1992 was my hardest year, definitely the one I wasn’t sure I’d survive but somehow did. When Fumbling Toward Ecstasy came out I couldn’t believe it, it felt like the exact right album for what I was going through. (I guess you have to be young to think your particular heartache is original.) When I went to the show in May I was in tears before she even came onstage. I should have expected it but didn’t, just like I didn’t expect to get all emotional reading this. You got me again, dammit. I’m so glad you made it through and that you’re you, and so grateful for anywhere and everywhere you borrowed hope along the way. You certainly give it back in spades 🤍
This is where I see myself in your writing not as you or with you, but connected because I have been in those same places of loneliness and fear and intimidation and where a singer songwriter helped me hold it together until I could let it all out.
You being unsure about how a song could be there for you and feel like it's a solo experience and yet knowing it's not. I have a deep love for Nanci Griffith, and John Prine, and Tracy Chapman, and Emmylou Harris, and Mary Chapin Carpenter, and Ruthie Foster and Cheryl Wheeler and Dar Williams and . . . those early Indigo Girls songs before I came out when I had all the angst and no place to put it. But I'll never know how it is to be Texan. Or black. Or from a more dysfunctional family. Or from a more loving family. Or to believe in Jesus. Or . . . But I know pain and love and friendship. I know how words can take you from sitting at a screen checking email to finding an essay from Lauren Hough and knowing the day was going to be a good one. Whether the essay makes me feel that I am with you, can feel you, get it, or don't, your writing is the same to me as those songs. Means as much. I'm damn grateful to hear a new one.
Way to make me go into work with red-rimmed eyes this morning, dude. I didn't have crying in the car outside the factory on my bingo card for this month. 1996 was The Year for me, too. I was 15. It was the year everything changed. The reason I am finally almost 30 years later thinking of starting therapy so I can learn how to talk about it and maybe stop having it run my fucking life. In 1996 Sarah McLauchlan, Cowboy Junkies, REM, Natalie Merchant & Tracy Chapman were a huge part of accessing my emotions when I had shut down. I am so glad you got to see the concert. And I deeply appreciate the way you share yourself with us and in doing so help me better understand my own history in a way that is kinder to my young self than I might be otherwise.
Wish I understood pain better, or maybe if I really wished it, I would. Anyways, years ago at a Paul Simon concert, he sings Bridge Over Troubled Water and suddenly everyone, everyone is weeping. What the hell? Everybody? What is that? This whole room full of people is hanging on by their fingernails? Maybe we are all borrowing hope and looking back we realize what it costs us, and that we'll make it through. Thanks for this beautiful essay.
I love your writing so goddamn much, I want to share this with so many people- so they can feel your words too. I want your words to help them to know me better. But then I’m afraid to share with them cuz then they might know me better and then what? I want to send to my perfect young adult lesbian kid and tell her it’s going to be ok, add this lady to your reading list. And maybe listen to Sarah McLauchlan
I could have written this... "I want to share this with so many people- so they can feel your words too. I want your words to help them to know me better. But then I’m afraid to share with them cuz then they might know me better and then what". I might have to introduce my emo queer teen daughter to Sarah now that i think of it...
You deck me again. East coast here, but I was reading Cannery Row while you were there and borrowing my hope from Natalie Merchant, the Indigo Girls, Suzanne Vega, and once I found Ani, mainly Ani. Sometimes Michael Stipe. Definitely Sarah. Nothing takes you back like a song or a sound. Mourning doves and single prop planes flying over make me so lonely I can barely stand it.
Makes me hope for more music or writing or theater that can get past the fucking iron gates they put around kids. I was far too chicken to get out the bolt-cutters, back then.
That’s the truth. Kids fucking need art and music and theatre. It’s a goddamn tragedy to think of having survive without the art that helps it make sense.
This is beautiful, thank you. I went to that concert as well, here in San Diego. I looked around and saw a bunch of middle aged women and wondered what stories they had. Also, I wondered if that Cowboy Junkies CD you picked up was Black-eyed Man? That one got me through some shit.
I know who is in that picture with you. We were in school together at DLI. I went to her wedding. She was my closest friend until I rocked out of Arabic. Her name is Shannon. We went to see The Cowboy Junkies in SF.
I feel like my chest just cracked open. I’m so flooded with memories. I just. Fuck.
Holy shit we were at DLI at the same time?!!? Fuckin wild. I rocked out of Vietnamese then Russian so went to Keesler. That place was a fucking nightmare. Sergeants Day and his fucking student leader cult of budding psychopaths.
Oh that makes sense. Yeah she was a SRA then so must’ve been prior service. It’s funny I actually did kicked out later, but that place was so much more terrifying. It was just a fucked up place. The fucking pressure they put on us. Like it’s bad when the marines feel sorry for you.
Yeah. I kinda cracked. The officer in charge of the arabic school pulled me from class one day. In his office, he told me that he’d rather have an airman doing another job than a dead airman.
So they made me a tow truck driver and sent me to Saudi Arabia on tdy. Ironic.
This is really good. So good you managed to take me back to 1996, a year I've always avoided going back to because it was shit, without breaking down entirely. That's the year I managed to get re-addicted to heroine so soon after giving birth to my son that somebody I barely knew had to quietly drop off bottles and formula on my front porch to get me to realize I should probably just ... not be breastfeeding at least. I can be alone now, too, finally. And it's ok, he turned out good in spite of my shit.
Imho, you are the Joan Didion of your generation.
This is so good.
Your ability to distill and convey real shit is a level above anything else I’ve come across in a long time (and I read A LOT)
Thank you.
I really appreciate you saying it, though I can’t possibly believe it. Thank you!
1992 was my hardest year, definitely the one I wasn’t sure I’d survive but somehow did. When Fumbling Toward Ecstasy came out I couldn’t believe it, it felt like the exact right album for what I was going through. (I guess you have to be young to think your particular heartache is original.) When I went to the show in May I was in tears before she even came onstage. I should have expected it but didn’t, just like I didn’t expect to get all emotional reading this. You got me again, dammit. I’m so glad you made it through and that you’re you, and so grateful for anywhere and everywhere you borrowed hope along the way. You certainly give it back in spades 🤍
Yeah I did not expect to be floored. But it all came back. Of course it did.
(You do too. Truly. Thank you, Ally.)
"And these days, when I’m alone, I’m rarely lonely, and I tend to enjoy the silence." This is everything.
It really is.
FUUUUUUUUUCK this is so good.
This is where I see myself in your writing not as you or with you, but connected because I have been in those same places of loneliness and fear and intimidation and where a singer songwriter helped me hold it together until I could let it all out.
You being unsure about how a song could be there for you and feel like it's a solo experience and yet knowing it's not. I have a deep love for Nanci Griffith, and John Prine, and Tracy Chapman, and Emmylou Harris, and Mary Chapin Carpenter, and Ruthie Foster and Cheryl Wheeler and Dar Williams and . . . those early Indigo Girls songs before I came out when I had all the angst and no place to put it. But I'll never know how it is to be Texan. Or black. Or from a more dysfunctional family. Or from a more loving family. Or to believe in Jesus. Or . . . But I know pain and love and friendship. I know how words can take you from sitting at a screen checking email to finding an essay from Lauren Hough and knowing the day was going to be a good one. Whether the essay makes me feel that I am with you, can feel you, get it, or don't, your writing is the same to me as those songs. Means as much. I'm damn grateful to hear a new one.
Deeply grateful for you.
Thank you so much. This is so kind. Thank you.
Beautifully stated, Samantha. ..."Your writing is the same to me as those songs." yes.
Way to make me go into work with red-rimmed eyes this morning, dude. I didn't have crying in the car outside the factory on my bingo card for this month. 1996 was The Year for me, too. I was 15. It was the year everything changed. The reason I am finally almost 30 years later thinking of starting therapy so I can learn how to talk about it and maybe stop having it run my fucking life. In 1996 Sarah McLauchlan, Cowboy Junkies, REM, Natalie Merchant & Tracy Chapman were a huge part of accessing my emotions when I had shut down. I am so glad you got to see the concert. And I deeply appreciate the way you share yourself with us and in doing so help me better understand my own history in a way that is kinder to my young self than I might be otherwise.
We were just kids, Tov. Don’t hold it against yourself.
Trying.
Wish I understood pain better, or maybe if I really wished it, I would. Anyways, years ago at a Paul Simon concert, he sings Bridge Over Troubled Water and suddenly everyone, everyone is weeping. What the hell? Everybody? What is that? This whole room full of people is hanging on by their fingernails? Maybe we are all borrowing hope and looking back we realize what it costs us, and that we'll make it through. Thanks for this beautiful essay.
I love your writing so goddamn much, I want to share this with so many people- so they can feel your words too. I want your words to help them to know me better. But then I’m afraid to share with them cuz then they might know me better and then what? I want to send to my perfect young adult lesbian kid and tell her it’s going to be ok, add this lady to your reading list. And maybe listen to Sarah McLauchlan
It’s scary. It’s weird that I’ll write what I’d never say aloud.
I could have written this... "I want to share this with so many people- so they can feel your words too. I want your words to help them to know me better. But then I’m afraid to share with them cuz then they might know me better and then what". I might have to introduce my emo queer teen daughter to Sarah now that i think of it...
You deck me again. East coast here, but I was reading Cannery Row while you were there and borrowing my hope from Natalie Merchant, the Indigo Girls, Suzanne Vega, and once I found Ani, mainly Ani. Sometimes Michael Stipe. Definitely Sarah. Nothing takes you back like a song or a sound. Mourning doves and single prop planes flying over make me so lonely I can barely stand it.
I know the feeling. ❤️
"the songs that helped me survive the shit I didn’t think I could"
So much this. That entire album saved me, sometimes from myself.
Thanks for this one Lauren. It's fucking brilliant.
Thank you!
Damn you are good at this.
Makes me hope for more music or writing or theater that can get past the fucking iron gates they put around kids. I was far too chicken to get out the bolt-cutters, back then.
Keep it up; this helps people, man.
That’s the truth. Kids fucking need art and music and theatre. It’s a goddamn tragedy to think of having survive without the art that helps it make sense.
This is beautiful, thank you. I went to that concert as well, here in San Diego. I looked around and saw a bunch of middle aged women and wondered what stories they had. Also, I wondered if that Cowboy Junkies CD you picked up was Black-eyed Man? That one got me through some shit.
Found that one later. It was Lay it Down
Oh yeahhhh. That one’s a different vibe, but also good.
Hi Lauren I was with you every word of this and loved reading and how it felt to read it. x, your friend kv
Kathy, thank you! We need to get on that thing now that I have some breathing room!
Her first album, Vox, consumed me and kept me sane. I was a fan thereafter. <3 love you lots.
This is beautiful. Thank you
Thank you!
I know who is in that picture with you. We were in school together at DLI. I went to her wedding. She was my closest friend until I rocked out of Arabic. Her name is Shannon. We went to see The Cowboy Junkies in SF.
I feel like my chest just cracked open. I’m so flooded with memories. I just. Fuck.
Wow.
Holy shit we were at DLI at the same time?!!? Fuckin wild. I rocked out of Vietnamese then Russian so went to Keesler. That place was a fucking nightmare. Sergeants Day and his fucking student leader cult of budding psychopaths.
No, I was there in 1994. January to June. It was so hard being a baby dyke there. Fucking Sgt Day. Jesus Christ.
I misspoke in an earlier post. Shannon and I were close through 1996 or so. I would drive down to DLI from Travis to visit her.
You write so well about what it was like. Something that has been shut down in me has opened up for the first time in almost 30 years.
I can’t thank you enough for writing the things that you do. I feel seen.
Oh that makes sense. Yeah she was a SRA then so must’ve been prior service. It’s funny I actually did kicked out later, but that place was so much more terrifying. It was just a fucked up place. The fucking pressure they put on us. Like it’s bad when the marines feel sorry for you.
Thanks. I’m glad you did too.
Yeah. I kinda cracked. The officer in charge of the arabic school pulled me from class one day. In his office, he told me that he’d rather have an airman doing another job than a dead airman.
So they made me a tow truck driver and sent me to Saudi Arabia on tdy. Ironic.
What a rare thing at DLI. Someone who gave a shit. I’m glad you made it out.
I can’t believe you went there too. I mean, I do. I’m so overwhelmed seeing that picture.
I was only there for six months. They were some of the worst months of my life.
This is really good. So good you managed to take me back to 1996, a year I've always avoided going back to because it was shit, without breaking down entirely. That's the year I managed to get re-addicted to heroine so soon after giving birth to my son that somebody I barely knew had to quietly drop off bottles and formula on my front porch to get me to realize I should probably just ... not be breastfeeding at least. I can be alone now, too, finally. And it's ok, he turned out good in spite of my shit.