Grown-Up Magic

"I want you to think of me sitting and singing beside youI wish we could meet all the people behind us in lineThe climb to the crest is less frightening with someone to clutch youBut isn't it nice when we're all afraid at the same time..."—AFP

When I was 15 my family moved into a new house, in the midst of my adolescent breakdown. We didn’t have furniture for a long time, and I didn’t have many friends I could count on in the days before driving and texting. So I spent all my time alone on the floor of my empty bedroom, playing solitaire, listening to CDs, and finding other freaks on message boards who liked the same bands. I spent so many hours alone with the Dresden Dolls. The Distillers. AFI. Rancid. The World/Inferno Friendship Society. Anti-Flag. The Cure. There were other bands, too, and each one came accompanied with its own brand of weirdos around the world—kids like me who didn’t know what to do or who to talk to about the too-big feelings, the abuse, the fear, the mania and bleakness of life in the suburbs. I read a lot, and that helped. But mostly I talked to strangers in late-night message boards.

Before Instagram and Patreon, there were email lists and fan club “rooms" where I’d spend my nights interpreting lyrics, sharing drawings, planning this big life I knew was waiting for me. Always with the soundtrack of my favorite punk bands and a dozen or two kids in other bedrooms and basements around the world. It was my family, and it saved me from countless unspeakable crimes.

That was half a life ago. At 30, I still feel those songs and conversations as deeply as I imagine some feel ancestral bonds, first loves, memories of warm Christmases. Those kids and I raised ourselves with lyrics and sound and dreams of a place where we could all be together. Just to sit in the dark, and listen.

I know, now, that this was my introduction to social work. Those connections—deep, raw vulnerability amongst strangers, sharing visceral stories and questions and common curiosities, consuming art like water and pouring it back out in the form of advice, comfort, a container for another person’s heart. This is how I grew up and how I learned to love people. This is what made me realize that art matters and individuals matter and... eventually, that I matter.

At school I was too-smart, too-morbid, too-boyish, too-weird. In my alternate life, I was accepted, listened to, cared about, heard. And I made it my mission to make others feel the same. No matter what. I learned how to be a therapist, a healer, and a friend.

Those message boards faded away years ago, but I think about those friends all the time. And when an artist that held me, back then, resurfaces with a new project, I honor it as fiercely as I did in my youth. And I listen with eyes closed and remember.

Amanda Palmer is one of those artists who raised me and whose brilliance seems to expand each year. Because of Amanda's early work with the Dresden Dolls, I dressed how I wanted to, I acknowledged my mental illnesses, and what to do about them, and I developed a sense of self that has sustained me to this day. Amanda, her supporters, and our community taught me most of what I practice today in my work with people. Before I knew what “feminine empowerment” was, I was walking in it. Black and white stripes, lipstick snarl, and all. “Girl Anachronism” was my anthem. I learned to laugh. And more importantly, to encourage others to see and be themselves.

To say that There Will Be No Intermission is the album I’ve been waiting for would be an understatement. Amanda seems to have read all 300 of my childhood diaries and love letters to strangers, and turned them to poetic gold and added piano maybe just to make me see how beautiful it all really is. This is the album this whole country needs. And it’s for me, and you, and all of our childhood selves and future potentials and lost loves and dead relatives and all the babies we’ve given up and dreamed of maybe having and all the fear we hide away and joy we know is possible. I listened to this album through twice back-to-back and never stopped crying. I seem to have permanent goosebumps now.

My nightly pseudo-therapy sessions have alchemized over time, and I've been gifted with the rewards of incredible connections, client success, and frequent serendipitous bouts of pure magic. Most recently, my teenage reveries materialized.

I had the privilege of attending one of Amanda Palmer’s intimate listening parties this March, where she and a handful of people sat together in a beautiful space with wine and tissues and listened to the new album in its entirety. The event alone meant so much more than I can express (though I still long for those long-distance connections, so message me), but there’s more. In all these years, even living a few towns apart from Amanda and her husband, Neil Gaiman (who incidentally, but not insignificantly was one of the most beloved authors of my youth. I used Coraline to do deep, immensely healing internal work with my therapist for three beautiful years.), I’ve never met either of them. So it seemed like divine intervention that when I RSVP’d to the album listening party in my area, Amanda herself sent me a private message asking me to do Reiki at the event.

She couldn’t possibly know that Reiki is one of the precious skills I’ve honed over the years in attempt to give back as she has—to connect, contribute and heal my community. As a Holistic Therapist, Social Worker, and Reiki Master, I’ve transformed my endless hunger for connection and compassionate service into an art form that makes a difference for women every day, the way I know how.

It’s a simple practice, but it’s everything to me. When I can make a client’s day just by holding a space for her to be heard, or direct healing energy through her body, I feel the same way I did when I was 15, 16, 17, devoting my night to a girl my age in Russia, Australia, California, who had just been molested, a boy who had run away from home, a kid like me who needed someone to say, “It’s gonna be alright,” and, “Let me help you, just for now.” This work is my grown-up version of that.

This is all to say, I’m not like the glamorous Health Coaches I see on my feed everyday. I’m not even like the other 20- and 30-somethings in my city. I’m just like you. I crave art with meaning, songs with power and poems about the truth, and intimate moments with whoever is seeking an intimate moment. I know for sure that this is how we save the world.

We need more Amanda Palmers and more sacred spaces where we can sit and share. More than that, we need more people willing to listen.

Start with There Will Be No Intermission. I beg you to find a pair of headphones and a quiet room, or invite your neighbors over and listen together. It will bring you closer. It will certainly bring you to tears. And it will remind you that we’re all in this together. “It’s Just a Ride” is the anthem for my adult self. Actually, “Judy Blume” is... but since I’m feeling strong enough to be honest today, it’s really “Voicemail for Jill.” Even though it’s been “Bigger on the Inside” for years now. The point is, these songs matter. They’re about you, and me, and we matter.

At the listening party in Catskill, I met Amanda Palmer, but didn't attempt to convey what that moment meant. I provided Reiki healing, we all brought snacks and wine, the host made fresh bread from ancient grains, and a couple crafty women sewed together a patchwork kimono that we each signed. Amanda wore it all night. We played games to get to know each other and I made new friends I'll never forget. We sat together on pillows and blankets and listened to There Will Be No Intermission, from start to haunting finish. When it was over, a local gong player lulled us to sleep with Sound Healing that I felt in my bones and muscles and tired mind. The next morning I sat on the floor and comforted a young girl who was crying. She didn't want to go home.

I had no doubt that I'd cry while we listened to the album—together, in a beautiful dark room with an altar of white candles and massive wooden speakers—or that I’d feel almost exactly the same as I did as a teenager. But this time was different. I wasn't alone.

________

If you enjoyed this story and want to support the writer as she attempts to save the world, one lonely kid at a time, please consider leaving a tip using the button below. Spontaneous gifts to and from strangers are Kristina's favorite act of revolution. It matters. You matter. Thank you.