On Music…
For the first time in my life, I can honestly say: I feel better. Somewhere between moving to Philadelphia, moving in with my girlfriend, and getting on Bipolar meds, I found myself and found freedom and self-love. If you’ve been following me since my first real-deal pieces in 2017, you know this whole notion of “feeling better” is a feat. No more suicidal thoughts. No more suicidal ideation. Just positivity, growth, and general contentment. It really happened for me.
While on the path to this positive place, I’ve wondered how my habits and creativity would change as a result of feeling better. Namely, I was curious how my listening would adapt as I grew into my healthier self. Truthfully, my listening hasn’t changed much at all. I enjoy more music in a wider breadth, mostly because I enjoy life more, but my core obsessions have remained the same. My favorite song is still Mac Miller’s “I Am Who Am,” and I still love sad songs more than happy songs. Sometimes, I apologize for all the sad music I listen to. My girlfriend’s office is next to mine, and when I play a particularly long string of Lil Peep projects on the speakers, I tend to apologize for dampening the mood of the day. She says I have nothing to be sorry for—she’s right.
I still love sad songs for a lot of reasons, but mainly because I am still sad. It’s hard to wrap my head around, but I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that my baseline mood is very low. I’m a generally unhappy person, but I’m deeply optimistic about my life. I can’t entirely parse it, but the medicine really helps. So does the music. When I listen to sad songs, I can access all my dark feelings without having to succumb to them. I can be myself, in a way, without having to put myself at risk. There’s nothing like some catharsis on a Monday morning. There’s nothing quite like hearing a song about where you’ve been, where you could end up again, and relishing in the goodness of your life.
Too, I appreciate sad music more than happy music because I’m still working on accepting happiness as a part of my life. There’s a lot of guilt—especially in these times—around feeling happy. Do I deserve it? Have I earned it? These toxic questions pepper my thoughts whenever I experience a light emotion. That’s not to say I feel like I deserve sadness, but rather, it’s just to point out I’ve grown comfortable with the lows. Not complacent, but comfortable. I love “I Am Who Am” because it’s a song tackling the guilt of being alive, while also expressing the desire to have everything slow down. Not stop, but slow down. No one wants to die here, we just want a chance to catch a collective breath.
I was worried for a long time that enjoying sad music and growing comfortable with my sadness would mean I was incapable of happiness, but life does not operate on such rigid binaries. That’s black and white thinking I have to stop. Enjoying sad songs just means I know myself well enough to bask in a feeling without becoming that feeling. Of course I’m capable of happiness. Of course I know life is worth living, but something about hearing Mac Miller say “Yahweh put the world in my hands, I’m giving it back” reminds me of who I am at my core. It gives gravity to my good days. It gives importance to my bad. Sad music is all about the memory, for me, of sorrow. It’s not about inviting more sorrow into my life.
“I Am Who Am” and songs like it are the ultimate release. And I have nothing to be sorry for; I have nothing to be ashamed of. I deserve happiness and I deserve to indulge in my tastes. Sad music is a reminder and a confidant. No amount of medication will change that relationship. None of this means I’m ungrateful for the life I have, and all of it means I’m excited for the road ahead. Sad songs relieve pressure, remove weight, and move me. Once upon a time, I was DJing at my buddy’s and he asked me where my happy music was. I put on “I Am Who Am.” Sad songs, you could say, are my “happy” music.