Ink Tea Stone Leaf

Having just finished the second of two lengthy posts about the Beatles, I think a moment of self-reflection is in order. From a certain point of view, those posts were less about my longstanding obsession with history’s greatest band and more about the fact that two weeks ago, I was feeling really bad: bad enough that I saw a doctor about it, bad enough that I sought relief in writing the longest thing I could think of until I got tired.

There are enough articles and video essays and clickbait list-icles about the Beatles to populate a small ecosystem, and I don’t believe I added very much to that ecosystem that wasn’t already swimming around and spawning more content. The only things I really added were my feelings and opinions (and a few weak jokes), but after all, that’s probably enough. I’m not taking food out of the mouth of some dedicated Beatle-blogger. I’m just sitting in my own pond and splashing around.

Doing that makes me feel better, and I needed that two weeks ago because I was experiencing some truly distressing anxiety. I was convinced that my heart was about to explode, and afraid that it would happen at a time that would inconvenience my friends and family; driving to work, running errands, picking up my wife, etc. It was as if Death were stalking me, biding his time before striking at the time that would make me look the most like a real jerk.

Anxiety and depression go hand in hand, and while I have had a handle on the latter for a while, the anxiety reached a point where I actually took a pen in hand and wrote some very unkind things about my self. There’s no need to repeat it all, but one of the worst thoughts that I could hurl at myself in that moment was that I was so unlikable that everything I cared about, or tried to support, was actually worse off for the effort I put in, because I was the one putting in the effort. I even felt a perverse sense of pride in framing it that way, like I had cleverly unlocked a brand new avenue of self-loathing. So naturally, I knew I needed to do something else.

I drove home from work that day while listening to the Beatles, as I often do when my brain needs soothing, and I realized that I could avoid writing a whole lot of depressing crap if I just wrote about something I like, and I like the Beatles. Ten thousand-plus words later, here we are.

In addition to the simple cause, I had also recently watched some Youtube “reaction” videos by people claiming to listen to various classic rock songs for the first time. This might have been a mistake, if for no other reason than my Youtube suggestions are now full of the wide-eyed inhabitants of the spaces found under rocks (you’re a professional music producer who’s never heard “Hey Jude,” for real?), but watching other people experience surprise and joy over something I care about is not at all unsatisfying. However, many of the comments these reactors would make left me wondering, “is exposing yourself to a fifty-year-old song with minimal/nonexistent research the best way to experience the fullness of that song’s quality?” The underlying premise of those posts I ended up writing is that it might not be.

I had fun imagining my readership as a curious neophyte, who shared my appreciation for narrative and context, and who was ready to experience something magnificent. After all, my experience with the Beatles came coupled with magazine articles and books and lots of other people’s opinions; why not pass this on to a new generation of nerd?

After finishing the first post, I really didn’t feel quite so bad anymore. This was a problem, as I no longer needed the soothing quite so urgently, and had to confront the fact that despite the fact that I was writing about some very famous people, it was incredible niche work. Who would care? Was I just being annoying? But aha, I realized; this is my private blog, and virtually nobody reads it, so I can be as annoying as I want, and the imaginary reader in my head will eat it all up. Brilliant.

I was recently prescribed some use-as-needed anti-anxiety medication, which I haven’t taken very much of yet, though I carry it around like a talisman wherever I go. I’ve also reminded myself how important it is not to base my efforts at self-expression on the expectations or opinions of other people. I don’t think those Beatles posts are the most elegant or important things I have ever done, but the important thing is that this is my space and if I want to be a huge fucking nerd about anything, nobody can stop me. What a liberating feeling!