By Allan Day, LCMHCA – Counselor at Asheville Family Counseling
Killing Joke – one of my favorite bands – titled their first live album No Way Out But Forward Go. Grief has taught me the same lesson. Sometimes the way forward is simple, though not easy: return to the music, listen with intention, and archive what remains.
I open the box brimming with old cassette tapes. Most are clearly labeled with familiar, half-legible scribbles. Other tape shells remain blank, anonymous, and suspect. Not having looked at them in a while, they seem out of step with digital technology, yet their warm familiarity draws me in fully, as if through a time machine (music cue: “Set the Controls for The Heart of the Sun” by Pink Floyd). There are volumes of C60s and C90s, as if they were breeding while I wasn’t looking. My heart jumps at the possibility of unearthing, revisiting, editing, and digitizing for posterity.
Coming across one with a colorful title, I pop open the case, slide the plastic cartridge into the player, power up, and let it rip. My ears perk at the buzz of the cable hitting the output jack – sounds being born – then, the 007-inspired riff and finally, that voice, belting lyrics often written minutes before. The period when we recorded this, somewhere in the mid-1990s, was our most fertile as musical partners; where his phrasings and playful voices coupled with my guitar riffs and tonal tweakings took the music to another level. The groove is scintillating and our mostly unrehearsed harmonies on the chorus – ones we’d spun many times before – leave me dumbstruck. It occurs to me that there’s so much life in these recordings. I turn up the volume and am consumed with the breadth of our creative synthesis, swimming in the center of our music; anthems born by the unique intersection of two incongruous personalities. I catch myself smiling, laughing, and reveling in the magic we’ve managed to weave for over 30 years. Then it hits me.
He’s dead. This is never going to happen again.
As if on cue, I awkwardly slam the stop button and experience a cold surge through my torso; an emptiness racing toward my gut. I freeze. Then, I bawl. Again.
When we lose someone and something in our lives, it can feel arresting; we may struggle to catch our breath to make sense of it. At times, we may blame ourselves needlessly, hung up on the could-haves and would-haves, which can leave us in an endless and unproductive cycle of regret and shame. Sometimes, we may attempt to numb the pain in old ways that no longer work for us; coping mechanisms that feel outdated or misaligned with the person we’ve become. We may even question our own identity, spirituality, and mortality, quietly asking ourselves: Who am I now? Why did they leave? How do I move forward?
When people work with me, these questions can be explored softly, gently, and nonjudgmentally. We’ll sit with the pain and process it slowly in a way that feels right for that moment. If it’s appropriate, we’ll explore the bigger questions with curiosity, gentle acceptance, and integration of the entire experience. Everything matters. And when it feels too big to carry, naming the feelings may be enough. When ready, we’ll explore identity as it relates to the person they’ve become – not to forget who they were with their beloved – but to inform ways in which to best move forward. In doing so, we may explore what matters most so that their decisions are thoughtful and intentional.
And while it’s difficult to make sense of some loss – the regret of lost time and opportunity – we can explore the disquiet and unsettledness they may feel when it shows up as a sense that something isn’t right in their body. In the case of my friend, I’ve sometimes pondered thoughts like, Had he lived, what might our music sound like now? or How might our friendship have evolved? Indeed, those lost and fragmented parts of ourselves need attention, too.
Eventually, I return to the task of archiving our music, listening intently with new ears; ones that survived him, ones that have learned how to listen without necessarily welling up. On tape, laughter threads the track and I join in, possibly at the absurdity of coming full circle with my grief, possibly at the uneasiness of its truth. As I complete this task of revisiting and writing about it, I realize it’s been 10 years without him and 41 since our first recording. Though my life isn’t the same as when he was alive, it has shifted in dramatic ways. In doing the work – which doesn’t end – I can now hold both truths: wishing he was here to witness the person I’ve become, and having faith that he was with me as I earned my Masters and licensure, and especially present when I offer creative approaches in my work, something I’m certain he might have enjoyed had he found therapy.
The tape keeps playing. I’m just listening differently now.
Interested in Working With Allan?
If you’re finding that life sounds different after loss – quieter in some places, noisier in others – therapy can offer a space to listen with new ears. We can honor what was, tend to what hurts, and thoughtfully shape what comes next. Call or text 828-761-3149 to schedule a free 15-minute Exploratory Call, or click the link below to get started.
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