On Twitter the other day, I saw Andrea Gibson post, “It is ok to say there are things parts of you did not survive.”
It has been several months now. I thought I was hot on the trail to my next professional goal but quite suddenly found that I, simply, was not. This revelation was bottom-drops-out levels of disorienting. I often find songs to better understand how I feel. It is notable that this experience inspired its own playlist. In retrospect I’ve been oscillating between Chet Baker’s version of “But Not for Me” and “I Get Along Without You Very Well” since that moment. Although Chet Baker wasn’t on the playlist. If he had been that might have been an important clue. I’d share the playlist with you but it is literally too sad for me to claim.
When I look back on my life so far, there are a handful of moments that really changed who I was. I think about several of them often, some only occasionally and one in particular that I have tried hard to forget.
I spent a lot of time and energy rewriting the narrative to focus on the good and transformational things that preceded and followed this key moment. I spent several years trying to pick up the pieces of that moment. But now, almost 20 years later, it has been years since I thought about it.
And that is odd, because anyone who has heard any version of my story has heard a portion of that story. In On Courage I shared that I was heading into finals in my sophomore year of college as a Music Theory and Composition Major when I woke up and my hands were numb.
I don’t share that at the beginning of that semester I was starting to be alienated by my friends because I had reported my professor for his comments about my appealing breast size and objected to him threatening to tickle me. I don’t talk about how crushing and confusing this was because he was also incredibly kind. He gave me Chet Baker’s album. I cherished it and have forever been conflicted about that gift. I don’t talk about the fact that the dean chose not to act on my report because the professor had a concert on the horizon and he was just “such a great musician.” She didn’t want to throw him off his game with “all this.”
I was removed from my jazz combo, as he was the director.
It wasn’t all bad. Unless you heard this story in the first decade since it happened, I don’t talk about the fact that a couple of weeks before losing sensation in my hands I played in a guitar ensemble concert. In between the two ensembles, both of which I was in, I played a solo set and received an unexpected standing ovation. It was otherworldly. I heard one of my peers, turn to another and say, “Wow! Did you know?” It would be the only time.
But at the time, all signs were pointing to progress. To success. I was spending longer and longer hours practicing and preparing for my “advanced standing” – which consists of playing for a jury of professors, after which, if all goes well, they deem you somewhere between sufficient to move forward in pursuing your degree and completely awesome. I was aiming for the later.
I don’t talk about having to watch my hands (because I couldn’t feel them) while I played for the jury. Or that I don’t recall how it went aside from that. I ended up taking a medical withdrawal that semester.
Instead of sharing those details I focus the narrative on how being unable to play led to my coming out, or, alternatively, a story I call, “Yay! I’m Gay!”
Recently I shared about the aftermath of coming out in To Take the Mask Off?
In To Stop Wanting More I share that I returned to school to find myself without any friends.
But I don’t talk about fall semester beyond that. I don’t talk about how I returned to school, and while I couldn’t play, was given an accommodation to continue my studies. Rather than taking guitar lessons, I diagramed music to further my music theory knowledge. I attended large ensemble to study the score. I was learning so much. I continued to write music and while there was a lot of chaos I was working through harmonically, melodically, rhythmically…ok, all of it…it was of a nature that seemed to promise that revelation was near. A catalyst moment was surely on the horizon.
I don’t talk about how I attended physical therapy six times per week – 3 for upper back, 1 for my jaw (which was the surprising root cause) and 2 for my hands. I also attended biofeedback sessions to find different, less physically damaging ways to manage my stress. Things were improving. I could do my dishes without dropping and breaking every glass I owned! I could play, a little…although I didn’t recognize the sounds my hands made with my guitar anymore. Which was…disorienting. Like not recognizing your own voice. But surely, I was making progress and things were going to be ok. I was, afterall, compliant with my treatment plan.
The thing I try not to think about, the detail I have left as only inferred by the fact that I no longer play guitar, is that, given my perception of the trajectory, it was bottom-drops-out levels of disorienting to hear my physical therapist tell me, “It is time to pick a new major. You will never play professionally. The damage is too extensive.” It was unexpected. But I also knew, as soon as she said it, that she was right.
At 19 years old, I did the only thing that made sense to me. I tried really really hard to be unfazed. I changed my major to psychology and just kept going. But I was in for quite the surprise when credits suddenly translated to hours in class, as opposed to a music degree, where if you were awarded a credit for every hour you were in class, you’d have between 25 and 30 credits a semester. It seemed this was going to be pretty easy. I only had class about 18 hours a week. Awesome.
I attended all my classes, just like I had in high school. And, just like in high school, I skimmed the text. Surely they would give all the important information in the lectures. I learn best through auditory input, which is why I never had to read the texts in high school. I had never studied for anything. Why would I when I was perfectly capable of good grades without it?
I quickly found that in college I did need to study. But didn’t know how. I lacked the interpersonal skills to ask for help effectively. Because I was seen as smart, and wedded to that identity, it was assumed that I simply wasn’t applying myself. But if you saw the notes I tried to take (which ended up being transcriptions of entire text books) you would know it wasn’t a lack of effort.
I left college with 107 credits. I think my original degree only needed 110, but alas, spread out over two areas of study those 107 cost me quite a bit in student debt and were no where near a degree in either. It is interesting to consider how knowing I had autism may have impacted my ability to successfully navigate this part of my life.
My attempts to be unfazed by my grief over leaving the music department were catching up with me and I couldn’t stop failing at life. So I moved to Seattle and tried a different path.
That different path has been, on balance, quite successful. And so, it is ironic that a substantial barrier to crossing the next professional benchmark is my lack of a degree.
Point is, the bill for that broken heart eventually comes due. What if I had owned my grief in the moment? I would have surely saved myself some of the time I have spent over the last few months reeling with emotions beyond my ability to even name, let alone process and let go.
I am grateful for the path I have taken. It has taught me so much about the value of so many things. But none so important as the value of honoring your own truth. Good luck out there.
That's Mr. Gender to You 