From the Archives: A Girl Who Gave Up Her Dreams At Twenty Years Old

From the Archives: A Girl Who Gave Up Her Dreams At Twenty Years Old

A Girl Who Gave Up Her Dreams At Twenty Years Old

An Essay by Tiffany Rose

             Music was it for me. I wanted nothing else, well, that was until I turned 20 years old. I gave up the one thing that brought me more joy and life than anything else in the entire world. For someone who prides herself in finishing everything to the best of their ability, this is more than uncomfortable for me to admit, however if I fill these empty pages with verbs to express my frustration towards myself, maybe, just maybe I can ignite the fire within me that I once held as a teenage girl.

             Before college, I was confident in my musical abilities. In high school, I was one of the best singers at my school, but when I came to college the reality of having a career in the music industry hit me. I never thought it would be easy to get into the profession, but I also never thought that my mental illness would get in the way and ultimately end my stride of pursuing a music career. 

            Today, I rarely play my piano or ukulele and the most hurtful thing for me is, I rarely sing. Singing was my escape; I can remember rushing home from school just to blare music in my room and sing along with my favorite music, now I’m lucky if I do that once a month. Whether this is due to me not having privacy or because my depression has turned me into a pile of bed bound goo, I am not sure.  Ever so often, I get very inspired, I sit at my keyboard and sing – well I start to, but my self confidence has hit a low that I never thought possible and I immediately doubt my abilities which drives me back to my room to stare mindlessly at a Netflix show. 

            My high school self would never imagine me not singing often and playing piano often; that would be so unnatural. Music was my therapy, literally. When I was having anxiety problems, when I was suicidal, when I felt unloved by everyone, I sang or wrote lyrics, but now singing brings me more sadness then almost anything, much of which is due to the absence of drive in my life to want to create music, but I only have myself to blame. I have let my depression grow over me so much that it is too foggy to see where my old, passionate self is. Where did I go? Where did I go?

          I hope I can read this letter over and over and some how get through to my head that this is something I love and if you love something, do it, and do it often. In fact, as I close out this letter, I have the urge to sing…I think I will…I’ll go sing.

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