Taking Centre Stage

Growing up, I always loved music. I used to sing, hairbrush in hand, in front of the mirror to all my favourite songs. I used to pretend I was a rock star. I'd play air guitar or tap my pen on my desk as if I were playing the drums. And each time, I heard the same thing, "stop that awful racket!" And I'm sure the racket was awful. The tapping was probably bad enough, but my singing, yikes! Let's just call it like it is - I couldn't carry a tune if you gave me a basket to put it in. But that never stopped me.

I asked my parents for piano lessons when I was about 7 and drum lessons a couple years later. The answer was no both times. Music lessons, I was told, were not for people like us, they were for rich people. Given my obvious lack of talent, they were sure spending their hard-earned money on music lessons would be a huge waste.

I went through life still loving music, but as a passive observer, jealously admiring those that could either sing or play an instrument. People like my husband, who, although he has no training, can sing surprisingly well. I began writing songs for him earlier this year. Here's one of them about his relationship with his father.

I enjoy writing so developing songs for him is a nice little side activity. But there's something missing - music. A song is all well and good, but it isn't much without some music to go with it. The idea of learning to play an instrument started to resurface about a month ago. Wouldn't it be cool, I thought, if I could also write and play some music to accompany his singing.

I took the plunge last week. I'll admit, it was an impulse buy (damn you, online shopping!). Fueled by a bit of boredom, the first snowstorm of the year and an unexpected bit of extra cash, I found an adorable little electric guitar and amp and ordered it.

I felt a rush of child-like excitement flow through my body as I hit place order. That excitement quickly turned to sheer panic as I second-guessed myself. "Maybe I shouldn't have gotten a left-handed guitar," I said to myself. I had based my choice solely on the fact that although I write with my right hand, I do everything else with my left hand. I bat left. I catch left. I play hockey left-handed. Heck, I even hold my fork and knife like a left-handed person.

I couldn't help but wonder if maybe I should have done a little more research before buying. Maybe I should have at least held a guitar in my hands to see how it felt before I dropped hundreds of dollars in a crazy leap of faith.

It wasn't until the guitar arrived 48 hours later and I unboxed it that I finally realized why I was so excited. As I perused the internet for online lessons and tutorials, a flood of feelings came over me. Feelings that were familiar, in that vague distant sense, like an old friend you haven't seen since high school. Your gut tells you you know it, but you can't quite recognize its current presentation. All I knew was that I felt like a kid, dreaming of the spotlight, dreaming of being able to create music on this strange thing in my hands. Cheering fans, adoration, acclaim, accomplishment - all of it!

I don't want that guitar to be a background player to my husband's voice (although that was a valid reason). I want that guitar for ME. I want to learn to play it for ME. I want people to look at ME. Not so much for fame or money or any of that. But there's something in me that wants to be seen and heard.

That was a huge revelation to me. I've spent the last 8 years convinced that I wanted to be invisible. In fact, I spent a good deal of that time trying very hard to be invisible. After the terror of being stalked by my ex-husband. After the adrenal fatigue and sheer exhaustion that comes with the constant vigilance, of constantly seeing the enemy wherever you go, sneering, peering, laying in wait. After the crippling panic attacks that processed routine events like a ringing telephone or a knock at the door as literal threats to my life. After the shame of suffering a complete mental breakdown, invisible was all I wanted to be.

I wanted to hide. I found comfort in the dark. I was content to stay in the safety of the shadows, letting others around me shine - my husband, my kids. My role wasn't on the stage, it was behind the scenes, quietly, invisibly doing whatever needed to be done to support them.

I clung to that invisibility and that background status as a badge of honour. It was what I wanted, I told myself. It was my choice. It was my true nature. Everything I was before, that gregarious little girl, the loud, opinionated, outgoing teenager who starred in all the school plays - it was fiction. And if not fiction, it was, at the very least, the privilege of a youthful and healthy mind no longer afforded to me. My place, as a middle-aged woman, as a trauma survivor, as a person with mental health challenges, was in the back.

As I fiddled with that guitar, things started becoming clearer. I tuned the thing, and as I did, it seemed my mind somehow also became more finely tuned. I plugged it into the little amplifier and loudly and awkwardly strummed as my husband looked on, smiling.

BANG! It hit me! Fear. It was fear keeping me from taking a starring role in my own life. Not choice. Not my natural inclination. Fear. Fear and lies that I told myself because I'd been traumatised. Fear and lies I chose to cling to because they were safe. And let's be honest, who could blame me? Worse yet, fear and lies I used to punish myself for things I had no control over and no responsibility for. Fear and lies I don't need or want anymore.

That little red guitar gave me something way beyond music. It taught me that I'm ready to take my life back. I'm ready to take my rightful place, my natural place, in this world - out front. I'm not a background player. I'm not a member of the chorus. I never was. I still love the warm glow of the spotlight, wherever I may find it or wherever it may find me.

That little red guitar is a symbol of not only my inner diva, but a testament to my inner strength and resilience. I may go down, but as long as there's breath in my body, you can't count me out. Defeat is not an option. I come from a long line of resilient people who have endured slavery, racism, poverty and all manner of hardship. To survive and thrive is in my DNA.

Whatever the challenge, I'll come back bigger, bolder and stronger to take my place in the sun.

And that's what I'm doing now. I might be 50 and I might only know how to play 5 chords, and none of them together in any sort of progression (yet), but make no mistake, I'm centre stage again and I'm a freakin' rock star! Well, at least in my own life and it feels AWESOME!