Photo by Natalia Blauth / Unsplash
The scene is a familiar one; I’m at an airport at 7am, waiting for a flight to Toronto, to begin a cross-country tour that heads west for 3 weeks. I’ve given myself ample time to comfortably check in, clear security, and grab myself a tea and pastry once I am through. I am showered, well-groomed, and alert. I know exactly what gate my flight is leaving from and I’ve downloaded all the necessary podcasts and albums I will need for this 5-hour flight. In short, I’m locked, loaded, and ready to rock n roll.
Six years ago, this scene would’ve looked quite a bit different. I would’ve arrived at the airport shortly before the flight was scheduled to take off. I would be so hungover that I would have to take at least 3 benzodiazepines just to even out enough to be functional and stave off the panic attacks. My head would be foggy and I would morph into “sad boy,” a self-absorbed, self-entitled prick, complaining about his seat on the aircraft and passive aggressively inquiring to the tour manager about what kind of hotel rooms I was being put in. I would likely have headed straight to the airport bar after an 8/10 anxiety event while going through security, (did I actually throw those baggies out last night or was that a dream?) and had the bartender pour me a stiffener to start my day of travel off in style. I would then likely grunt some half-assed pleasantries to the other band members and crew and immediately throw on some headphones, listening to droney, sad-boy music for the next 6 hours. I would’ve drank on the plane until I passed out and then woke up at the destination even shittier and more hungover than before.
Rinse, Repeat…
For fifteen goddamned years.
In my experience, there is no such thing as resilience when you are a mentally unwell, alcoholic drug addict, professional musician trying to tour and make a living. You are so caught up in your own narrative and your own self-righteousness about how things should go and how much you deserve the success you are achieving. And you want more, goddammit. And why shouldn’t you have more? The sacrifices you’ve made to live this life are vast and good things come to those that work hard and stay the course, right? Things are going great until you get to New York and have the mother of all alcohol-induced panic attacks and have to fly home, tail between your legs, leaving the rest of your band in a lurch.
But it’s not just New York that does this to you. It can be Moose Jaw or Halifax or Berlin or Hangzhou or Cork or South Bend. You are a flame that is destined to burn out like this every time because of what your brain is doing and what you are doing to your brain to cause this. And the pattern repeats itself…
For fifteen goddamned years.
Wake up. You get sober, go through hideous withdrawals and end up at psych emergency because you can’t control your own thoughts. You go to the meetings, the therapy and you pick yourself up, for your family and for you.
Make the changes today to give yourself a nicer tomorrow.And then you go back on tour again. But things are much different this time. In what way are they different, you might ask? Well, you have been through the ultimate humiliation exercise, that is getting sober. It feels like walking around as Richard Simmons dressed in that turkey costume on Late Night, while Letterman chased him around with a fire extinguisher. But all day, every day.
It is not just removing the substance. It is facing who you really are; shit, warts and all. Confronting that person, soothing that person, taking responsibility for the mess, and starting over. From scratch.
And now you have built a resilience that few people understand but almost all of them wholly admire. An inner strength that is envied by most, and an unshakeable sense of self that runs deeper than deep. You are still fucked up and scarred, but you wear it with pride. And you see through the fakes, the wannabes, and the assholes. You view the world with a sort of x-ray vision, which is both a blessing and a curse at times.
You are kinder to your bandmates, venue employees, and flight attendants. You ask the hotel concierges how their day is going and thank them for the help. You wake up in a new city, walk around, and go to the Japanese restaurant you thoroughly Google-researched the previous evening in your hotel bed. You enjoy every bite.
And you still get anxious, weary, and homesick. But you take your medication, and you meditate on the concept of impermanence – that everything is ever changing, always, forever. And you know you will be back home with your family in time, so it’s best to enjoy the present moment and the thrill of being onstage and the gift of being able to do so.
And through these actions and practices you grow. And you become more hirable because you show up in tune and on time. You’re not an asshole to be around and you think and consider other people’s feelings and opinions before you speak. You are grateful for every opportunity that comes your way and people feel that.
You still occasionally work with other assholes though, and that’s part of the job. But you understand their asshole-ness, to some extent. You can see the origins, and you talk to them about it and you get to know them. And maybe you coax them out of their asshole-ness a bit, and maybe not. But you keep your distance out of self-preservation while also remaining warm and approachable. The great Robin Williams once said, “Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be Kind. Always.” And it becomes the mantra.
There are others out there who are touring sober that this essay will resonate with. But I think this applies to more than just touring. If we don’t have resilience, we can never truly be present. Life is a very sweet fruit, but it can be a real jerk sometimes, too – take it from the sober folks. Make the changes today to give yourself a nicer tomorrow. Like Uncle Eddie says in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation after Clark receives that fucked jellybean subscription for his bonus, “Clarke, that’s the gift that keeps on giving the whole year.”
Lucas R. Please send your 1st Person story to phoenix@thephoenixspirit.com.
