It was February 2008. My first Boston winter blanketed the world in harsh steel gray. Clouds hid the sun, and the city was cold. So was I.
While I was in the midst of a sinking depression, my boyfriend could do nothing to help me. Scratch that – he just refused to help me. He was angry with me for the deep and dark thoughts I had. All he seemed to care about was his graduate school and studying law, and not me – the girl who supported his dreams and moved 800 miles from home to be with him. I usually sat in the living room, watching television, or pretending to care about my own studies, when in reality I was just waiting for him. To pay attention to me. To love me. To realize that, yes, I was still there. And that I was, in fact, waiting – putting myself on hold and my own life on the backburner for the sake of us.
Oh, that dreaded word. Us.
Us killed me.
It wasn’t completely his fault. I tend to blame him for much of my suffering, but I wanted us to be my life. I wanted so badly for someone to love me, and this guy seemed to. I traded all of myself for a chance at what I thought would be happiness. In retrospect, I see that I was blind.
On that cold February day, as I waited around for him to notice me, he suggested I go do something. I decided maybe he was right. I bundled up, and grabbed my iPod, and walked down the street towards the Prudential Center – which is filled with people and shops. Lots of things to do, buy, and look at.
With the white earbuds blocking out the street noises, I turned the iPod on and hit “play.” Of all the songs that played that afternoon, I can only remember one: “Bedshaped” by Keane.
As often happens with me, a particular song usually stands for a person, time, or certain event in my life. It’s never intentional, but just happens that way. I’m sure I had heard this song before this moment – but all I can remember is this particular day, this particular time I listened to it.
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I know you think I’m holding you down
And I’ve fallen by the wayside now
And I don’t understand the same things as you
But I do
Don’t laugh at me
Don’t look away
You’ll follow me back
With the sun in your eyes
And on your own
Bedshaped, and legs of stone
You’ll knock on my door
And up we’ll go
In white light
I don’t think so
But what do I know?
What do I know?
I know…
I felt gripped with anguish. This felt all too true for my life. I felt like I had fallen by the wayside of someone that I truly loved. It was painful, in-your-face, and very real. Very visceral.
I asked myself: “What do I know?” And I didn’t know the answer.
The afternoon concluded in gloominess. I don’t recall much else about the day.
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We broke up about a month later.
I could never listen to this song without being overtaken by sadness. And I really thought it would always be this way.
—————————————————————————————————-
It was July of 2009. My second Boston summer as a single woman was quickly coming to a close. The oppressive humidity of another overcast day turned to afternoon thunderstorms. I walked along Boylston Street, by the Public Garden, and admired the beauty of the city. The buildings stood tall, cutting into the low clouds. The people scurried about, with umbrellas and in good suits, dodging puddles while crossing the streets. In the garden, families sat on benches, and families of ducks cleaned themselves by the water.
I pulled out my white earbuds and my iPhone, scrolled through the playlist, and found it. I smiled. I hit “play.”
It was “Bedshaped.”
However, for some reason, today I wasn’t sad. As dreary as the day was, as stressful as this particular week had been, I was…happy.
Mainly because, for once, listening to this song didn’t make me sad. It made me realize that I am on my own, but by choice. No one is holding me down, and I’m not holding anyone else down. No one is leaving me by the wayside. No one thinks I don’t understand the same things that they do. No one is looking away from me.
This song is no longer true for my life.
Just reminds me that while things seem to always stay the same, little by little they can change, until one day you stop and really look – and you are a totally new person.
So you ask yourself: “What do I know?”
And you respond: “I know!”
