My dad asks me if I’m feeling “melancholy.”
I don’t want to have to explain to him for the umpteenth time that I am depressed, and that it doesn’t ever really go away, not really, it just isn’t so bad some days but today…
today it is, just as it was the day before and the day before that and it’s just been a bad two weeks, really, if I’m being honest
But I won’t be honest, because Dad doesn’t quite understand what it feels to be anything more than “melancholy.”
So, I say “yes” because it’s easier than saying “melancholy feels like you labeling my depression as a kind of weakness I can easily overcome if I just quit feeling so darn blue all the time” and then he asks is it because maybe my period is coming up? (?!?) And I let out a humorless laugh because it’s better than being vocally angry with him for not understanding. And when he kindly asks if he could get me something that will “make me feel happy” I gently turn down the offer for an ice cream bar because not even ice cream will make me feel better, not really, if I’m being honest. And I know with certainty (even if saying it makes me sound like an angsty 13-year-old who wears knee-high Converse and listens to Panic At The Disco!) that I don’t think there’s much I could say that will ever make him truly understand.
I know, I know, I’m going overboard with the angst. I might as well just tack on the “It’s not a phase, Dad!” at this point, but I’ll refrain.
I don't explain to my dad how instead of a tiny angel and devil on each of my shoulders persuading me to do good and bad things, there are two little faceless figures. They wear sunglasses and black fedoras and long trench coats. They whisper all these terrible thoughts to me that are too loud to ignore and sometimes they convince me it will be impossible to even attempt to get out of bed at all. Instead of explaining all that to Dad, I excuse myself and find solace in music like I always do, turning it up so loud I either can’t hear the Faceless Trench Coats and their scheming, or just loud enough to hear someone through the other end of my headphones telling me they have Faceless Trench Coats on their shoulders too.
And that’s good enough, at least for now in attempting to rid myself of the feeling that perhaps would make most sense to my dad if I showed him this meme that personifies it perfectly:
​
​
​
​
​
​
​
​
​
​
​
​
“Seasonal depression” thanks to my current status as citizen of the state of Michigan where the sun skips town before the clock has even struck 6pm every night for approximately 6 months give or take, successfully robbing me of those precious hours of sunlight when the Faceless Trench Coats aren’t allowed to scream as freely because Brain Noise quiet hours are during the day, thank you very much.
“Covid depression” thanks to 9+ months of quarantine and the lack of any live music that I can physically attend, my normal Reason To Live painfully absent from any of my calendars, the dreaded POSTPONED stamped across any ticket in my possession that’s collecting virtual dust in my virtual wallet (man do I sound like that angsty teen. I promise every pair of Converse I own do not go above the ankle).
And my “regular depression” thanks to, well… that’s pretty self-explanatory. If you aren’t my dad, of course.
All this to say, music is just about the only thing that gets me through days that get darker earlier and 9+ months of quarantine and Brain Noise.
Over the past year, I have been all the more reflective of my leniency on music. I’m starting to think critically about its power, its healing properties, its prominence in not just my life, but the lives of billions of people all around the globe. I think about how much easier my life has been with the presence of music in it, how hard these past nine months have been without live music, how different my life would look with a complete lack of music.
I have been asking myself questions.
How do people like me use music to navigate the reality of mental illness? How do artists themselves create an outlet for their emotions by way of releasing music? Is it possible to live without live music—I guess the answer is yes, we’ve been doing it, so how?
More accurately and precisely: What does music mean to people?
I have compiled playlists and conversations. Research and even more questions. Poetry stanzas, or better known as their technical term, “lyrics.” Quotes and articles and performances.
In these materials, I have found meaning. Some obvious, some unexpected. I wish to share it in hopes of creating an informal thank-you to music. A love letter, so to speak, at the risk of sounding cheesy. And proof that music is more than just the track in the background of a cell phone commercial or a way to avoid small talk in the car with a stranger.
It’s alive.
It’s medicine.
