Music Can Solve All Your Problems if You Find the Right Song

Denial is just another word for saying, I’m fine

The consensus of my friends is If you’re not accepting help, it’s because you don’t think you’re worth it. We’re 50. We grew up on a Loreal Commercial.

I used to run with a guy who collapsed after every race. Like our coach used to say, Jim leaves it all on the track.

Problem was, Jim couldn’t stand up after he fell. Whenever any one of us offered him a hand, he shooed us away, disgusted. When one of us was brazen enough to ask him, Why won’t you accept help? he had no idea.

The consensus among we runners was getting help terrified him. It was tantamount to admitting he wasn’t good enough to be there. I used to be like that runner. In some ways, I still am.

I’ll accept help with my physical limitations, like having someone remove my neoprene gloves from my frozen hands after an icy swim. But, I don’t want help when my pain is internal.

When I get a migraine and depression devours me, I feel like a basket case. I used to say aloud, “I’m bad at being depressed” until a good friend corrected me.

“No one is good at being depressed,” she said, like are you fucking kidding me?

That’s one of the problems with depression. It feels like it’s only happening to you and there is no visible EXIT.

Recently my therapist and I were discussing songs I could play when I was experiencing emotional exile — some song to tell my brain not to drop anchor.

I started searching on Spotify, but casually, like I was looking for the deal of the day on Amazon — not like it was something I desperately needed.

Usually, when my anxiety or depression grabs me by the tits, I practice breathing. Unfortunately, my brain is usually louder than my deep slow breaths.

Music is louder than inhaling. It digs deeper. While breathing is my loofah, music digs through my stratum like an oil well.

I tried Beyoncé, Annie Lennox, Taylor Swift, Nina Simone, Norah Jones, Blondie, Alanis Morissette, Brandi Carlile, Pink, Lady Gaga — I was sure my anti-depression theme song would be sung by a woman but nothing was clicking.

After three days of my migraine-induced depression, I drove to the lake to watch the sunrise and dive into the icy lake. I hoped the beauty and the cold would scare away my headache and in turn, my harsh self-judgment.

I texted one of my besties from my car.

I’m depressed, I said.

Whenever I confess sadness to anyone, I feel like a failure. Like the runner who wouldn’t let us help him up, I don’t feel worthy of asking for help. That’s why I pay a therapist.

It’s extremely difficult for me to admit when something is bothering me. I come from Scandinavian Presbyterians, who say “I’m fine” when a building just fell on their heads.

Luckily, my other half is Russian-Jewish, so I have a therapist.

That’s how I negotiate my two sides. Six days a week, I pretend I don’t mind the building crashing down on my head, but once a week, I pay a nice lady to listen to how much the building is hurting my head.

The friend, who I texted I was depressed, wrote back, “I get it girl.” And I knew she did. That’s why I told her. She’s my emotional sponsor. I’m slipping, I tell her. I get it, she says.

I told her I was auditioning for a song to play when I was anxious or depressed. She didn’t skip a beat or ask me what I meant.

She texted back Harry Styles, As it Was. I put it on. She was correct.

Holding me back, gravity is holding me back, he sang and it clicked. Maybe not six months from now, but today it worked its magic.

I don’t like being depressed. I heard nobody does. But today I played a song and it peeled me off the pavement.