By T. Perry Bowers
My band had a bass player. One day, he said he needed a hiatus and wouldn’t be participating in any band activity for at least two months. We all have problems—I get it. My band is in a place where we don’t have any gigs lined up. We’re recording an album. I just finalized my divorce. It’s not like we were about to head out on the road opening for Queens of The Stone Age or anything. We were chillin’.
But after those two months passed, we got another text saying he was going to need until the end of the year. So, he was fired. If you can’t make room for music at least once a week, you don’t have time for music, and you obviously do not prioritize it in your life.
I hold no grudges. He made his choice. It’s all good. Best wishes to you, old bass player. Truly—rock on.
Not to toot my own horn here, but did I mention I just finalized my divorce? That was over two years of the worst emotional pain I have ever suffered. Did I take a hiatus? No. There were a couple of times when I canceled practice. I remember one time, before I had figured some things out, when I cut practice a little early so I could attend to my ex’s whims. Never will I do that again for anyone.
For the most part, I kept showing up. I kept strapping that guitar on and singing, even when I could barely sing through the tears. Many times, on my way to the rehearsal space, I didn’t want to go. I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. But I didn’t do that. I kept showing up. Just like I kept showing up to the gym. I kept working on my businesses. I kept shooting my bow. I kept going to the dojo.
I didn’t want to. It was like pulling my own teeth to show up for myself. It was painful. It sucked. But, there wasn’t a single session or class where I felt worse afterward. It’s therapy. It’s active. It takes will. All of these things are healing.
And I got better—a lot better. I earned my black belt in Aikido during that time. I made significant gains shooting my bow. I lost weight and gained muscle. I wrote some of the best music I have ever written, all while I didn’t see the purpose. None of it really seemed to matter.
Why do I need my black belt? I don’t even have a woman to defend. Why should I lose weight when the woman I love doesn’t even look at me anymore? Why should I hunt big deer? I can’t even impress my girl. Why should I write a love song? She will never even know it’s about her.
These thoughts kept playing in my mind. But something deeper was speaking at the same time. It kept saying, “It will all be worth it in the end. This is healing. You need this. This will make you whole again. This is the process. This is the way through, not avoiding anything. Keep doing the things that make you you.”
Every single time, I felt a little better. And here’s the other thing—everything I do, I do with my bros. Even if the bros are female, they’re my homies. They want what’s best for me. After band practice, my brother from another mother would sit down with me and listen to me whine and complain about my situation. He supported and loved me unconditionally. He made time for me because I kept showing up.
My sensei helped me through some dark emotions, not by commiserating, but by helping me distract my mind and do something constructive. He also let me whine and complain a bit.
My hunting buddies really showed up for me. I remember arriving at deer camp a couple of years ago, and I told a guy I didn’t know that well what I was going through. He said to me, “By the time you leave camp, we’re going to figure this out.” He didn’t understand the depth of my problems at the time, but that was the sentiment. My dudes were there for me because I showed up.
I started a second business during this time. And it has a lot of promise—a lot. It feels almost like a dream, but it happened during one of the most difficult times of my life. How did I do that? Just by showing up. Playing the game of life.
I didn’t drown myself in a bottle. I didn’t throw a big pity party. Trust me, I wanted to. For the first time in over twenty years, I considered sitting at a bar and getting shit-faced. How easy would it have been for me to find some relief there?
Again, I’m not trying to boast. I didn’t know it would work. It took two years to get to the other side of the pain. During that time, I truly understood why some guys just give up and end it. Long-term emotional pain is serious. It’s real. It’s not to be taken lightly.
Pain is also a gift. Think about the pain of lifting weights—it sucks, but it makes you stronger. Emotional pain works the same way if you process it properly. How did I process it? I just kept playing.
The hardest part was not knowing how long it would take. If I knew I could get through it in six months, it would have been easier (or three months, or even three years). But you don’t know. It all depends on the depth of your own delusions.
I had to face a lot of comforting lies about myself, about my ex, about women, about society. Once I faced those lies, I had to sit with them and bathe in the truth for a while. The truth stung. But the truth will eventually set you free.
I haven’t figured it all out by any means, but I know I’m through the worst of it. I know I’m never going back. Boy, was it painful. But I can see how all of the things I learned have made me exponentially more powerful in this realm.
My anxieties and my fears are my bitches. I’m in control now. All that pain is new muscle. It’s new strength. And I intend to use it to lift some heavy things that most people wouldn’t even think about picking up.
One last thing I’ll say: I’m a musician. Music is healing. I didn’t even realize that I had a healing modality right at my fingertips. My voice, my guitar, my ability to write songs—these were amazing gifts that helped me so powerfully I can’t quite put it into words.
Sometimes music brought me deep into the pain, and sometimes it lifted me out of it. I asked my therapist one time how he deals with anxiety and sadness, and he said that he plays music. Of course, that’s what I do, too. But what I didn’t realize was that it was working.
So that’s my motto: Never stop playing. Even when it’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do, it works. It sorts things out. It processes the pain. If you have a band, even better, because you’re with people. It’s good to be alone when you’re healing, but it’s not good to isolate. Hang with your boys. Play some music even when it hurts. Trust me—it gets better. And it gets better a lot faster with music.
