Laura's Story: Finding Her Music Again
Laura Probert loves classic rock and knows full well the healing power that music can have. Unfortunately, she also knows the desperate fear of being a woman alone in the pit of a rock show. But her past experiences have not kept her from passing on her love of music to her children or being able to crank up the radio. {Warning: this story contains some stuff- some really real adult stuff.}
I am a healer. Music for me is an expression of energy and vibration that connects with my soul leaving me in a heaping, hot mess on the floor- if I am lucky.
As soon as I was old enough to drive, I bought tickets to see Van Halen in a really big stadium in Oakland, CA. I love music and classic rock is my era. It’s something that still makes me happy as I listen to my kids’ favorite music and hear the words, “Your booty don’t need explainin’,” way too many times to count.
For me, being sixteen was a continual challenge of hormones, emotions and fierce battles for independence. Music matched my intensity and passion. It felt like I felt inside- hot, crazy and desperate to be loved for “me.” I would do anything to feel wanted- sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll included.
“I didn’t care that Eddie Van Halen already had Valerie Bertinelli. I still screamed like life wouldn’t be worth living without him.”
Standing neck deep in sweating fans, I heard the sound, the crowd, and my own voice- a desperate one- aching for Eddie to look my way. I just wanted one second of recognition. Sadly, that felt like my life in general- a continual cry for validation and worth.
“There aren't very many other girls here,” I remember thinking. The two guy friends I came with disappeared as we all got sucked into the crowd that was slowly getting thicker as we inched closer to the stage. I was afraid all of a sudden and balanced on my tip toes to find my friends, using my forearms to hoist me up off of my intruding neighbors. I couldn't see them. I heard the music but it was so loud it was hard to enjoy. And I was alone.
Strange fingers reached in from the swarm and held my crotch. They knew right where to land and I couldn't move away- blocked from all sides, getting tighter like the walls closing in on Luke and Leia in that scene in the dumpster. My body fought hard to move. I struggled and pulled my pelvis away, but couldn't get my hands down to protect myself. I couldn't see who it was. It was dark and I still couldn't move. I felt a body behind me and he was hard.
At that point, there was no music. No concert. No excitement. No Eddie. As that all went on around me- the rock star lights, sound and gyration- I sat pinned in the middle of the swarm terrified, on the verge of tears, wishing I hadn't lost my friends.
I am short but strong. Leaning on my soccer legs, I forced myself backward through the maze and against the flow of people still squeezing themselves into me and toward the stage. “Hey, watch it!” I heard and every few feet I smelled a hint of fresh air. People realized I was moving away from the stage and they let me pass while they moved in to fill the space I left. There was more air. And more. Finally, I was free of rubbing body parts and I found a cement wall to lean back on- sweaty, exhausted, terrified and pissed all at the same time. I wanted to scream, but I cried instead. My friends found me.
“Can we please go home?” I begged.
The huge, primal scream I needed to make sat in a knot just behind my chest and throat for about thirty years. Instead of being healed by it, I was disempowered by the music that night. Everything about it that I loved became an assault- another reminder that being me was not okay.
I reach over and turn the radio down after my daughter turns it up. I haven’t listened to music in a really long time. I don’t remember when I stopped; it wasn't right after Van Halen. I went on to see The Scorpions, ZZ Top, Madonna and a few others, but never again ventured into the pit. I taught aerobics in college and spent hours mixing my tapes to teach by. It was somewhere between kids, I think, overloaded. No time for music.
“Can we listen to music?” my daughter asks, like she does every single time we are in the car.
“Sure,” I reply. “But not too loud, okay?” And then when one of our favorite songs comes on, I spin the volume up and she turns her head and smiles at me.
“But I thought you said…,”
“I know,” I interrupt, “But I like this song!”
Laura Probert, MPT is a healer, a writer and a poet who lives in Bethesda, Maryland. She owns Bodyworks Physical Therapy and Soul Camp, LLC. Find out more about her healing, writing and kicking passions here: www.bodyworksptonline.com