I have ever heard in my life were “Dad’s in the hospital, it’s his heart.” I didn’t know at the time that it was what they would later diagnose as AFib (irregular heartbeats) and felt myself falling apart. Even that very day in the hospital, he was basically normal by the time my 13 year old self would reach his bed side  and the sight of him smiling, sitting up, still wearing his dress pants under his hospital gown and making jokes about how the hospital had better TV (we never had cable) were just enough to make me burst into tears even after the nurses kept assuring me he was completely fine and was not in any life threatening danger. And before this story takes any other dark turns I am just going to jump right to the end. Dad is fine and today is as healthy as he has ever been. I talk to him all the time, equal amount about politics, both of our workplaces, life and bowel movements. Our most recent discussion involved my poking fun at him at dying his salt and pepper beard that was just starting to grey. This poking only occurred after years of dad embracing old age and slightly shaming my mother for plucking out all her white hairs. Dad is fantastic. Dad is living life to the fullest. But more than a decade ago, he was not. He was a lot angrier back then. He took everything he was into himself and would have rapid bursts of rage. In his defense, Dad owned (actually still owns) his own business, he has people in his life that made life difficult at times and at the time of his heart attack, my brother and I were at the height of the worst of our combined teenage years. But after his attack, Dad changed everything. He completely changed his diet for one matter, he started to exercise more for another, but most of all, he smiled more. That is actually what he will tell people. He will point to his deep crow’s feet that decorate eyes and say that these are what saved his life, the many years of more laughing and smiling. He never took things as seriously as he had in the past. He learned to let go of the little things and just worry about what mattered the most to him, mostly Mom, my brother and myself. He shrugged more, and found the good in everything. A few years ago, Dad’s doctor said that his heart had improved so much, it was almost like he had never had heart problems in the first place.

I can tell you exactly why I screamed like that day. I greatly disagree with the opinions of said person I was screaming (obviously) about but the thing is, that person probably doesn’t even remember the disagreement. She probably shrugged and moved on with her life. I will not go into too much detail, but my deep disagreement with this person is actually a big deal. The decision she made reflects the decisions made by so many other people and that decision will affect lives. Many lives for the worst. So I wasn’t irrational going off about an outfit decision or lunch choice. Her vocal opinion was a big deal and hit me really hard. So yes, I almost felt in the right to feel the way I did. But my anger, that was making her problem my problem. I should not be fighting this person’s mind but their concept. I let her get under my skin, crawling deeper and deeper into my mind and letting her subliminal message rage havoc on me. I let this happen. I cannot let this happen again. So this post is for two reason. It’s a bit different from what I normally write. One it is to show my appreciation for Dad as a person. To show how much the will of a human can literally save lives. Second, it’s a reminder to follow in his example. I am putting it in writing and out in the open. I will refuse to let my demons take over me again. I will not other people define me. I will chose my life’s outcomes. Because I can. And I will.

Never giving up,