Gregory Alan Isakov and the journey to whole
Since I decided to get divorced last year I’ve rediscovered my love of live music. I had always been a concert girlie. I loved shows, and started going to concerts religiously as a teen. My friends and I had a favorite local band who we tried to see every one of their shows within a hundred mile radius. Those concerts morphed into raves as my love of electronic music, dance and a mildly dangerous experimental phase developed. As a young adult I fell in with another band, being friends with one of their closest friends, and went to show after show of theirs. Throughout the early years of my marriage my husband and I went to many concerts together too. But those concerts became his music, the artists he loved, who were often not what I would choose to listen to when I was alone.
We had wildly different tastes in music. Something he ridiculed me for repeatedly over the years. Something he threw like weapons once we began the process of separation. I began listening loudly to the music I liked, on repeat. He deemed me too old to listen to any artist younger than I was. He had things to say about any that were older as well. Something that we had once shared, became yet another dagger he tried to stab me with over and over again.
And so along with the divorce, began my solo concert series. Last summer, during his meteoric rise, I saw Noah Kahan for free, at Summerfest in Milwaukee from the front row. It was epic. I was handed free VIP passes. I stood at the edge of the stage. I sang along with the crowd to every song. I danced. I cried. And I wanted more.
I continued to go to concerts alone (and missed the 1975 due to illness in my house, something that I no longer feel quite as sad to have missed out on, ahem TSMWEL). This summer I have multiple shows on my calendar. But this time, I bought two tickets to every show I went to. Last year when I was buying the tickets, there was something in my head telling me maybe I would be dating by the time the shows came around. Maybe, just maybe there might be someone I wanted to take to some of them.
Here I am, the current timeline version of myself. Not dating. Not wanting to date. Not really. I’m lonely a lot of the time. Surrounded by my children and the ones who flood my home from our neighborhood, I’m never alone. But lonely, yes. I find myself digging into that loneliness frequently. Trying to name it, and understand it, in the same manner I’m doing with all heavy emotions on this journey I’m on.
I've been trying to redefine who I am. To find her again. To establish an identity outside of my children. A few months back, someone suggested that I didn’t know who I was outside of my role as a mother. And I was so offended. I thought to myself that of course a man would say that, because they could never, would never understand the role of mother. But lately I’ve realized, he was so very right. All of my joy, all of my happiness for years and years, was solely centered around my children. Because there was no joy anywhere else. There couldn’t be. There was no connection outside of them. And so they became my entire world. My whole identity.
I’ve realized it’s not the lack of a partner that makes me lonely. It's a lack of connection. The thing about spending decades in an abusive relationship, other than the obvious, is the isolation. It’s the covering for him. The making him seem as palatable and perfect as he presents himself to the outside world. He didn’t isolate me intentionally, but he did in small ways, like making it nearly impossible to leave him alone with the kids. I isolated myself as well. I never felt comfortable bringing anyone to our house. Not only was there always the risk of walking through the door to him in his underwear, but he was constantly high. His person, his space in our home, always reeking of weed. And when the people you want to befriend are new moms, the two don’t always mix.
I lost my best friend throughout the course of my marriage. First there was distance, with her moving to the opposite side of the country. But then there was him. When she came back to visit a few years ago, he and I had just had a horrendous fight. And so for the first time, I told someone the truth about what was happening in my marriage. Her response was that she always thought he wasn’t good enough for me (bitch why didn't you say something! Please for the love of all things holy, if you’re this friend, say something). Then she told me I had to leave. That what he was doing was abuse. That it wasn’t ok. She told me I had to tell my parents.
And so I did. And my mother told me how her heart broke thinking she was going to lose a son. She told me about times in her own marriage where she was unhappy and got through it. She had no idea what was actually happening inside the walls of my home. And so I stayed. But I felt so much shame around it. I couldn’t face my best friend anymore. She kept texting me and my responses got fewer and fewer. I couldn’t talk to her, knowing that she knew. She knew what he did, and she knew I stayed. I felt dirty. I felt wrong. And I drifted apart from my best friend.
When I decided to leave I texted her. And she sent me a card in the mail addressed to my maiden name. She sent me small texts of support, here and there. Encouraging me. But she’s no longer someone I can call and talk to for hours. I texted her recently saying we should call and catch up. And she told me to call anytime. I contemplated calling her last night, and cried thinking about it because I felt so nervous.
That connection, that deep friendship is what I’m lonely for. Not a sexual relationship, nor a romantic relationship. But that deep friendship that women often form that becomes closer than any marriage could ever be. I’m trying to rebuild friendships, I’m doing the work, but it’s slow, and it’s hard. And I struggle with asking for help. I struggle to even text friends and ask to make plans. I feel like a burden, and I’ve realized my marriage is what made me feel that way.
The first concert that I purchased a pair of tickets to came around last night. And three days before I had yet to ask a single person to come with me. Because it felt like I was asking too much. The concert was a trek from my home, and I didn’t want to force anyone into that. Even writing that sentence makes me realize how ridiculous that is. As if attending a concert for free, with transportation, with a friend, is a bad thing.
I asked one friend, two days before, if she could come. Obviously with the short notice, she couldn’t. I went back and forth in my head about going. I could use the excuse that I hate highway driving at night. I could use the excuse that gas and parking is too expensive. Walking to my car alone in a big city after the show could be dangerous. But I realized, all of those were my anxiety. They were shadows of his voice in my head, telling me I was pathetic for going to a show alone. Telling me I was ridiculous for taking a night to myself, sending my children off to their grandparents, that I wasn’t a good mom. Regardless of the fact that I’ve taken a night to myself maybe 3 times this entire year. His voice was making me small.
And I refuse to be small. So I did my hair and make up. I dropped them off at my parents house. And I got in the car and drove. I felt small on that drive. I felt like the definition of a loser. I wondered what exactly it was I thought I was doing. I even prayed to a god I’m not sure exists, asking to give me a sign that what I was doing was worth it.
My drive went perfectly, the weather and traffic seemingly working together to make my trek as smooth as possible. I parked across the street from the venue, there would be no worries about getting back to my car. I went in and decided to get in the merch line, hell the shirts were far cheaper than most concerts I attend and I’ve been desperately in need of some new t-shirts. I got to my seat just moments before the show started.
And when it started, it took my breath away.
Gregory Alan Isakov’s music can easily be described as haunting. Melancholy. Depressing even. He took to the stage, cloaked in darkness for the majority of it, and along with his band, gave the most beautiful performance that somehow filled me with joy. He sang the lonesome melodies, the violin played, and the crescendos filled the room with a cacophony of sound, yet I was filled with joy. Joy at being able to witness these artists perform up close. Joy at hearing songs I loved, in person, sounding every bit as beautiful, if not more, than their recorded versions. The only thing that could have made it better, was if the venue was something akin to Red Rocks in Colorado, as his music feels like it belongs outdoors. It feels like it belongs to the sparks from a campfire, with coyotes howling in the distance. It feels ethereal, it feels like something from a transformational cowboy film, where the lead loses the love interest at the end. And when he played Second Chances, I felt like I had my sign.
I was desperate to stand and move my body at the show. Something I’m not used to, is seated concerts. And I can wholeheartedly say I did not enjoy that part. I couldn’t comprehend how these people, who all paid a fair amount to be there, didn’t feel the songs in their bones, didn’t feel compelled to sway and sing the lyrics. When it came time for the encore, they finally stood and the relief that flooded into me was all encompassing. It was gasping for air after being underwater.
I left the concert smiling. I laughed on my way to my car. I managed not to worry on the drive most of the way home. I felt light, even when the music I had just experienced, felt anything but.
I have tickets for two more shows this summer, Noah Kahan being one of them again. My daughters are desperate to join me at that one, and here I am with only one extra ticket. I’ve been scouring the resale sites trying to find an additional ticket reasonably priced before the show so I can take them. Because even though I am trying to establish my identity outside of them, to reclaim it, so much of my identity is because of them, and I want to share moments of joy with them. I want them to experience the things I love, in the way I love them. I don’t want them to be my entire identity any longer, as there is so much more of me that has value, but I still want them present for many, many of them beautiful things I love. Because I am their mother, a role I cherish and put above all else, and that is also part of who I am on this journey.