Shame has a way of silencing the soul. This is what makes vulnerability so beautiful: it is the act of standing up in the face of everything that would tell you to be silent, that you’re not good enough- and still baring it all.
I’ve had nearly every avenue of expression shut down. My literal voice, and my body, both shamed into silence. Music has been my only refuge. There’s a piece of piano music I’ve been working on that feels like it tells my whole life’s story: the pain, beauty, shame, and loss- and what’s still yet to come. The shadows in my soul that hide from the poetry of speech and of dance, find a home in the rhythm of my fingers dancing on the keys, telling all I’ve been told to never speak of. Piano is my primary instrument, but guitar and singing have spoken for my soul as well.
—–The opus of my life.—–
The first movement took my breath away. Literally. When I was two, my body was used, violated, repeatedly. The freedom of my container exploited. The exodus from my body began here.
The second movement was repetitive and slow; there was no beauty, just monotony: chronic neglect, my parents ignoring my emotional needs. My voice was taken. I couldn’t display any emotions on my face. Another layer, stripped from my possession.
At age seven, the third movement began. These next two years were brutal, sadistic. I lost everything except music. I lost my connection to God. I was abused and tortured in every way. In a few ritualistic incidents, I was forced to dance, naked, in front of those who abused me, amidst other children also being abused. I haven’t been able to enjoy the poetry of movement since. Few things terrify me more, to this day, than dance. A move across town disrupted this violent symphony.