From Moving Me, To Saving Me

I decided I would start sharing additional background information regarding the poems of the week as posts. It will not always be given in chronological order; I haven’t been getting my memories back in any particular order. I feel this will help keep much of the triggering content together, so those who cannot read on specific topics will be less likely to come across it accidentally.

So, Why can I confidently say one song, Feedback by La Roux feat Baby Tate, saved my life? Because of the perfect storm that threatened to not just drag me out to sea but take me under, though calling it a storm makes it sound like an unplanned happenstance of nature. Human hands very much influenced this. I will go over the lead-up as quickly as I can.

Feedback by La Roux featuring Baby Tate on Spotify

Last year, when I got back on my feet after a broken ankle, our landlady kicked us out of our home for nearly eight years without cause. So, I managed to find a new place, pack, and move with the aid of my mother in just one month. Yes, that mother, I unfortunately only have one.

My brother got married in the Bahamas in October, and I couldn’t go for various reasons, which was devastating. Not only did a hurricane hit while he was getting married, but one swept through the Caribbean and hit Florida, where I had family and friends not long after.

The song Feedback came out, and I started listening to it nonstop. I found it very comforting and inspiring to keep moving forward in my life regardless of how bad things seemed to be getting. Of course, It is not unusual for me to stim in this way, either.

My mother, always the one to “offer her help” with the intent of holding it over your head, possibly forever, planned a trip to Florida for hurricane relief, likely as soon as it blew through. Since she knew my husband felt massively guilty he had been unable to adequately help me pack to get us out of our previous place on time, she didn’t even bother asking me about dog and house-sitting for 20 days, risking a no. She went straight for the knife.

My parents’ house is in the woods, an hour and a half from where we live if there is no traffic, with nothing walking distance from it, unlike my home. I felt stranded, just like I had when I lived with them. I brought my service dog with me, but I was having meltdowns multiple times a day being stuck out there, even with my dad showing up on weekends to restock the house and take me anywhere I needed to go.

I was mad at my husband for agreeing to this on my behalf when I wouldn’t have decided to go anywhere for nearly a month myself. So we were arguing, and that made things worse. Something my mom picked up on and ran with in our conversations. Their house is a reasonably well-equipped cabin. I only needed to care for myself, my dog, and their three little dogs.

Instead of leaving me written instructions, which I really need, my mother gave me vague verbal directions about when I should use the fireplace stove versus the heaters. My knowledge of life with my parents, in general, took over. I barely used the heaters and exhausted myself trying to use the wood and fireplace.

Not only was trying to keep warm a constant, physically exhausting chore, but my parents’ dogs are completely untrained. Three little dogs that mess all over the house are disgusting and a massive waste of my energy cleaning up after them.

Despite the quiet and “relative ease,” I couldn’t shake the constant panic. After a couple of days, I noticed that I was sleepwalking, and my parents have a steep, old, scary staircase, so I started playing Feedback all night. This helped; I didn’t seem to be going down the stairs anymore.

The song had come out right before I left to stay there and quickly became my primary form of stimming1. I was still not aware of my autism and was masking even when I was alone much of the time and always trying to eliminate the traits people found undesirable completely.

I had recently started an Instagram for my reselling, and it was going okay. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to distract the horrible memories trying to rise in my mind. So I started writing. I had already been writing when I got back a memory, though, at that point, they weren’t that frequent yet.

I wrote several dozen pieces throughout those last couple of weeks. I wrote a lot and spent hours a day working on the Instagram I had just started for my reselling endeavors, though I was still in severe distress. I thought it was due to being away from my husband for so long. It isn’t good to be separated too much. The hubs was able to make it down and hang out with me during the second weekend, and that helped for a day or two, but the panic just kept rising. Until I had a meltdown on the phone with the hubs one day, and someone came to the door, banging and asking if I was okay like I was being attacked or something.

This terrified me. I may have been crying, but this person had to be near the house to hear me. They kept asking to come inside; it was becoming a real-life nightmare. I became more agitated trying to make them go away until I started screaming at whatever stranger was on the other side of the door, insisting they should be let in just because I was crying inside a private residence. I screamed at them to leave; get off the property now!!! My mother almost immediately called me. Apparently, this was a neighbor she had sent to check on me. Why? I have no idea. “She was just worried about me, and I should be calmer and cooperate next time.” ?!?!?!?

That was red flag, last straw number one. Her calling after the hubs visited me the next time, “worried about me.” She “just didn’t think things seemed right” with him “showing up suddenly and everything.” Because “Why would he need to be there?” Let’s see, he is my husband, and we have a healthy relationship; that is why I want to see him regularly. It wasn’t “showing up suddenly.” I knew he was on his way, and it took him two hours to get there. That was red flag, last straw number two.

I started rummaging through closets, looking through cabinets, checking boxes. I was searching for something, and I had no idea what. The lyrics in the song:

“I been keeping on the gas when I break downI’m in here, running laps when it rains nowBut I can’t find relief, gotta lean back.”

Ringing in my heart and ears. Until I would get tired and turn Feedback on repeat while the show Blockbuster played in the background and try to ignore the creeping terror behind my eyes. Writing became a great way to use up my brain power so I didn’t just get dumped into the ocean of grief while I was all alone.

When the day finally came that I could leave, I was ecstatic; the hubs came and got me. I put the sheets I had been sleeping in through the wash, did my last few dishes, and escaped like a Bat out of Hell. The next day, my father called with “concerns” about my health, relationship, and safety—all sorts of nonsense.

I could finally see my mother controlling my father like a sad rag doll puppet; I could see her trying to drive a wedge between my husband and me and undermine my treatment plan. I had to accept all of those times it seemed like she was telling crazy lies for no explained reason; she was, the explanation was control. I had to accept my mother recognized I was remembering again; I had started questioning her and making low-key accusations about my autism. Not only that, what she knew and when she found out about everything else.

I started getting things ready, silently shutting down accounts, getting a new phone number, etc… Then I sent an email I had worked on for weeks, explaining why I would no longer be in contact with my parents. I allowed for a list of objects my family wanted to be returned to them as the only reply I would read.

I received a sentence-by-sentence gaslighting breakdown of my email instead. So I deleted it. She then had the audacity to send the same email again a few months later with a subject line indicating she thought she must have sent it to the wrong email. DELETED!!! Both were sent from my dad’s email in my mother’s hand. I think we all know our parent’s voice, even when written.

Since my time dog and house sitting, I have gotten back so many memories. Directly before that, I had begun to remember the seal being cracked, so to speak. I was easing in with some pretty normal ones about school and the like, and ever since I have descended into the hell of my past. I’ve been chiefly chronicling my journey in poetry since, but it is safe to say that I would not have made it through that breaking point without the support of the song Feedback and the outlet I found in writing.

If you have a lot of actual human support or you don’t use music and writing as a form of therapy, you may scoff at that statement, but it is my reality. The truth of my life lay purposely hidden for decades, and the only way it would ever be uncovered was through the healing art of writing. I know I am not the only person to suffer and not get help promptly. I hope my story and healing journey inspire others in secret turmoil to discover their healing art and move forward.

K.B. Silver

As a note, any time I discuss my strategies or share any success with health matters. I am not a doctor or health professional of any kind. I am simply sharing my success to encourage and inspire those still struggling that there is hope. I am not trying to instruct or prescribe. Please reach out to a doctor or therapist for a diagnosis or a treatment plan.