Metronome

The art of speaking is one that took me a long time to figure out. It’s like a dance; you have to pay attention to the rhythm and flow of the social world around you, while gracefully offering your own contribution in a way that perfectly glides with the rest of the circulating conversation. I went through a time in my life during which I felt I had so little energy to spend on maneuvering through social interactions that I neglected my relationships, and it was this experience that made me realize how much resilience it takes to do something so regular as maintain a relationship of any kind. I have never been a particularly good conversationalist, but as a chronically anxious overthinker, I had started trying to better navigate the rhythm of social situations. The beginning of my song starts with a metronome, representative of the cadence and tempo that I would desperately search for in every conversation I had, overanalyzing my next words and stumbling over my sentences. But I put myself out there, just like the part of the song with the people talking and music in the background; all signs that I was getting better with practice. I felt my growing confidence. Then, in my sophomore year of college I was sexually violated and all of my progress was put to a halt. It felt like all of my energy had been drained, I couldn’t keep my thoughts straight and my mind would wander into strange places. I cut everyone off; I hung up the phone and disconnected. I told everyone I couldn’t talk, or I was busy, or something like that. I got lost in my own anxious thoughts. The once comforting sound of the metronome that had guided me through social interactions became this convoluting and impossibly difficult pulse that mimicked the pounding of my heart. I gave up trying to maneuver through the social world, as the rhythm of any conversation blurred and blended together with my heartbeat in a deafening echo. I couldn’t concentrate, and naturally, all of my relationships became strained and distant. Of course, my friends and family would reach out, but I didn’t have the strength or energy to answer. Thus, just like in the song, I let the phone ring. And ring. And ring and ring and ring. Over time, I started healing. And in search of more support, I regained the will to connect with those around me. The monotonously beating sound of the metronome slowly faded as my mind became more clear once again, and my loved ones waited for me with open arms. I finally answered the phone and I was met with pure peace and bliss, reminiscent of the gentle melody that closes out the song. It had taken so long for me to learn to open up again, but it was this very act of reforming my relationships that gave me the support I needed to fully heal from what had happened to me. And with that, the metronome never came back. It was this experience that taught me that connecting with others doesn’t need to be some sort of complicated formula with so many elements to keep track of; connecting with others is just about being open and vulnerable, and supporting each other with love and patience. If I didn’t have the support system that I am lucky enough to be a part of, my healing process would have been so much more difficult to get through. And thus I learned how valuable our relationships are, and the importance of having the resilience to keep those connections alive