A Dark World Aches For A Splash In The Sun













And I don’t want the world to see me

Cause I don’t think that they’ll understand

- Iris, The Goo Goo Dolls











“What are we going to tell when producers ask us what’s wrong with Brian’s voice?”

“That I’m tired to do your job.”

Brian flinched when he heard again his tone and the coldness he had used against Nick. It had been a low blown, he was fully aware of that. It had been a defensive mechanism, a weapon that he had to use when he had felt himself exposed in his deepest and most hidden wounds. Nick had metaphorically tore off the cloak he had been hiding inside and he had done it consciously and intentionally: Nick had wanted to hurt him and, though rage had been the only emotion able to keep him holding throughout the discussion, now Brian realized that those words had been thrown only to shake him, to put him in front of reality and to wake him up with the news that there wasn’t any other place or corner where he could hide from.

Even if Brian still wanted to do it. Even if he wasn’t still ready for that moment, perhaps he would never be read to admit that he couldn’t do his job anymore; to admit that he was a liability, the weakest link of that already shaking boat that just wanted to sail again the most important and bigger seas and oceans, it was something that scared the hell out of Brian and kept him prisoner inside that false reality and normality.

He acted on an instinct. Confronted with those words, Brian had reacted like nothing had changed. Confronted with that harsh tone, confronted with those eyes full of resentment, anger and pure and raw worry, Brian had rose up his defenses and had hold on to every echoes and shards left of the person he had been not to give into that weight. He had to bite his tongue, he had to swallow that tension that was already trying to strangle him, not to let out what he really wanted to say to Nick.

Nothing. That was what he really wanted that Nick and the others would say when and if they would be put in front of that uncomfortable question once more. Nothing. That was what Brian would reply if someone, whoever, would ask him out of the blue what was going on. Because Brian didn’t want the world to know what was happening to him, he didn’t want to find himself at the centre of attention and jump from question to question to explain something that no one would ever be able to comprehend. That answer, nothing, shielded him from all of that; that simple word allowed him to keep o with those pretense and illusion he didn’t want to stay away from. Because the more he repeated that word to himself, the more he acted and have the attitude of a person who wasn’t, in reality, living a drama, then maybe he could convince himself that he was only living a nightmare.

A terrible, unsetting and distressing nightmare.

What else could he say, really? What could he say to others when even he couldn’t still understand fully and totally what was really happening? Or, a much more important detail, the reason why it did happened to him. Nick made it look easy, like all it needed was a label to fully explain the extent of what his daily life had become. But it wasn’t, damned if it was! No one could really understand it. No one could really be able to comprehend how it felt to wake up one day and realize that his voice had suddenly vanished, as if an invisible and intangible Ursula had crept inside his room one night and stole away his voice while he was sleeping. No one could ever be able to understand how it felt to have an instrument that he couldn’t control anymore and that, every day, tried to strangle him and to take away from him even the smallest particle of air and oxygen. How could he be able to explain the moment when they told him that, suddenly and without a reason, his brain had stopped to comprehend and send the signals that allowed him to sing? It was something unexplainable, it was something that had dragged and thrown him into a dark and deep hole and from where he couldn’t even see a sort of frail light and hope. How could he be able to explain that there were still some mornings when even the simple getting out of the bed seemed something so terrifying? What was the purpose to go out, dress up if he wouldn’t be able to even talk, let alone sing? What was the purpose if he was useless even as a father, unable to help his son with the homework or coach him like he had always done? How could he be able to explain the feeling of shame and embarrass he felt every time that that child, still too young to understand what was happening to his father, had to talk and reply because he couldn’t find his voice? How could he be able to paint that build-up of anger, frustration and aguish born from finding out that he had been sentenced to what looked like a prison without having the chance to defend himself or object to it?

That was the reason why Brian didn’t want to talk. That was the reason why Brian still hid within the illusion of being just part of a nightmare, a bad dream he couldn’t wake up from for reasons still unknown to him. That was the reason why he still put on his façade of happiness and positivity, that smile he knew it would reassure people close to him and everyone who would see him even for a brief glimpse. And that was the reason why Brian preferred not to tell anything about his therapy to his friends and coworkers. Partially because it was embarrassing and he was ashamed to admit how much useless and totally disastrous it was. Oh, those sessions worked. But for a bunch of days. Or, for the better case, for a couple of months. And he would believe. Brian, during those months of positive results and getting better, he would start to hope to be finally close to the end of the tunnel. But then, suddenly, he would find himself with that raspy whisper. Then, suddenly, he would found himself with that tension that kept tighten and tighten up around his vocal chords. And so the illusion would crumble down. The illusion would shatter into million pieces, fragments so small that Brian would hardly be able to put them together again somehow.

And so rage would come back. Because it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t damn fair, especially because no one had been able to tell him what he had done wrong to deserve to be punished in that horrible way. Not knowing, not having someone to put all the blame on or to get angry with, that was the hardest and worst part of all. That was the doubt that didn’t leave him in peace, that didn’t let him sleep at night or to focus all of his energies on getting on his feet again and build from scratch that connection that seemed to be lost between his brain and voice. Brian hadn’t been able to stop thinking about what he might had done wrong in all those twenty years of career and singing, he couldn’t stop from reliving again every single moment to understand if it had been that or another thing to cause the first damage. Because if he could succeed in understanding, in identifying the precise moment when everything had started to fall, then perhaps he would been able to find a way to fix himself. But that was a physical and mental torture and nothing, nothing could be said to make others, and the world, understand what he was going through.

He was being unfair with the group. Brian knew it. Brian knew it perfectly but by now he was so accustomed to lie and hide that even himself had become a victim of all those lies. He knew that he should step back. If he had been that honest and fair person he always claimed to be, Brian would had resign his job and hang up the microphone not to drag the group in that black hole along with him. But he couldn’t do. Maybe it was his ego, maybe it was only the pride of someone who had to prove not be weak and frail for so many years, that prevented him to lower his head and admit the defeat. Though it was inconceivable, though so difficult to comprehend that even his friends, even Nick, had been able to capture the meaning, in that moment singing was, for Brian, his only salvation. Because singing was his whole life. Because, in that moment, singing was the only aspect in his life that still was standing strong, the last piece that the illness hadn’t been able to tear away from him. And it really didn’t matter if it would took him two hours just to lay down a few verses, it didn’t really matter if he shudder and flinch every time he would hear to his recorded voice and he had to convince himself that it was him singing, that it was that same gift he had been given and that now had been taken away without even a warning. It didn’t matter because, up until that moment, that had been something that that bitch of illness hadn’t steal from him. It didn’t matter because, when he was finally able to sing his part, it was a victory and a breath of optimism in that endless war, scattered of lost battles and ones that had been taken away with his tooth.

And that was the reason why he didn’t want to talk about it. That was the reason why he would have replied with “Nothing” to Nick’s question. That was why he wasn’t keeping the group updated with his nonexistent improvements or that new therapy his therapist had come up with. What was the purpose if nothing was going to happen or change anyway? What was the meaning if then... then. If then his deepest fear would come alive? If they would decide to throw him out of the group? If they would force him to stop? Brian didn’t believe Howie’s words, couldn’t believe at that sort of investiture as one of the basilar cardinal point of the group, that piece that would make the puzzle complete. They could do it. They could throw him out. If he had told them how hopeless he felt about his situation, how every day it was just more anguish and torture, Brian knew already what would have been their advice. Their decision. He could say that he was trying to fix it for himself, he could brag about how he had to take care of himself first but that was a shitty lie. He had to fix it for that group that was still believing in him. He had to fight for that unconditionally trust and faith that they put on him and that hadn’t any solid ground. Even if it was a double sword because it was only another weight and pressure that he had to put on his shoulder, another bunch of people that he had not to let down and disappoint. So he didn’t say anything. So he could save them from illusions and hopes that, inevitability, would be shattered with a raspy and breathy tone.

How could Brian be able to tell all of that? How could he even try to make them understand what he was going through? Nothing was the perfect answer and the more he would repeat it the more maybe one day it would turn into something real. Like a mantra or a spell. Or just like that magic wand he had kept asking for with his therapist, or during all those nights when it had been impossible to fight the tears. Or that day when he had broken almost everything in his studio after the same seatback. He had prayed, he had begged and had promised every sort of behavior or prize. Still no one had answered his prayers, no one had reached out an hand and explained him that there was a solution, something easy and simple to give security back to the group.

Even Nick’s words had been able to break that shell he had to wear so all of his vulnerabilities and fears wouldn’t come out. Brian had heard those words. But he couldn’t be able to sustain his gaze, those eyes full of belief and faith that, he knew, would have been sharp knives if he had just looked at Nick. Even for one single second.

“I miss that voice. I really miss it. And I believe that you can have it back. I believe in you. I believe that you are going to get better. We need Jordan back. And I know it’s going to happen.”

How could Nick have so much faith in him? How could he when he wasn’t even aware of the real extent of his situation? Did he really believe that it was sufficient to repeat that he could get better over and over again to make it real? Did Nick really believe that Brian hadn’t tried it before? Did Nick really believe to be the first one to go to him and tell him those words? Still there was a part of Brian that hold on to those words. If there was someone so obstinate and stubborn into having faith in him, who Brian was for stealing it away? He had run out of his, his faith had been taken down by all those broken notes and strangled breaths. His faith didn’t exist anymore, at least not the one in himself. Perhaps those were that magic wand Brian had wished for so much: not a physical object, not a long and small wooden piece that, by only swirling it around, could turn back time and gift him with his voice back. Maybe those words were a magic wand, a small seed of faith and hope and those few energies that Brian was trying so hard to hold on to with claws and teeth and everything he could use. Or maybe it wasn’t really needed, maybe it was just another illusion Brian was creating and hiding behind. But was it really that bad if he would let himself being pushed by those words?

What else did he have to lose?

The only pride left was that strength to keep fighting for any leading voice. The only comfort left were those moments when a shadow of his voice would make its way through those fingers that were trying to strangle him and that brain that had decided to go on holiday. The only illusion left was to keep hoping to wake up one day and find him completely healed, both in the body and in the mind.

If he believed in it, maybe one day it could happen. And then... then he would be ready to talk. Then, maybe, he would tell the world what really had happened, not pretending them to understand completely his trials and fears. Their comprehension wouldn’t be needed because the worst would be already over. It would be all behind his back. He just had to hang on, Brian. He just had to lower his head and try to come out alive from that storm.

Someway and somehow.