Play Me I’m Sick

By Michelle Patterson

Sunday is the day that I clean: when I secure my ear-buds into my ears, put my iPod into shuffle mode to zone out the surroundings, and just focus on the tasks at hand. Dust bunnies be damned! Suddenly, a song begins and I feel nauseated. I just want to forget about cleaning and focus on how to get the room to stop spinning.

What made me buy this song in the first place? Even though enough time has passed from when it used to make me break down into sobs in front of the stereo to now, why do I think remembering it at all is a good idea? Maybe it was a pathetic and weak moment of nostalgia or an attempt to play the song again and again until all of the supposed bad meaning was erased and it became another excuse for my thumb to hit the Forward button. Or did I just need a song to zone out to on the bus ride to work?

Most times, I think it’s only simple forgetfulness. It’s fun to download songs from your past for a bit of a jolt of familiarity. You can look at the song title and take it at pure face value: “Oh! Haven’t heard this one in forever” or “I used to dance my ass off to this!” When you need music to jolt you out of the familiarity of a day-to-day routine, you become focused on variety. Then when it’s time to listen through the entire mix to check for the certain flow, the angst-ridden song will begin and a feeling of dread and sick will start to grow in the pit of your stomach like the aftermath of a junk food binge. You relive the horrible moment all over again.

A conflict arises between deleting the song all together or just admitting that, after all, it’s only a song and to inject what it meant in the past into it now is silly. In fact, aren’t you past the adolescent phase of every single thing—even something as insignificant as a song—needing to contain so much importance? You don’t need to create a scientific study with you as the sole lab mouse by playing it; you already know what sort of cheese will be at the end of the maze. And not only will it stink, it will make you vomit immediately.

So, I’ll address the first and most important question: If these “sick songs” were such a big deal, why don’t you remember them? Just like trauma victims, you make it a point to avoid the exact path of destruction. If you don’t avoid the exact path you took right before the accident happened, then you’ll relive that moment every single time your foot hits that crack in the sidewalk or when you pass that bus stop on the corner. Once the possibility of a flashback is removed, you can move forward. Naturally, after a serious break-up, all souvenirs, photos, CDs, and items of clothing have to be removed from your home in various ways. The souvenirs are destroyed; the photos are ripped; the CDs and clothing are deposited directly into the trash.

Now, I’ll deal with a second and even more significant question: What’s with all the drama? How can you seriously compare yourself to the victim of a violent crime? The bullets are Evan Dando’s guitar and he’s only just made you cry, not left you bleeding out on the sidewalk. Sure, you’re dealing with an upsetting and unpleasant experience, but you are alive, and life has gone on for you. A valid claim for others perhaps, but I am a pop culture fanatic. Movies, actors, rock stars, television series, and songs mean more to me than the average person. They define who I am and where I’ve been, so I have the right to feel on par with the victim of a drive-by shooting.

If I try the saturation method of letting the song play all the way through or even hitting the back button to have it repeat a few times, maybe I can stop feeling this feeling of menace for good. The next time I ride the bus, I let one of the “sick songs” play. My left thumb twitches, expecting me to use it to quickly skip to the next track. Immediately, I find myself in an anxiety wormhole. The horrible incident this song is linked to replays in my head.

Then, on my walk at lunchtime that day, I let another “sick song” play. Immediately, I am reminded of a different, yet equally horrifying moment and I instantly become sad. Throughout the next week, I let the same scenario repeat, but the intensity never fades. This saturation method isn’t working, much like the avoidance method. It is the same, no matter what: the memories are inescapable.

Which is the better choice? The chance for the song to elicit the awkward Pavlovian response of tears and nausea in front of strangers? Or forced musical lobotomy? Neither feels like a fair option to me. The real lesson I must learn is to never forget what horrible moments are forever linked to these particular songs.

Their significance won’t evaporate suddenly if I play them again and again or if I just avoid them for years. It’s a remarkable fact that a simple song can bring out feelings of such depth, especially after the people they’ve been attached to for so many years are now out of your life. The true test of good and viable pop culture is whether or not it withstands the test of time. If it’s forgettable, it’s worthless. If it’s unshakeable then it’s meaningful. That pain will always be there and that’s what makes these songs so powerful. Playing through the pain is worth it.