photo by James Grossi
After a much-needed kiki with one of my best friends, I’m left feeling more lost than found. Not because of some nefarious exchange, like a secret baby reveal or an indictment of my life choices. She’s my yellow friend, the one I can say anything to with the promise of unconditional understanding. But the freedom of being myself comes with a burden when I lack clarity, clarity in who I am, what I want, and what makes this thing called life worth it. I’m left wondering: was shedding that “unstable” version of myself the right move when all I feel now is uninspired and directionless?
Backstory, for the majority of you who know nothing about me: I was a rocker for almost two decades. My journey started in San Francisco with an arthouse band that pushed me to play instruments I’d never touched in my life. From there, my fingers gained enough muscle memory to play bass for a prog-goth band, then a thrash band that was live-streamed on P-Diddy’s TV station. Although, in light of recent events that brag should be vaulted.
After years of playing other people’s music, I found the courage to perform my own and received one of the best compliments ever: “This is what you should be doing.”
Instead of doing, I naturally moved to Los Angeles, where I had zero support system whatsoever, sank into an even deeper depression, and resigned myself to living happily ever after as a bartender at a club that played Top 40 music so loud that “Party in the USA” still scores my night terrors.
Fortunately, this city isn’t as big as you’d think. A few years after this rough patch, I aptly titled Hell on Earth, a band found me.
Correction.
A good band found me.
So I dusted off my fingers, found tight leather hot pants, and put on some damn good shows. I lived for this lifestyle. The hours rehearsing, the belly-aching laughs with the band, the colored lights, the roars of applause, and the safety of never getting close to anyone since 90% of my conversations went no further than “Thank you so much for watching!”
Just as with any exciting relationship, it ended. Why? Fun fact: musicians rarely make a living playing music. After the band nuked itself with debt to keep the dream alive, they realized they couldn’t pay me.
This bred resentment, for obvious reasons.
On top of this, I was gatekept from having creative input. That’s when resentment got personal. Thou shalt not silence the only woman in the band.
After the divorce, the only thing left for me to do was focus on work and hope to find a new brand of art that better suited my Type A side.
The goal I’d set for myself last year was stability. And by the grace of a higher power, combined with my creativity, work ethic, and a boss who genuinely valued what I brought to the table, I ended up achieving that goal by December. I was content! I had the respect of my peers, financial stability, and the freedom to set my own hours and produce projects from the comfort of my own home.
So what the fuck happened?
This is the part where you join me as I come face to face with my self-saboteur, asking a series of questions I do not have concrete answers to.
Is stability not enough?
What am I actually searching for?
Why is it so hard for me to make art if the goal isn’t to share it with the world?
Am I having a tantrum because I’m out of alignment, or because peace feels foreign to me?
Will I ever be truly content working toward someone else’s goal?
Do I even know what my goals are?
Will I ever?
When I ask myself, if money weren’t a problem, what would I do for the rest of my life? Every answer I come up with sounds like total bullshit.
Does being an adult mean being okay with the mundane?
When will my heart be full again?
Will I ever be truly inspired again?
Is it art or attention I’m after?
Who do I need to blow to afford a 500 square foot apartment in LA?
Even though I’m helping others, why am I finding less and less meaning in what I do?
Am I growing or unfulfilled?
I was afraid to share these questions with myself, and even more afraid to share them with you, because of how they might make me look. I’m judging myself for being ungrateful for the opportunities I’ve been given, fully aware that many would trade places in an instant. But I’m being brave. I don’t think true contentment comes without facing every part of myself, even the ones I’m ashamed of.
Some of these thoughts came up in the kiki with my yellow friend. I’ve been sitting with them. Maybe it’s time to look for truth elsewhere—in a person, a community, or something intangible—since figuring it out alone isn’t doing it for me anymore.
Her only advice that night was simple: ask.
I don’t think I have a choice.
If this story resonates with you, check out Totem's Self-Sabotage Space.