My job is to live in the liminal spaces.
My job is to recognize the unique core of every person I meet.
My job is to merge life and death until they are indistinguishable.
My job is to lie down in city graveyards.
My job is to stare at the trees dancing in the late August wind.
My job is to close my eyes and recognize the infinite grasping and gulping for air.
My job is to watch the blades of grass caress the cut stone of the graves, to absorb the desperation and intention with which humans desire permanence.
My job is to find people who will build me up and create a clear space for work and play.
My job is to stay clear on what my job is.
My job is to find ways to do my job.
My job is to remain open to new channels.
My job is to break myself open, again and again, trusting that I will always be whole, even as I fall apart.
My job is to expect nothing and everything all at once, forever.
My job is to be human and allow others to witness me being human.
My job is to create spaces for people to feel safe being human in concert with one another.
My job is to ask questions.
My job is to be part of nature.
My job is to gently unfold the blocks inside of me, inquiring into what might lie behind, underneath, and between them.
My job is to look at my hands in wonder.
My job is to use my hands to create music, writing, dance, thus communicating in the most direct way I know how.
My job is to feel the earth holding me.
My job is to discern discomfort from endangerment.
My job is to cherish the creative connections, friendships, and relationships I have been gifted with.
My job is to lead with honesty and compassion.
My job is to remain present with the stuff that feels ambiguous, confusing, murky, muddy, in between, and fuzzy.
My job is to translate the immediacy of life and death into art.
My job is to hold hope.
My job is to feel the seasons change.
My job is to let go of “shoulds” and find what feels good.
My job is to decorate Easter Eggs with tiny broken treasures I’ve slowly and intentionally collected over the years.
My job is to listen to the small voices, and report back.
My job is to commune with souls while “performing” (sharing, broadcasting, communicating) music and spoken word on stages, in living rooms, and in headphones.
My job is to turn towards the truth of being alive in the chaos.
My job is knowing myself well enough to know when something in my life is dying.
My job is to hold hands.
My job is to dance, sweaty and joyful, among people I love.
My job is to recognize the the sadness and hurt in others, and to hold space for it without becoming it myself.
My job is to lean into sensation if it’s pleasurable, and say no to sensation if it’s unwanted.
My job is to surrender to the mystery.
My job is to shout my humanness from the tallest hill where somebody and nobody can hear me.
My job is to follow the softness.
My job is to pull up my socks and keep going.
Tag: healing from ptsd
the mess that remains
We are racing through a living room, on the north side of the house, unsure if this is a game or a real life-or-death situation. My sister has a box in her hands, and she is running from me. The box is plastic, with tiny compartments, each filled with a different type of colorful bead, and her hands are small. My hands are clenched into fists.
Anger billows up out of my armpits, my shoulders, my knees. I sprint faster, finally gaining on my younger sister, Maya, who, in a flash of inspiration, runs up the stairs.
NO. The hot pressure sticks to my ribs, threatening to detonate. A word blooms in my stomach, burrows up through my esophagus, presses against my tongue, digs deep into the crevices of my jaw. I’ve said this word so many times before, in thousands of ways. Sometimes it comes out soft, gentle, imploring, but other times it comes out fighting, harsh, urgent.
I see what is happening in slow motion. That’s not even the right way to describe it. It’s not slow motion. It’s focus. Detached focus. I see what is happening with a focus so clear, it’s as if I am a monk meditating in a Himalayan temple. I know I am about to scream. I know that it is going to be so loud that it will hurt my throat to do it. I know my sister will not be happy about it. I know I will do it anyway.
“MAYAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” I bellow.
Everything stops. She comes to an abrupt halt and looks back at me, full of genuine innocence and hurt. I stand breathing heavily. The anger dissipates. She comes down the stairs. She is deflated, I am deflated, the whole expansive moment is forever deflated.
All I know now is that my sister is sad.
And then it happens. I don’t want her sadness to be my fault. The blame is too much, the guilt overwhelming. I make a pact with myself, then and there, in the pregnant pause between the yelling and her response. I will never scream at my sister again. No matter how angry I get, how much pressure builds up in my body, I won’t let it escape again.
Ever.
I kept this pact for years, almost perfectly, not just with my sister, but with everyone else in my life.
Until the Ritz cracker incident.
The next time I let the word “no” escape from the surface of my skin was in a middle school cafeteria. I sat with my stomach pressed up against a round, dark brown, plastic lunch table. My legs fidgeted under the seat as I manically devoured a bag of Ritz crackers, butter and crumbs spreading thick over my fingertips and tongue. We were debating over which deodorant worked best to keep our sixth-grade sweaty armpits dry. You interrupted our discussion with a question: can I have a cracker? you asked.
I froze. I looked at my crackers. I looked at you.
I was still hungry, and realized suddenly that I didn’t want to give up a single one. Maybe I wanted to eat the rest after school, all by myself. Maybe I wanted to finish the entire roll, right now. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do with them, but it suddenly dawned on me that I could tell you no. That your request did not demand immediate obligation on my part.
I said no.
You were surprised, but surrendered.
Truly, before this moment, I had not considered the possibility that I could refuse a request. In my reality, a request from someone was like water. It filled up the space between us, swiftly and completely, flooding everything in its path. The space was immediately full, heavy and real, belonging solely to the requester. There was no room left for me to add anything of mine.
There was no room for my no.
Somewhere along the way, I decided that feeling guilt was more unpleasant than being violated. Somewhere along the way, I decided it was far better to disappoint myself than to disappoint somebody else. I could stand to internalize my own pain. I just couldn’t stand internalizing theirs.
Allowing myself to fade into the background felt easier than experiencing guilt, which inevitably led to Shame. The belief that I was bad and wrong permeated my body. It crushed me. By permitting the violation instead of the “no,” I successfully avoided Shame.
In my mind, I was a tiny dot and the other, whoever the other happened to be, was a huge sun. My job, as the miniscule dot, was to relentlessly and passionately throw energy in the sun’s direction so they would not burn out. My job was to make sure they were always taken care of. In my mind, I had signed a contract at birth stipulating that, no matter what the cost, I existed to make sure their light never went out.
I heeded that contract to the letter. I was a good rule follower. I was “good.”
My fear of being seen as “bad” always trumped the fear of hurting, or even of dying. And it certainly outweighed the fear of feeling uncomfortable in my own body. I avoided guilt at all costs. If it meant wounding myself in the process, so be it. Whatever it took, I avoided guilt.
In this way, I avoided shame.
In this way, I avoided learning how to listen to myself.
Until the Ritz cracker. This was a big deal. This was in direct violation of the contract I believed I was in with the Universe.
After I said my no, you looked taken aback. You asked, why won’t you give me one? I want all of them, I mumbled. You leaned your head back and raised your eyebrows in performative incredulity, making sure all of our friends saw how shocked and offended you were. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the scene was over. I kept my Ritz crackers. We were still friends. Everything seemed to be okay.
Except there, in the center of my chest, there was a sensation blooming. My chest was collapsing, as if a gigantic mudslide coursed down between my ribs, pulling bones, muscle, debris down into the abyss, threatening to take the rest of my body with it. My throat tightened into the size of a tiny coffee stirring straw, and my head felt thick with tension.
There was a reason I religiously avoided disappointing people. Although I had just committed a revolution by saying no, I still had to deal with the mess of guilt and shame that remained in my body.
There was no way to escape. My body would never let me.
an exploration of being wrong
I stand close to the speakers, in a swaying crowd. There are five men standing on-stage, each behind a shiny instrument, spread out in a leisurely semicircle.
They are wearing old shirts and singing sad songs. They look nice but they’ve probably raped somebody. They probably don’t even know it. That’s how “nice” they are.
The lead singer leans in close to the mic and introduces a song. It is a letter to his mother. It starts sweetly. The guitar accompaniment gently rocks back and forth, weaving a lullaby for every member of the audience. He sings about putting his heart on the line and getting rejected, sings that his mother told him that “city women ain’t the same.” Nothing about the music implies that it is a violent song, or even a disturbing song. Nothing prepares me for what happens next.
Suddenly, he sings the stanza that turns my blood to ice:
“I wish I was home, ma,
where the blue grass is growin’
and the sweet country girls don’t complain.”
Where the girls don’t complain.
Where the girls don’t complain.
Where the girls don’t complain.
Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain. Where the girls don’t complain.
Where the girls don’t complain.
That line digs thousands of tiny sandspurs into my throat that stick and don’t let go. I freeze. I am trapped in the familiar “triggered” state that I’ve come to know so well after years of living with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
My body is no longer at ease, no longer dancing to the beat, no longer swaying, even. I am completely still. I do not have a body anymore, or, at least, I wish I didn’t have to have one.
I was once a girl who didn’t complain. I was hurt by men who didn’t want me to complain. I was raped by men who didn’t want me to complain. I was sexually assaulted by men who didn’t want me to complain. I continue to be consistently harassed by men who don’t want me to complain.
As the song warbles on, every inch of my body tenses actively against the music, the words, the well-meaning men on-stage, the cheering crowd, the lights, the sounds. My jaw is clenched as tight as it goes, teeth grinding against each other, tongue stiff in my mouth. My groin is tingling in a highly disturbing way and my shoulders are full of horrible potential energy that has nowhere to go, stuck in flight but ready to fight if necessary.
In a typical PTSD triggered state, my body can no longer tell the difference between this concert and being physically violated. They are one and the same. I feel a body on top of me, inside me, forcefully inserted years ago on a night when I didn’t complain. I feel a hand reaching down into my underwear during a bedtime story. I feel the shadow of a man looming over my sleeping body, stroking himself into my face. It is all real to me. I am getting raped all over again. I am being assaulted all over again. Except this time the man is on-stage and I am in the audience. He still has all the power. They all still have the power. I am powerless.
In a crowd of thousands, I am fully and completely alone. I am fully and completely trapped in this body, this betrayal, this attack. Because it is, of course, an attack.
Why has nobody noticed? My mother and my sister and all of the women around me clap and smile at the end of the song. I do not clap. I remain frozen in my spot, hands balled up into white-knuckled fists at my sides.
“Where the blue grass is growin,’
and the sweet country girls don’t complain.”
What is wrong with a woman complaining? The problem is, a woman complaining has the potential to actually stop men from getting what they want. A woman complaining grants her agency, power, autonomy. Space. Desire.
It may be a single line, but a single line is vitally important, and can be used for good. No language is neutral. “We shall overcome.” “I love you.” “Yes, we can.” These are single lines.
Why should this man, this group of men, be exempt from taking good care of the world?
When he sings that line, I feel the crushing weight of not complaining. I feel the sick, sick trick of internalizing every ounce of discomfort so no man ever has to experience any of it.
I am terrified. I am disappointed. I am angry. I am so angry.
My hands close into tight, fierce fists as the huge crowd around me claps and cheers. They clap and cheer. They gushingly approve his blatant disregard for a woman’s right to exist, to push back, to complain, to be her own autonomous being. Nobody cares that this song was written for a woman, for a mother. Nobody cares that he wrote this specific line from his mother’s perspective, from his mother’s own mouth.
These men can stand on-stage with enough privilege to carelessly contribute to society’s oppression and subjugation of women. They can because we let them. Why is this group of men allowed to subject us to their wills, their whims, their carelessness? Why have groups of men always been allowed to subject us to their carelessness?
I never want to open my hands. I don’t want to be exposed to the air. Even that feels far too violating. The crowd is cheering on my rapist. I am surrounded by enemies. I am my own enemy. I am trapped and there is no escape.
Hours after the concert, I am still frozen, throat tight, jaw clenched, torso braced against the world, against my mother’s hug, against the air, against my existence. On the walk back to the car, I gaze over the edge of a tall bridge and imagine myself throwing myself over the railing, intentional and final. How would I fall on the concrete below? Would I die or would I simply break my legs? I long to do it. I catch myself imagining suicide and feel ashamed, simultaneously wishing that somebody would notice, while also hoping that nobody will notice.
I try to get through. I try to act like myself around my family. I worry that I am causing them pain by talking like I’m made of cardboard. I try not to breathe too much. I try to stay as still as possible so that the anger and horror inside me don’t slip out. So nobody sees how terrified I am to exist.
How can I explain it? I am ashamed of my PTSD symptoms. I am ashamed of the strength of my reaction to a simple song lyric. I am ashamed that I spent the last part of the concert not enjoying myself. I didn’t “make the most of the moment.” I am ashamed of my body, of the way it veers away from every soft thing, from every breath.
I can get triggered at any moment. When I am triggered, my survival brain hijacks the rest of my body, seeing a threat and going into freeze mode. In this case, the threat was a man declaring that a woman who complains is undesirable, and therefore wrong. A woman who complains is hurtful. A woman who complains throws the balance off. A woman who complains makes herself known. She takes up her own space.
A woman who complains exists.
A woman who exists is wrong. I exist and I am wrong.
I am wrong.
I am wrong.
I am wrong.
the displacement of anger
We are running through a living room, on the north side of the house, unsure if this is a game or a real life-or-death situation. My sister has my bead container. It’s this plastic box with tiny compartments for each type of bead, and all of my treasures are inside it. THIS BOX CONTAINS EVERYTHING I VALUE IN THIS WORLD, AND I WAS ABOUT TO MAKE THE MOST EPIC NECKLACE EVER, AND THIS TINY 6-YEAR OLD IMP IS TRYING TO STEAL IT FOR HERSELF. The fucking nerve.
Anger billows up out of my armpits, my shoulders, my knees. I sprint faster, finally gaining on my younger sister, who, in a flash of inspiration, runs up the stairs.
NO. The hot pressure sticks to my ribs, threatening to detonate. A word blooms in my stomach, burrows up through my esophagus, gets under my tongue, digs deep into the crevices of my jaw. I’ve said this word so many times before, in thousands of ways. Sometimes it comes out soft, gentle, imploring, but other times it comes out fighting, harsh, terrifying.
I see what is happening in slow motion. That’s not even the right way to describe it. It’s not slow motion. It’s focus. Detached focus. I see what is happening with a focus so clear, it’s as if I am a monk meditating in a Himalayan temple. I know I am about to scream. I know that it is going to be so loud that it will hurt my throat to do it. I know my sister will not be happy about it. I know I will do it anyway.
“MAYAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” I bellow.
Everything stops. She stops running, I stand breathing heavily. The anger dissipates. She comes down the stairs, full of genuine innocence and hurt. She is deflated, I is deflated, the moment is forever deflated.
Now, the memory is blurry here. I’m not sure what happened to the bead container. Did she give it back to me? Did we string necklaces together? All I remember is that she was sad.
In that moment, I decided that I didn’t want to experience her sadness that way. I didn’t want it to be my fault. The blame was too much. So, I made a pact with myself. I would never scream at my sister again. No matter how angry I got, I wouldn’t let my anger escape from my body like that.
Ever.
I kept that pact for years, almost perfectly, not just with my sister, but with everyone else in my life.
Recently, I have been blaming young Siena. She was too weak for the world. She didn’t stand up for herself enough. She didn’t say no when she didn’t want something. She didn’t say, “give me that,” when she DID want something. She let people in. She exposed us to danger. She didn’t protect us. She was a coward, a phony, a pussy. My trauma was her fault. The abuse I experienced was her fault.
But, remembering this story made me realize something: the anger didn’t disappear. The “NO” never went away. It was simply displaced. I was always pushing back.
I wrote long journal entries about anger. I played angsty piano octaves on the piano as I performed Mozart, Chopin, and Debussy. I acted out angry characters in theater productions. I sang. I mimicked the faces of actors as I watched movies. I danced. I made myself heard. I made myself safe. I rejected the world in my own ways. My sensitivity gave me wings, won competitions, got me into small competitive circles. I was strong and took care of myself masterfully. I was a hero, a human, a warrior.
In fact, I’m now realizing that I have been counteracting the dominant figures in my life the WHOLE TIME. Maybe I wasn’t screaming at them directly, but I was sure as hell screaming in other ways.
I have always said every single thing I needed to say. I said these things loud enough for people to hear. I was never weak. I was never defeated. I knew exactly how to take care of myself. I was Queen of Myself. I was a fearless leader, a wise nurture, a great intelligence.
There was not a lack, but rather a redirection of strength.
This was always the plan. I was meant to be right here, right now, right as I am. I have never been anything different. I was never feeble, although for a long time I thought I was. I am simply learning where to place my anger.
fifteen years old
I am 15 years old. I have been having dreams about death. In my dreams, someone is holding me at sword point. I am locked in an embrace, 10 feet under water. I watch tiny kittens writhing on the floor. I feel the noose around my neck, the chair kicked out from under me, the pained eyes of my mother watching helplessly from the sidelines. A bullet lodges itself in my chest and I collapse into the sweet-smelling grass of my childhood backyard. I accept death. I feel nothing but relief.
we are the subject, not the object
I was.
I wanted.
I came.
I remember.
I felt.
I wanted.
I needed.
I conducted.
I made.
I wanted.
I knew.
I lived.
I was afraid.
I was listening.
I wanted to be free.
I came across myself many times over.
I remembered.
I felt myself forgetting.
I wanted to be good.
I needed everything.
I conducted ceremonies.
I climbed up, even as I dreaded falling off.
I made myself jump.
I wanted wholeness.
I knew I would always be leaving a version of myself behind.
I lived anyway.
the people want more
Onstage, we feel everything we are not supposed to feel in real life. Onstage, we sigh and gyrate our hips, using love to manipulate. Onstage, our worst memories are applauded. Onstage, we are unmasked. The shit-show of humanity is on display, and the people want more.
just got home
I just got home from performing on a radio show. My head hurts (for some reason I always get a splitting headache after performing), I’m craving chocolate cake, and I am so grateful for the cathartic experience performing offers me. Often, it’s the intimate shows that are the best: the ones with you and just a few other people in the room, people who really care about you and your music.
The studio was only a six minute drive from my house, located in an ancient, sprawling Rochester 1930s building, resplendent in old brick and numbered doors. Two women wearing eyeliner and jeans met us at Door 3. Their swaying hips sang of multicolored memories and Cleopatra-style voyages as they helped us haul our gear up to the second floor.
Once we arrived, we were welcomed with open arms by the outgoing female sound engineer, and given small bottles of water. We set up our instruments and amps while chatting with the three radio show producers. How many songs should we expect to play? Does this mic go into my amp, or directly into the board? How do you pronounce your last name?
Then, it was showtime. They asked us questions that I found challenging, but fun, to answer. Getting interviewed is such a skill, one I’m still honing.
Who would you collaborate with if you could?
-Brandi Carlille and Lianna La Havas.
Who has been an important teacher and mentor for you?
–Mr. Baker, my 4th grade teacher.
How much do you practice, and what’s your practice routine?
-I try to practice 4-6 days a week for at least 10 minutes. Keeping it doable for myself.
What’s your creative process for writing songs?
-For me, it’s a meditative practice. I usually write songs at night, when I’m tired and feeling a lot of feelings. Then I’ll collapse at the piano and just start playing and recording song ideas.
Then, we played. My collaborator was Kelly Izzo Shapiro, a singer-songwriter who I deeply respect. She and I have been building up our sound over the past year, developing trust and a unique musical style. We played Carol King, a few of our original songs, Alicia Keys, and Jill Scott. I railed on the keyboard, and she played guitar. A few of the songs were the best we’ve ever played them. We listened to each other, got in the flow of it, and never once fell out of “character:” two artists who are very good at what they do.
I love how much I can trust Kelly, and visa versa, while we’re performing together. The radio show producers sat, mesmerized, while we played, and clapped after every song. They were noticing all these lovely, specific things in our music, including how complementary our voices were for each other and how Kelly’s guitar sounded cyclical in one of her original songs.
I’ve done radio shows before, and each one has its own voice. The smell of the studio might be musty or clean or flowery. The questions might be brief or deep. The offer to play might be eager or casual. But the one thing they all share is: genuine care from the producers/hosts. So far, all I know is that’s how it is everywhere.
There were more questions, more music, and then it was over. We unplugged all the quarter inch cables, folded up our mic stands, put our instruments safely in their cases, and dragged it all back down to our cars. We said goodbye about 10 times, and thank you about 100, and then drove off in the rain to our separate houses to do our separate nighttime things.
I feel wrung out, like I am a sopping wet towel, and someone has twisted and squeezed me until the stream of water becomes light drops, and eventually ceases altogether. I feel like this after every performance. It’s an empty feeling, like I have nothing left in my body. There’s no words left, no smiles, no movements. It’s all in the music.
Back when I was in the throes of my PTSD symptoms (they’re still here, but now I have lots of tools to manage them), the emptiness after performing felt infinitely terrifying. I was convinced that, once I emptied out, I would never replenish my resources. I felt that I would be stuck in the wrung-out state forever. Now, though, I recognize this feeling as the mark of a true performance, one that I can stand behind and be proud of. I know that my resources will replenish, and that I will survive the catharsis. All I have to do is take care of myself. The body is a miraculous thing.
So is music.
The radio show tonight was a pearl, a moment. One of many, but truly all its own.
underwater
when you’re underwater suddenly, crushed under the relentless waves, too shocked and overpowered to find your way out.
breakfast
tiny hairs on the tomato stems are white in the morning light. basil leaves broad and satin, tilted towards the southern window. hot water poured over Earl Grey leaves, curled like seeds in a silver cradle. silky cow’s milk drops in, the whole fragrant mug waiting patiently on a table as the Bergamot and tannins infuse into the gently steaming mixture. peanut butter spread on store-bought english muffins (the homemade ones are long gone), melting into the doughy crags. tendrils of coffee-scented air waft across seedling tops, red armchair, rainbow beams of light from the crystal hanging in the window, laundry draped across the old metal rack, stacks of poetry books, cobwebs between the ceiling and the walls. breakfast has commenced.
Siena Facciolo 