OverFlow: On Not Belonging
Belonging can be a great feeling, but stay in one place long enough, and you’ll very often notice a lack of surprises.
OverFlow is what happens when I overthink, overflow, and over-everything. When my feelings have nowhere to go, I write about them.
Full disclosure: This is something I wrote on January 16, 2017, at a point in time when I was in between everything. I’m feeling similar these days, but not really—I feel like I’m all over the place, and sometimes, in between things I should be focusing on more than how I feel.
It’s been almost half a year since I’ve written a (not so) tiny letter. In the time that’s passed between the last one and this one, I’ve lost: the best job I’ve ever had, a person who was like a second father to me, and any sort of hope that I can still survive and maintain my physical and mental health in this country. But my letter is not about any of those things.
It’s about something else I’ve lost this year, something I don’t like talking about—in person or otherwise—because it feels so terribly self-serving and selfish to even bring it up, even though I know that the root of this all is not. So: half a year of silence.
Every person has a story they repeat in different forms throughout their life.
It contextualizes the very fabric of their being. I won’t go into this much because, again, it’s not what this letter is about—but if you sit quietly for a bit and think about your life and how it’s been going so far, you will probably notice a pattern or two. Maybe you’re always second best. Maybe you’re always late to the party, but also the life of the party when you get there. Maybe you’re always afraid that the good things in your life won’t last. Maybe you’re just (hashtag) blessed (hashtag) all the time.
My repeating story is that I don’t truly belong—to anything, anywhere, even (with) anyone. My closest, strongest, and longest one-on-one relationships are all either comfortably explosive—in that fights are expected and almost necessary for smooth sailing—or functional, mostly because of an ocean or two’s worth of physical distance. In group settings, the story’s hold on me is magnified. I don’t have a group of school friends I’m still close to, much less in touch with—that goes for grade school, high school, and college. I went to a vaunted national songwriting camp and made a few friends, but for the most part, I spent my five days there tipsy and chain-smoking to hide my debilitating anxiety—as a result, I am one of the more forgettable alumnae of my batch.
Before people I know rush to message me or comfort me: I know that there are (many) exceptions. I know that I am loved and accepted. A repeating story doesn’t need to be repeated in every situation—if it happens enough times to warrant being called a pattern, it’s enough to sink beneath someone’s skin and lodge itself into someone’s heart. This brings me (finally) to what this letter is about: I lost that exhilarating, electrifying, fleeting feeling of belonging sometime last year.
It started before 2016—that blush of newness, that awesome feeling of being accepted and recognized as someone worth noticing.
You know the feeling: like you’re someone worth going out of one’s way to say hello to in a crowded room. I know it can be hard to tell because I don’t say much, but in my quiet way, I was radiant beyond measure. I was white hot with passion and meaning and drive. Then, misstep by small misstep, I started losing my way.
I’ve never been truly comfortable with going out a lot and networking, but my previous job demanded that of me, and both my professional and creative life blossomed because of that forced change. From a bedroom musician with an audience of no actual people and one dog, I became just noteworthy enough to be included in a high-profile local compilation (which I will be thankful for forever) and to be able to play a high-profile gig or two. My first real show as APLM was at a pocket stage at Fete Dela Musique 2014, so I went from zero to over 9000—just like that.
And just like that, it became easier. It wasn’t who I was, but at the time, it didn’t feel that way. It became easier to accept gigs, and over time, I stopped throwing up before each set. I stopped needing to cover my face, needing to look down. I stopped needing to take off my glasses while I was performing so I wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the reality of having a live audience. I stopped needing a whole day to psych myself up for a 20-minute performance.
Then, the cavalry came.
All of a sudden, I had a DJ who went from being retired to being more active than I was. I had a brother band that accepted me as an adopted sister, and since then, they’ve hit warp speed with no signs of stopping. I had a manager who would go on to manage more than just two acts. I was—and still am—truly very happy that everything fell into place for everyone else. But while everyone was traveling at top speed, what seems to have been forgotten was the fact that I started as and still am a lowly foot soldier. I can’t move that fast. So that glorious feeling of belonging came and went, and here I am today, not quite sure where I stand in the general scheme of things.
Here’s what’s difficult: I don’t want them to slow down. I can’t go faster—well, I can, but not without a clear goal and a concrete deadline. But just because we have incompatible speeds doesn’t mean I hold it against them—and that’s not an easy concept to convey when I feel so strongly about figuratively being left behind. It is what it is. The way my emotions are put together because of what’s been happening is all on me. I feel bad only because the pattern’s proven itself again. I feel sad only because I thought, like I always think before the shit hits the fan, that it would be different this time. That’s my responsibility, and that’s not something anyone else needs to address. All I’m asking for is a bit of honesty.
If the gap between us is too wide to still have me in their periphery, I’d like to know.
A lifetime of not belonging has taught me more than a trick or two when it comes to sussing out my options. To quote a famous drag queen, "No tea, no shade, no pink lemonade." There is no subtext here and no room for misunderstandings.
These days the fruits of my free time come in the form of unfinished songs, some of which no one will ever hear. That’s something that’s always been true—the only difference is that during that flashpoint between 2014 and now, I had less than a dozen songs I kept from the world. Before that and now, again, there are too many to count. This is, I think, the real reason I wrote this letter: to tell you that I’m still here, singing my songs—you just can’t hear them. Yes, you. If you consider yourself a “fan” (the concept of me having fans is still something I can’t fully grasp, so yes, I will keep the quotation marks) or just someone who cares about my music, this is for you. If you just know that one song and are wondering what comes after “Love Like,” this is for you. And if this isn’t for you, I’m really sorry you had to find out after reading a wall of text. I’m singing anyway.
Some things to look forward to if, even after all of this, you are still part of that mythical, wondrous collective “you”: I did say “some of which,” which means that there are songs you will get to hear. Maybe soon, maybe not. Maybe with new and unexpected people involved.
Life is exciting when you’re an outsider.
That’s the missing piece of my repeating story that even I seem to forget about in the moment: that belonging can be a great feeling, but stay in one place long enough, and you’ll very often notice a lack of surprises.
Surprises can often be bad for someone like me. I don’t like change. But sometimes, if I really want it to be, surprises can be good.
Photo by Arun Anoop on Unsplash
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