My second year of college I lived off campus, close to downtown Bozeman with my best friend. We lived in an old house divided into 3 apartments. Ours was on the main floor and consisted of a small kitchen, one large bedroom and one tiny bedroom, a little bathroom with a crystal doorknob, and a miniature living room. After what happened back in Woodinville over the summer, my sister gave me a kitten to bring to Montana. Punkin was a light peachy color with long, soft fur. I called her ‘Punk’ for short, and I adored her. She was the exact same color as my friend’s dog. The four of us made the most of our cozy little space and I remember the feeling of warmth and safety when we were all there together.
I often stayed at my boyfriend’s house, ten blocks up the street. One night there was pounding at the door in the middle of the night. We went to the door and there stood a policeman with a flashlight. “Are you Mandy?” he asked. I was scared, thinking I was in trouble. “Yeah…?” Then he said, “You need to go home and be with your roommate. Her boyfriend committed suicide last night.” The hours that followed were a blur. I went home to my friend, and she told me about how the night had unfolded there in the apartment. I listened in horror as I realized that when I’d stopped at home earlier that evening, and the boyfriend had poked his head out of her bedroom door, she was in there, her hands bound with duck-tape, her mouth covered, and her body tied down so she couldn’t make a sound or move. All she wanted was to break up with him peacefully, and move on. She was done with the relationship, and he was not.
In the commotion of the night, the crystal doorknob had broken off the bathroom door, and we paid for it when we both moved out a month later. My friend discontinued her schooling and moved out of town. I moved in with my boyfriend, and shoved down the pain, the guilt and the rage I felt for what happened. I did not realize it at the time, but I felt responsible. I had a feeling and I didn’t intervene and I didn’t do anything. I didn’t say anything. All these years later, I can recall the moment the bedroom door opened and his startled face looked out. “Oh!” he said, and quickly shut the door. I was already loaded on a 6 pack of beer and at least a few tokes of weed, and still I thought, “Huh, that was really weird,” and after a pause, I continued on my way out. All these years later, I’m hit with a wash of sadness and grief for not having done, or said anything. This was becoming a pattern: 1. Being intoxicated. 2. Sensing that something is off, and 3. Deep shame.
In school, art was becoming a reprieve, especially studio art classes like ceramics, painting, and photography, where I could simply use my eyes and my hands and turn my focus inward. Graphic Design was my major and I struggled with the lower grades I received from my second year design teacher. He challenged me in a way I wasn’t used to. I experienced a humbling, and I look back now and see how much he cared. I wonder if he could smell the booze coming from my pores during those 3 hour studio classes when I showed up eager to learn but jaded with intense hangovers. Sometimes I smoked a little pot before class and I felt a sense of relief, followed by worry – thoughts rushing in like, “I shouldn’t have done that. Am I too high? Will my professor know? Will anyone know? Can I act normal like this? Am I normal?” I remember the design classroom vividly, with large smooth desks and daylight pouring through the big windows, revealing either a bright blue sky or snow falling endlessly outside in the winter months. A certain amount of creativity happened in the computer lab too, where four rows of four or five clunky desktop Macs decorated a small room centrally located in Haynes Hall. There was one printer and no windows. I felt anxious there, learning to use new technology and equipment, all the while trying to create something worthy of an A on the screen. I hated feeling stuck, and needing to ask for help. I was afraid I wouldn’t understand or remember, and then have to ask again and look stupid. I felt embarrassed and ashamed. I wanted to be able to do everything “right” the first time. I expected this of myself. These feelings of shame and anxiety had long ago grown roots within me, and something about being in the lab heightened the intensity. Part of me aches to go back to these learning spaces with my sober mind and clear and curious spirit. Still, I trust that the events of my life unfolded exactly as they needed to.
Sometime earlier in the year, my best friend invited me to go with her to see Ben Harper, who was performing at the MSU student union building. I made up an excuse, but the truth was I was too anxious to go, imagining myself surrounded by people, trying to move my body fluidly to the music, and in my mind – a perfect opportunity for judgment. Plus, no bar there – no access to liquid courage. I wish I had gone, knowing now that the feeling of joy overrides social anxiety when it comes to experiencing live music that I love. I did get to see Ani DiFranco live that year, and that was spirit shifting, even though I was wasted. At that concert I danced and sang, and sang and danced, with no cares in the world. It was liberating…until the next morning of course, when I couldn’t escape the hangover and dread in facing the rest of my day – let alone the rest of my life.
If you’ve ever experienced ecstatic dance, or any kind of dance that fills you with energy, emotion and delight, you’ll know that dancing and expressive movement heals. Fast forward 28 years – In the summer of 2025 at the end of my 200 hour yoga teacher training, I find myself on Klarity’s outdoor dance floor at Clearheart Sanctuary. She opens the gathering in a big circle with playful introductions. An intention is set for everyone to be here as we are, to move to the music in whatever way feels good. We are given the option to at any time step away for a walk in the garden or to rest in stillness on one of the cozy couches, or even right on the dance floor. There will be no judgement, we are all free to move and be however we are. When the music starts I sit on the edge of the dance floor and cry. I feel so nervous that I am vibrating inside. I am so afraid I will look stupid dancing. And then, I suppose because the pain of staying on the outside becomes greater than the risk of being made fun of, I am on my feet and moving, arms up in the air and swaying. And then jumping, stomping and spinning, eyes gently closed, feeling the energy swirling through my whole body as I move to the changing beats. When I open my eyes I catch others gazes and smiles, offering reassurance that all is well. I am safe here. And oh man, is this dancing EVER liberating. Since then, I’ve been to a handful of Klarity’s dances, and I now dance without fear, and without being loaded. I let myself be loose and wild and free, and I let myself be seen.
It’s been years since I’ve heard any music by Ben Harper. He’s been singing on my iphone since I started typing here, and I’m loving it. It’s amazing how so much of the music I’ve enjoyed in my life has settled into my timeline and stayed there. The more I heal and nurture my spirit, the more open I am to returning to the songs held in my past. While writing this story, some things have become more clear. In the event of my friend’s ex-boyfriend’s suicide, I experienced trauma for the second time that year, and processed it with no one. What I did was cloak myself in another layer of shame, and move on ahead, smoking pot and drinking to wash away my insecurity and confusion. I know it’s important to reflect on the painful parts of my past in words, and at this point, I have spent many years doing that in recovery meetings, with my therapist, and in my 12-step work with a sponsor. Equally important though – I must move the energy of my past experiences through my body. I must breathe into the tight, constricted spaces of my being, I must shake out the wounds, and hum through the shadows. I must stretch and allow the physical parts of my body – my bones, muscles and tendons, my skin and veins, the cells of my physical existence, to feel fully alive. I must allow the life force energy to move through my hands to make art, and I must let myself dance. I must feel to heal, and I must do this every day of my life!
Thank you for taking the time to be witness to my story. I appreciate you coming along with me on this journey of reflection and exploration. My hope in sharing my truth is to open up a healing space for you and others.
It is quite a gift to share the load of this kind of work. Perhaps we start with yoga and art!
