“Let Your Secrets Sing Out”: An Auto-Ethnographic Analysis on How Music Can Afford Recovery From Child Abuse

Music as a communication device

Music as a grounding tool

After learning to communicate, I needed to learn how to function in recovery, one example being how to prevent the re-living of memories and emotions from entirely consuming my daily existence. I did not want to surrende­­r my present to my past, however much I needed to process the memories. Finding the balance was difficult. Achieving a sense of balance is called ‘grounding’, and this can happen using various mechanisms. By grounding, this essay is using the definition of Rigoni (2009), an ability to exist between consciousness and an allowance of that conscious reality. DeNora (2000) emphasized that music “is both an instigator and a container of feeling” (2000, p. 58). Music can ground me by either holding the emotion or feeling until I am ready to explore it, or by initiating and processing the feeling based on whatever memory from my past is threatening my present space. It is not a dismissal of intrusive memories but a management of them. It is a way of preventing the past from overwhelming the present but without determining our past as of less importance. It is a way of engaging with our present consciousness whilst also using that involvement to manage the past.

An awareness of the movements and balances within one’s body enhances well- being (Storr, 1997), thus is arguably a key to recovery– hence the importance of grounding. There is some debate over whether music is more purposeful for a refuge, or an adaptation to life (Storr, 1997). Storr examined how Schopenhauer viewed music as an escape from turbulences, whereas Nietzsche viewed music as an ability to “reconcile us with life rather than detach us from it.” (Storr, 1997, p.157). DeNora (2000) described how music can “frame or re- focus” (p. 97) our current reality so our struggles can diminish temporarily, and Wigram et al. (2002) found that to recognise music allowed a survivor to recognise some aspect of herself and connected her past to her present identity (2002, p. 190). I therefore argue that music does not have to be slotted firmly into either a ‘refuge’ or a ‘reconciliation’ box; it can be both. From this then, music can ground people either by allowing them to temporarily dissociate their current reality from a past that might feel overwhelming, or enabling them to associate the present with the past.

It is important to acknowledge the simple functions of music as well as the complex. At its most basic music can help overwrite other auditory stimuli (DeNora, 2000). If I am experiencing auditory flashbacks, in which I hear the memory but have no visual context, then I may ‘turn a song on’ either in my head or literally on my phone. I will either imagine it loud or turn it loud, and literally drown the auditory memory out. I focus on using the present music to keep me firmly rooted in my current reality, thus grounding me in the here and now. A melody can act as an “anchor” (Sacks, 2007; Wigram et al., 2002), but I would tentatively suggest that it is beyond a simple anchor. I find the concept of an anchor too permanent and too stationary. Grounding does not trap me or tie me down; it frees me and enables me. Therefore, using the same analogy, I argue that music is the wind that affects where the boat will sail – either to an established present, or to reconciliation with the past. Grounding does not lock me in one place as an anchor would; it moves me either away from memories when they may be intrusive to my present life, or towards memories when it is important to reflect upon and process what has happened. As Storr (1997) also indicated, music helps enable this process of moving with time.

Another manner in which music helps ground me is through its elements. I can listen to a new song and become fascinated by its structures, melody and patterns, learning the story behind the composer, and listening to the harmonies the music creates. As Sacks (2007) stated, listening to music is an active process. If I am actively involved in anything, then ultimately I am grounded in the present on some level; the past is not overwhelming me.

Finally, music can serve as a reminder of my safety. There was a period where if my friends sang a particular song (“Soduato” – Appendix 2, see supplemental files for score) to me when I was flashbacking, I appeared to calm down. We had sung this together safely in a choir. Somehow, if I heard the song whilst trapped in an unconscious memory, some part of my mind acknowledged that the song took part in another time, another reality. It so often felt like the hand reaching down to me and pulling me out of the traumatic depths; a link between my past and present and was inherently more powerful and effective if sung than if spoken. Even if I could not hear the words, the melody made its way and acted as a memory tool. As musical memory can survive after other memories have faded (Sacks, 2007), the sound of the safe melody grounded me almost immediately. The song itself is filled with polyphony, with individual parts working together to create a coherent and intricate piece; singing it always filled me with a sense of connection, because of the sense of disconnected parts working together to build a coherent whole. The memory of feeling connected in the song, to the music itself but also to others who could support me, grounded me on hearing the melody, and even today, I will sometimes listen to the piece to aid my wellbeing. Music can be used in various ways to ground someone, then, and is a valuable asset for recovery, preventing the process of remembering from overwhelming the present (Bunt, 1994).

Musical space

It has been important for me to find means of establishing boundaries – my own boundaries as a child were either absent or violated, and as part of recovery it is therefore crucial that I resolve this loss. Music has played an essential part in achieving this.

Trauma is chaotic, and music, if nothing else, has helped me stabilise this chaos, a concept also explored by Storr (1997, p. 64) who stated that musical “systems are ways of ordering sound.” It has been through my use of musical structure, and understanding the rules within musical composition and systems, that I have been able to reconcile with some of my more traumatised parts and hold some of my chaotic emotions during recovery. I wrote “Ghosts in Mirrors” (Appendix 1, see supplemental files) at a point in my life of great disconnect and turbulence, with the absolute sense of being pulled between worlds. I spent a lot of time with the sensation of floating, of being almost invisible, and at times no longer recognised my reflection in a mirror. I identified simultaneously as a frightened child, a stressed student, and an empowered survivor, and I had not quite managed to sit with these entirely different states simultaneously. The result was a sense of having lost control, something that terrified me, as there were times where this indicated danger to the traumatised parts of me. At that point, I accepted I needed to find a way to gain control of this chaos to prevent me from becoming engulfed. Bunt (1994, p. 38) noted that composing can act as a defensive strategy against feeling “overwhelmed.” I therefore chose songwriting, and wrote “Ghosts in Mirrors” (Appendix 1, see supplemental files). The various parts of me presented themselves in my voice; no matter how hard I tried, I could not open the song with a strong adult voice - the little girl needed to be heard and the survivor did not appear until well into the second half of the piece. I recorded it with other student musicians, establishing my role as a student, and on hearing the recording, I finally felt like the chaos in this particular moment of my life had been treated with care and resolved.

There is structure in music with rules and ways to bend the structure (Storr, 1997), and there can be consistency and repetition (Sacks, 2007), which for my sometimes-frightened mind was and still can be very reassuring. The crucial aspect for me is what researchers described as the boundaries within music (Bunt, 1994; Wigram et al., 2002). Music works within a time frame. If I write a 5-minute song, the emotions and memory are contained within those 5 minutes. These can only be accessed if either in a musical space or via headphones (if recorded), and even then, it is my choice, a concept which I had little access to as a child. I can walk away from the music room and leave the chaos there, having put the turmoil into a coherent piece of music. I am allowed to express disorder in music; it is safe and interesting for the listener to experience (Storr, 1997). I can experiment with dissonances; I can hang in the silence or fill the space with sound. I can fill the piece with sequences or not, and I have entire control of the environment in which I am a part (DeNora, 2000). Ultimately, the piano cannot play itself – it is up to me if that chaos is going to be explored within that structured space or not. I set the rules, and music sets the boundaries in space.

In my world where boundaries had been dangerous and violated, music afforded the ability to practice my own boundaries and to learn the safety and refuge that comes from such processes. Fundamentally, music not only helped me realise and understand my rights that had been previously robbed, but held my emotions within a safe space whilst I processed the trauma. When I first started songwriting, I stuck rigidly to musical rules. My former abused self had fought hard to gain a sense of control, something I still carry with me because of the abuse, and discovering I could find control and safe boundaries through music felt especially precious. I was frightened to break or lose these boundaries. Further, key to my survival when younger was adhering to the abusers’ rules, and as such I developed a fear of breaking rules. Therefore, musical rules were of huge importance to my fragile emerging survivor-self. Now, I like to experiment; to see how far I can go with musical boundaries and still feel safe. I enjoy realizing that breaking or playing with musical rules does not result in danger, but quite often something rather beautiful and unique. Music affords my learning that I can explore more, safely, whilst still having the boundaries of musical form, structure, and time to hold me when necessary.

Finally, it would seem sometimes that even my body becomes aware of the safe boundaries within music and conforms to this safety. Whereas I can write and say the word ‘rape’, I have never yet been able to sing the word in a song. If I go to sing it, my body physically stops me; my voice closes up, no sound will come out, and my hands will stop playing the piano. In this sense, music helps me to recognise my limits – that to sing such a word may enable a deeper emotional connection than I am able to handle, and therefore not to cross this threshold. Ultimately, music keeps me safe, and my mind and body have learned to trust it and respond appropriately to its boundaries.

Personally, this sense of developing, understanding, and utilizing musical boundaries has over time allowed me to recover a better sense of boundaries outside of the musical space. Over the last 5 years especially, in which I was more involved in musical groups and music-making than ever, I have established a greater sense of personal respect and ability to recognise and adhere to my own limits, as well as understand and respect those of others around me. Whereas I used to be a very submissive person, unable to recognise my right to say ‘no’ (even in situations such as being asked to do some work as a favour when my workload was already unmanageable) I am now much better at establishing my own healthy boundaries and space. Whilst it would be naïve to entirely place music as responsible for this aspect of healing and ignore other aspects of recovery (such as psychotherapy, actually being safe, and developing a strong support network), music has nonetheless played a critical role. My boundaries started healing before I began therapy, for example, but in accordance with how strongly music featured in my life. Whilst I do have a strong support network, a lot of this came from friends I made in the music groups and the sense of empathy and bonding I had developed with them through music. It seems clear to me that music and its qualities have played a fundamental role in my development of healthy boundaries, which enabled me to put measures in place to establish my safety, and develop strong friendships that supported me throughout my recovery. Music was, and is, essential.

Music to form attachments

Learning to trust again was a key aspect of my recovery, and indeed at times learning to believe in blind trust – a terrifying prospect given the unpredictability of it – was essential if I was to recover. I had to trust acquaintances, or professional strangers such as therapists not to harm me if I made a disclosure. At times of dissociative amnesia (Mind UK, 2013) where I entirely forgot the identity of my friends, I had to blindly trust in their word when they assured me – as strangers – that they would not abuse me in this house I no longer recognised (my home). My friends are fellow musicians; we have sung, played, stressed, and celebrated together as musicians. I fully believe that these shared experiences allowed some part of my mind to have blind faith in them until my memory returned.

There are ‘human’ aspects to music itself, for example the ability for emotional agitation to be represented musically through tempo, accents, trills, and pitch (Budd, 1985, p. 46). Secondly, in order to connect with and understand a new piece of music, one requires a degree of empathy (Storr, 1997). If one becomes more familiar with a piece and can recognise its patterns and relationship between notes and parts, then one stands a greater chance to understand it and perform it as the composer intended it to be performed, which I would argue is a safe attachment to create. I certainly was never aware of the attachments I made with pieces of music, but in hindsight can see that there was always some form of attachment to the composer. When I performed a piece, I did not want to feel alienated from it – from a musician’s perspective I simply did not want that stress – and in order to understand the purpose and use of the notes, I had to engage emotionally within the piece to try and understand the composer’s written intentions.

Throughout my life, where attachments could be dangerous or used against me, my attachment with music remained consistent and reliable. This is not to say I view music in the way I would a friend or partner. I simply view music as providing me with a sense of empathy and understanding. Music provides me the chance to speak, and in turn, I listen to music and to what other composers are trying to say. In any musical environment then, I am intrinsically more empathetic and aware of musicians around me and this fosters attachments. Schutz (1951) described the simultaneous consciousness of orchestral players; how members of an orchestra are at any one time reading their score, observing the conductor, and unconsciously taking in the body language of those around them in order to work with the musicians near them. This allows the orchestra to perform as a whole, not as many individuals creating a sound, and ultimately builds attachments.

When performing or rehearsing together, people are in sync physiologically (Schutz, 1951; Storr, 1997). I stand in a choir and collectively we not only create sound, we work with the conductor to create an almost unconscious pulse. Our breathing syncs to allow flow within the music (or indeed, in some pieces we stagger breathing for the same effect), and the phrasing of our words relate not simply to the notated score, but to the movement of the conductor. Our bodies are working together: singer, instrumentalist, and conductor establishing physical harmony through the music to develop and achieve the quality performance. Whilst the primary goal here may not be to form attachments, it nonetheless is a result. Working together musically and physically develops a sense of belonging and group identity (Bunt, 1994). For anyone this is surely advantageous, as feeling a human attachment and connection to others is an innate desire (Brandell & Ringel, 2007). Traumatised people have been known to struggle with isolation and attachments (U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, 2014), and thus making music may be a crucial component in establishing worth and value (Stige, 2004).

Personally, singing in a choir, the acts of working with singers to overcome difficult passages, growing to understand the body language of a conductor and my role within the music, have all been intrinsically healing. I may not have consciously realised at the time, but each time I sang with my friends, or discussed the music with the conductor, I learned that my person was beyond being objectified and used, as the abusers had led me to believe. My worth was affirmed and my own awareness of my worth grew. I had value as an alto singer; the contribution of my voice was appreciated, and my friendship within the group was meaningful, just as was the case with a group of isolated homeless men described by Davidson (2004), who found worth and a reason to live when singing in a group choir. From singing with people who were once strangers, I came to realise their security and develop strong friendships, which have been critical to my recovery.

Music was a space in which I could address attachment trauma without consciously focusing on the trauma itself. Collaboration implies a sense of equality (Rolvsjord, 2010), so to be part of a collective music project allowed me to feel equal with those around me. This was critical, as the abuse had diminished my sense of worth so greatly. Furthermore, in working mutually with my fellow musicians, I inadvertently learned to trust properly again. People recovering from trauma seem able to recognise the humanity in others when taking part in a musical activity (Zharinova-Sanderson, 2004) and making music with people can allow the person to alter how they view themselves and others. Through music, I learned that not everyone was dangerous, that everyone – including me – was of equal value, and that even my body was worth something. It is in the musical setting that I formed attachments and from that could recover.