To Speaking My Truth: Opening Up & Learning an Old Hobby
Hi All,
Last post, I spoke about authenticity, vulnerability and being yourself in a poem. Today, I want to tell you about something that impacted me as a child and adult. I was really very scared to post this, because I thought people might find it insignificant or unreal, and that people would look down on me. Anyway, enough with the preamble, I decided to anyway, because words truly help me express myself and are therpeautic to me.
A little background: As a child, piano was my passion, because well, I grew up with a strong musical influence and this instrument gave me a voice, without speaking, just like writing. I played piano by taking lessons at a studio, and I competed and did pretty darn well.
For progressing quickly and being an awesome piano student, I never really wanted to miss my lessons. One day, in the 8th grade, I decided to ask my mom if I could have our piano teacher over for a lesson. I was 13; I could be home alone, and I was old enough to be home alone. The teacher, he was like a grand father and role model all in one, and I was always excited to learn from him.
Anyway, I fought with my mom to have him come over. She was hesitant leaving me alone. The piano teacher came over. I can remember that day as clear as today. I was wearing a blue shirt and jeans, and a little bit of water had dripped on my shirt, because I had just showered. Details, right?
I think you know where this is going, but it’s important for me to share this. Anyway, he came over around 1:30 pm in afternoon (not sure the exact time), and he first was looking at me uncomfortably, maybe cause my shirt was a little wet. The lesson went on and he sat next to me.
We played different tunes, like the ice cream man song (The Entertainer) , Fur Elise and some other Beethoven songs. The lesson went fine, but the story changed after the lesson.
After the lesson, he approached me, and he told me that I was an awesome student, who had improved so much. He asked me to sit on the couch next to him, and this elderly man started cuddling with me. I felt extremely uncomfortable. He entangled his hands in mine, as some sort of romantic approach. I didn’t know what was going on. All I knew was, it was wrong, and in my mind I was thinking I wouldn’t do that with my grandpa. My heart was racing.
After he was done cuddling with me on the couch, he then wanted to head out. I was feeling even more heightened anxiety. I didn’t even watch him leave, and I was heading upstairs to my room. I got half way up the stairs and he said: “It’s best not to tell anybody this happened.” He kissed my hand and he left.
Thank God those actions raised a red flag in me. I immediately told my parents what happened. My dad was furious. My mom blamed her self. It’s NOT her fault or mine. Needless to say, I never learned piano from him again. In fact, I stopped playing completely. Though this wasn’t a crazy sexual abuse or rape. This small experience, left an imprint on my 13 year old self that carried with me through life. I didn’t play the piano again after that.
Idon’t know why I never played again. Maybe because at 13, I didn’t feel confident with my bushy eyebrows, my lanky arms, my body that I felt fat in, and that boys never liked me. Maybe it was because this was my outlet and my happiness and in some small way it was taken away from me.
I had made peace with the situation, but years later he tried to reach out to me via Facebook when I was in college. I blocked him. His picture though, ignited all these emotions.
Anyway, cheers to sharing something about myself that none of you may know. Also, cheers to writing this out for myself. Also, I wrote this post to set the intention that I will play again next year and move past an experience that bought so much doubt and insecurity in a vulnerable age in my life.
