"Love yourself as much as you love Sleater-Kinney."
An actual sentence my friend/coworker, Grayson, said to me. I looked at him, wearing one of my many Sleater-Kinney shirts that I've become known for in our little art store nestled diagonal Third Man Records in Nashville. Love yourself as much as you love Sleater-Kinney.
October 20, 2019 I marched my little buckled biker boots into the Ryman Auditorium, setting off the alarm at the bag check due to the buckles. The security laughed it off, even shouting "belt buckles belt buckles!" at me as my sister and I stepped into my favorite venue. A stop at the bathroom first. (I have bathroom PTSD after a rough experience with a college suitemate, another story for another time.) My nerves bubbling up knowing that in about an hour I'd see the band that made my drives home so much more enjoyable and my lows much more bearable.
After a second bathroom break, (I promise to explain in the future) I walked in during Joseph Keckler's set. Supremely talented, and one of the only opening acts that will forever be burned into my memory in the absolute best way possible.
Bubbling bubbling bam! There they were. Lights flashing. I froze. I don't think my body was even moving. My eyes were agape as I mouthed the words to the music before me. I took no videos. Only a handful of photos. None of it felt real. The crowd was relatively stagnant, even from my seventh row view. My anxiety overtakes me in crowds, so I was relatively still and boring despite the power unfolding yards from me. I don't remember the song, but Corin sang a note and I noticed my body rolled. Almost as if the words were flowing out of me instead of her. My movement was so heavy yet ephemeral. In my head, I was emoting like Janis, when in reality I'm sure it was more like a badly reenacted Matrix scene in painful slow motion.
I left the show. Side-eyeing the tour buses wishing I had the confidence to stay back to say hello and thank them for putting on such a monumental show in my tiny, country city. I didn't stay. I walked my buckled boots through shallow puddles on my way to the parking garage and sat in the passenger seat, reliving what had just happened.
I say all of this to say, yes, I put way too much emphasis on my entertainment heroes and obsessions. I always have. I remember watching Hilary Duff DVDs constantly, thinking I was her. My version of her. A curly haired, gap toothed, chunky version of her.
I didn't realize until adulthood a big reason I had such a hard time loving myself as a child and making friends is because I didn't know myself. I steeped myself in so much pop culture that I really didn't know myself outside of that world. I could tell you all the "cool" places to go in New York or California, because my magazines and TV told me that's where they were. But I let friends walk over me because I didn't pick up on the signs of being used. I wore layered outfits to look like the gals I admired on the movies and TV shows I devoured. But I didn't realize that my friends were starting to get drunk and date while I was home with my parents watching movies. I wanted to be a ballerina. A singer. An actress. I convinced myself I'd be on Disney Channel. I never thought about my real future because I was fully convinced Disney Channel was my future. I also never thought I'd still be in Nashville by this time of my life. I also never thought I would be without the friends I grew up with.
This seeped into adulthood. I am more reality-based now, thankfully. I think my real life is more fulfilling than any Disney fantasy I had as a child, even though the friends have left and stress has entered. I still fulfilled some childhood dreams-- I finally got to visit Los Angeles. I was in a comedy troupe for a few months. I got to model dresses for a fashion show. -- They also manifested in traits that I developed unknowingly, like being painfully shy and nervous in a crowd but able to eloquently speak in front of a large crowd with absolutely no nerves. And for now seeing those negative signs in friends that I didn't pick up on as a child. There are parts of myself that I do love.
Yet, daily I feel like a failure. I see people achieving these dreams. So passionately expressing the gifts God gave them. It seeps from their pores, the most beautiful glow I have ever seen. If I could only touch it. If I could only bathe in that radiant light. I don't see myself as others see me, I don't reckon. I see all the ugly that stews inside. I feel every emotion so hard that I have to step back and think everything through before I let it out. (Yeah, good going Rachel, ya been ramblin' this whole time.) I see the plethora of mental illnesses that take turns double-dutching in my noggin. Rachel, you're fine! You don't show any signs of having that. Suppressing it for 24 years will do that.
I drew so many celebrities in art school. I was often having to explain why I did such a thing. Initially, I really didn't know why. I thought it was just easy access to photos. But no. I believe I was seeing traits in these people that I had but didn't know how to show, or traits that I desperately wanted. Drawing them made me feel closer to them, that goal, that talent. I wanted validation. I wanted to feel like someone outside of Tennessee saw me and really knew me. My family was supportive. I had a few encouraging friends. But someone in the entertainment industry?! Lordy lordy that must mean something! They could erase all the pain inside!
They can't.
But I can.
I look for so much love in those who will likely never know me. I will sing praises to those who could care less.
Even as a little girl, unassuming and running barefoot through the yard, I knew I was made for something more. I don't know what it is, yet. I think I know then realize I'm just acting on every feeling again. I'm trying to figure all this out one step at a time. I'll still spin my records. I'll still attend shows. I'll always be the girl with heart eyes when seeing someone she admires.
