MUSIC THERAPY

I’ve been listening to music more than usual since the breakup. Once upon a time, the TV or stereo always seemed to be on, but I haven’t had a television since my as-yet-to-be-wall-mounted flatscreen flopped and smashed on the floor after an apparent wind gust from the balcony and music hasn’t been the same since I could play an album or CD on the stereo. (How much did the last part of the preceding sentence date me?) 

 

Somewhere along my life’s journey, perhaps linked to my first stint in a psych ward, I came to love the quiet. It calms me. It keeps me focused on writing, reading and thoughts that swirl during the in-betweens. Creative ideas, little snippets that may come off as random, provide personal entertainment.

 

I’m not in the mood for quiet right now. Swirly thoughts aren’t so entertaining. I need noise. I have to distract the mind.

 

Welcome back, steady music stream. It’s not just distraction. The songs I play offer a slow release of the confusion, the hurt and the WTF that still simmers under the surface. After other failed relationships, I’d been in the mood for strong, proud diva songs that mask a lost love’s sting with bravado, the basic message: Stupid man, you made a huge mistake but you’ll never have a shot with me again. Annotated playlist:

·      “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” – Taylor Swift

·      “Someday” – Mariah Carey

·      “I Will Survive” – Gloria Gaynor (of course!)

·      “My Lovin’ (You’re Never Gonna Get It)” – En Vogue

·      “Irreplaceable” – Beyoncé

·      “So What” – Pink

 

Good stuff. Better than scream therapy or walking into a glassworks studio with a baseball bat. (Less expensive, at the very least.)

 

But that’s not where I’m at. I don’t feel hate or bitterness. That might make things easier. (Ariana Grande even has a brand new song exactly on point!) Given how lousy the circumstances of the breakup were, I should have no problem concocting some animosity to put whatever we had through a shredder, but I’m not there. Any anger that does seep in arises from the sense he rejected me in the end by diminishing how much I invested and how much I supported. He gave up on us.

 

Cue the first song on heavy rotation on my Breakup Soundtrack (2024): “Don’t Give Up On Us” by David Soul (RIP). Sorry, David. I can sing it, but the dude ain’t listening. He already did. Still, the song helps. David’s voice is so gentle. The song has that classic ’70s air of hope and happiness. How could his lover say no?

 

It’s a nice little dream, a recurring one. And I don’t have an in-person therapist Googling song blockers. My condo walls are thick enough that my neighbors haven’t knocked on the door, saying, “Please stop. Play that Rebecca Black “Friday” song or even “Macarena,” but no more Starsky. Or Hutch…Whichever.” (He was Kenneth Hutch, FYI.) 

 

Okay, I can get more real. Given up on. Whatcha gonna play now, Mr. DJ?

 

For several consecutive nights, I went to sleep with “You abandoned me, Love Don’t Live Here Anymore” playing in my head. Rose Royce version, though Madonna’s remake is almost as good. Never even had to stream the tune. I’d awaken, not to songbirds or seagulls or even the clunking trains on the tracks a hundred feet from my loft, but to Sheena Easton’s “You Could Have Been with Me.” New day, same state of mind. 

 

The practicalities of being “Alone Again (Naturally)” get acknowledged in Michael Johnson’s “Bluer than Blue” (“After you go, I can catch up on my reading. After you go, I’ll have a lot more room in my closet.”) and a throwaway line of Hall & Oates’ “She’s Gone” (“one less toothbrush hanging in the stand”). The songs remind me I’m not special. This happens to other people, too. Even if it was my ex who fixated on closet space.

 

The standouts on my present playlist include: Natalie Cole’s “Someone that I Used to Love,” a song that relentlessly sabotages any normal brain activity multiple times every single day (“Wish it was enough for you, All the love I had to give”); Dido’s “White Flag” as a point of pride, knowing that I’d given everything and hadn’t shied away from the possibility (and reality) of further rejection and humiliation, “going down with the ship” by conveying I still wanted to find our way back to us; and Calum Scott’s “You Are the Reason” which seems to spin in place, just like me, deemed irrelevant yet still wanting more.

 

Other songs in my discards pile:

·      “Dancing on My Own” – Robyn or Calum Scott; why not mix it up a little?

·      “Say Something” – A Great Big World and Christina Aguilera (crushing…)

·      “Knowing Me, Knowing You” – ABBA(!)

·      “(Our Love) Don’t Throw It All Away” – Andy Gibb

·      “After the Love Has Gone” – Earth, Wind & Fire, a song from my early teens which I loved but, when it came on the radio a couple of weeks ago, I realized, damn, it’s a breakup song

·      “Evergreen” – Omar Apollo

·      “Someone You Loved” – Lewis Capaldi

·      “Manhattan” – Sara Bareilles (always, always, always)

·      “Walk on By” – Dionne Warwick

·      “You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine” – Lou Rawls (okay, more than a tad diva-ish)

·      “It’s Too Late” – Carole King (a freakin’ classic, now nudging me too hard)

·      “She’s Out of My Life” – Michael Jackson, if only for the voice-cracking ending, but I’m able to move on; what did MJ ever know about love?

·      “No More I Love You's” – Annie Lennox, adding a welcome Annie quirk

·      “Rocket 2 U” – The Jets (not a breakup song but it was already on my jogging playlist and it playfully dismisses some of my ex’s reasoning for the breakup; teen-beat therapy)

 

That’s an abridged list. I needn’t reveal how extensive the list is. I do love pop music. And therein lies a silver lining. I’m not wallowing all day. This post just makes it seem that way. The thing about listening to songs on YouTube—which my ex found maddening—is I control and constantly change the playlist, sometimes clicking on a suggestion, often letting my own ideas intercede. I can follow my umpteenth listen of “Someone that I Used to Love” with Natalie Cole’s exuberant “This Will Be,” lyrically no longer relatable but oh so bop-worthy. I still play Whitney Houston’s version of “I’m Every Woman,” typically when I shave which continues to amuse me. And, weirdly, I’m giving Percy Faith’s “Theme from A Summer Place” repeated listens. My therapy doesn’t have to be embedded in sanity.  

 

For humor in a breakup, I always rely on Dionne Warwick’s “I’ll Never Fall in Love Again.” Thank you, Hal David, for lyrics to help me smile through humiliation:

What do you get when you fall in love?

A guy with a pin to burst your bubble.

That’s what you get for all your trouble;

I’ll never fall in love again.

 

What do you get when you kiss a guy?

You get enough germs to catch pneumonia.

After you do, he’ll never phone you;

I’ll never fall in love again.

 

What do you get when you fall in love?

You only get lies and pain and sorrow,

So for at least until tomorrow,

I’ll never fall in love again.

 

Bless you, Hal David! (And RIP to you as well.)

 

The first tears finally came on Day 26. I’d stumbled upon a suggested song by exes Katy Perry and John Mayer and my mind went to Mayer’s “Dreaming with a Broken Heart,” a song I loved for a while—objectively pretty and sad but nothing I’d personally connected with during a prolonged period of singlehood. As the song played, the lyrics opened with, “When you’re dreaming with a broken heart, the waking up is the hardest part.” That was it. I knew exactly what he was talking about. Eyes watered, cheeks caught the overflow. Suddenly, survival became acute. Not about getting through a breakup; just let me make it through the song. 

 

I did, thanks in part to a lyrical tangent about roses. I could connect but it would take a bit of work and, hell, I wouldn’t go there. Close the floodgates. Disaster averted.

 

The closest I’ve gotten to a music-enhanced release and a glimpse I will move on is the song “Flowers” by Miley Cyrus. I’ve been doing the Miley, buying myself flowers. It’s a bit of a hollow gesture. He wasn’t the flower buyer, I was. I loved showing up at his place each time with something fresh-cut; not roses but some stems that had an architectural quality to them or fit his color scheme. I was buying my own gerberas pre-relationship and throughout our two years. I’ll continue to do so. Not quite redemptive when it’s the status quo. I suppose I could dance around my condo in my underwear like Miley does in the video but that would only underscore how I’m not at all like Miley, after all. Grab a shirt. STAT!

 

For now, my song list still feels fresh. I’m a long ways from Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” but then I never want to return to that delusional reincarnation of “If You’re Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands.” As The Beatles say, it’s a long and winding road. I ride on, two hands on the wheel for now, trying to glimpse a little less in the rear-view mirror. Radio on, of course.