Teenage Angst

Everyone has enjoyed a little bit of teenage angst, right? Whether it was chopping off your hair, dying it black, piercing your eyebrows, or dating that grungy guy who played the guitar, most of us went through our phase of rebellion. I just so happened to hit that phase a little late.

I was raised extremely conservative Christian. As such, I grew up listening to conservative Christian music. At my church, there were worn hymnals containing the great classics: Amazing Grace, It Is Well with My Soul, etc. Occasionally, we threw in some Southern Gospel for flair. But we had no drums, no guitar, not even an organ. Just the wooden grand piano that would occasionally switch sides of the platform for no discernable reason. Until I was 14, this was the life I knew. A small church, an even smaller private Christian school, where even Skillet, a “Christian” rock band, was frowned upon by the elders and teachers.

Then I entered public school. With three children, my parents decided that private school was a little expensive, so they sent my older brother and me off to the “real world”. It was supposed to teach us how to maintain our faith in the face of those who would question and ridicule us.

I’m sure you can guess how well that worked out.

The beginning of my downfall (that’s how my parents view it; I believe I was finally set free) was, shock of all shocks, a boy. I met him my junior year, a long time to hold on to my religion in my opinion, in precal/trig on the second floor of the H hallway. His name was Dawson. He was fit, blonde, and knew how to drive. That last part was what lured me in in the first place: I was looking for a ride home from school. So I did something that I’d never done before.

I flirted. On purpose.

I know. Scandalous for a 17-year-old.

Well, I got a little more out of it than a ride home from school.

No, I did not have sex. Sorry, this isn’t that type of story.

But I did finally meet someone who could charm me enough that I was willing to bend (cough, break, cough) the rules.

Dawson and I no longer talk, though I did awkwardly message him asking if I could use his name in my story. But at the time, as is always the truth of young love, I thought he was the one for me. So when he suggested that I broaden my musical horizons a little bit, I did so with only a little trepidation.

He dumped me into to deep end. “Front Porch Step” is a single artist who has put out only a few albums since his start in 2012. He writes the most angsty shit I’ve ever heard. But it’s relatable angsty shit. To a kid with depression who never fit in and was achingly familiar with rejection, it was amazing to listen to someone who expressed such raw emotion. It may be overdone; it may be garbage music from a man accused of unsavory acts; but that doesn’t mean his music didn’t touch me in an amazing way.

“Island of the Misfit Boy” from the 2013 “Front Porch Step” album “Aware” was the first song Dawson had me listen to. “I love to sleep ‘cause I pretend that I’m dead,” never hit anyone harder. At that time in my life, this was something I actively did. I would sleep and escape into my dream worlds that were so much better than any reality I had experienced. The rest of the song goes on to tell the story of someone I very much understood. I had been touched by music before. Crying in church during a moving song was almost expected. But I had never related to someone expressing exactly how they felt. If a Biblically unapproved emotion, like lust or anger or, heaven forbid, doubt, was felt by someone in my circles, they were expected to quell it internally and never admit it existed. I had done this my whole life and now somehow music, something considered holy worship unto God, could worship my feelings.

I latched on to this music with a passion to rival that of my faith. Dawson only listened to select songs from “Front Porch Step” and found my new obsession amusing. I quickly memorized every released album, in order. I could sing every song. I probably still could if you asked me to, though my fervor has died down. Sort of.

And then we broke up.

I made some mistakes, and Dawson walked away from me. It wouldn’t have been nearly such a problem if we hadn’t had classes together. There was this awful, painful silence between us. We occasionally passed notes in the hallways, trying to figure out our feelings for each other, but it wasn’t meant to be. We never got back together and didn’t talk to each other again until after graduation.

Suddenly, my favorite music that had made my soul soar, now made my heart ache. I changed my mind about it. It was crappy. The artist was a horrible person. I shouldn’t be listening to this anyway.

So I stopped. Completely.

Until the next boy came along and broke my heart.

And the next.

So what started out as a driving force for my love for a boy became what my heart and head both desired every time someone hurt me. It just felt good to go back to that angry man who agreed that life was hell. Both of us had been broken when we didn’t deserve it.

Did I mention this was angsty?

Over time, I’ve come to enjoy the music. It’s one of those secret pleasures for me. Slightly less secret now, I suppose...

But now I can enjoy "Front Porch Step" during the highs and the lows. I suppose part of growing up is having memories, both good and bad, and learning to cherish them because they are yours. Music ties strong emotion to those memories and allows me to relive a part of my life through someone else's words.

But they sort of become our own, don't they? We may not have written them, but we cherish them, hold them in our hearts and heads (sometimes unwillingly), and revel in the way they make us think and feel and remember.

"The world taught me angst/When I deserved joy" but I guess I had a good time either way.