Emotionless -OR- What To Do When Your Rock Star Grows Up

“Most people would agree that the rock star image is a classic symbol of youth and rebellion.”

That statement is what's called a "no brainer."

For me, however, that sentence means a good bit more. When I say that’ most people’ feel that way, I say it with a sense of irony and a touch of arrogance.

Both of my parents were musicians, and it was firmly believed that stardom would come knocking on our door at any moment. Rock stars weren't simply icons in my house. They were my brothers. Their names, songs, and sense of style were as much a part of my childhood as cartoons and playing hide and seek. By the age of three I’d given myself a (rather embarrassing) stage name. When I was five I’d picked out my band name (which was even worse than my already abandoned stage name.) In third grade I dressed as a member of a rock band for Career Day (complete with mismatched earrings and crazy shoe laces in my high tops.) When confronted with the idea that girls didn’t grow up to be rock stars, I happily rattled off a rather short list of female rockers and added, “And my momma said I could do it!”

In later years, my musical obsession grew. Like most teenagers and college students, I picked one or two rock stars that I idolized, adored, and religiously stalked on the Internet. I couldn’t fall asleep without listening to their CDs, and I swore their lyrics were taken from the darkest, deepest, most hidden parts of my soul.

Then I did the one thing I was told to never do. I grew up.

Despite my parents’ careful tutoring, I realized that I would never achieve the ultimate goal of a life of decadence and no responsibility. I would have to use my days for working instead of sleeping (because surprisingly there would be no never ending fountain of money,) and I would use my nights for sleeping instead of utilizing my limitless and unnamed ability to enthrall the masses.

I adjusted to this realization. I found new dreams and aspirations that were grounded firmly in what I liked to call "reality." The transition was much easier than anticipated, and twenty two years of careful training soon faded away into Adulthood. My musical roots were mostly forgotten except for the occasional one liner when passing Hot Topic and the periodic need to wear too much makeup and a lot of black.

Or at least that was the case until a recent random Internet search led me from one site to another, and an accidental trail was created that led me straight back to one of the rock stars to whom I’d given so much devotion. I was stunned when I saw him. Wrinkles were visible in places that had once been covered by eye shadow, and there were no more thick streaks of eyeliner. His curls were hidden under a black knit cap, and his clothes were made of cotton instead of leather. I was mortified to see that he too had grown up, but he'd done it on his own terms.

I started missing who he’d once been, and then, as if the two were connected, I started missing who I had been. Somehow choosing the path of maturity made me lose my ability to feel truly, obsessively passionate about anything. Unlike my formerly-beloved rocker, I didn’t go into adulthood gracefully and with my soul intact. I’d become completely disconnected.

Sadly, even the pain of that realization was fleeting.

The obvious and ironic truth is that my unconventional parents were right all along.

When I close my eyes I find myself sitting on the wooden planks of my old bedroom floor, surrounded by a stack of CDs. All I can do now is blow the dust off of those discs one by one and hope that somewhere in the echoing silence I’ll find the lyrics that will wake up the missing part of my psyche. I have to believe that I can start over, that for all these years I’ve simply been a kid playing pretend, and that I’ll get one more chance at growing up.

Maybe this time I can get it right.