If you’ve been reading this Diary and have really gotten to know me, you know I’m a Spartan mental wealth advocate, especially where music therapy is concerned. I truly believe that music is an actual gift from Heaven, the “soul” purpose of which is to not only help us feel alive, but in some cases, to keep us alive. One of my favorite bands, Five Finger Death Punch, recently picked up a new lead guitarist, Andy James. So, I found him on Instagram, listened to some of his work, then messaged him:
Hello Mr. James. I’m not going to blow liar-face smoke up your ass and say “I’ve been following you allllll this time – love your stuff”. Because, that would be a liar face LIE! But, I’m following you now, and your music is awesome. One of my favorite treats in this realm has been my incessant search for “guitar that can make me cry”. Its actually been a huge part of my mental health battle and recovery. This year I’m “fifty-one-derful”, lol (51), and so far there are just under a handful of guitarists that have been able to take that crown – “shred her up and made her cry”. You’re now number 5! Well anyway, I just wanted to drop a line and say thank you. Music is how I survive. It’s like, “emotional cutting” without the scars or blood. I love to fucking hate it, so, THANKS MAN! You are a very talented, not that unfortunate looking razor blade!
Look, I’m an “emotional cutter” (but not in the clinical sense). My kind of “cutting” will heretofore only ever be referred to as “shredding”. I’ll hear certain music that makes me feel “some way” I either was previously or am currently unable to connect with. Then, the floodgates open, I run an emotional gauntlet, it’s over, and I’m better. Certain music just breaks me down, which is not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, it’s probably one of the healthiest tools I’ve acquired in the quest to strengthen my psyche. Yet, rare is the guitar that tears me to pieces:
I remember it vividly! I’d been out running errands and was approaching the house in which I dwelled that was certainly not a home when it availed itself on my cue. From that first solemn chord, the forlorn guitar began cutting me like a knife as I pulled into the garage. I couldn’t shut my car off and was compelled to sit and listen as the words began to play. Then, out of nowhere, a barrage of tears washed over me, literally and metaphorically. I was so numb and paralyzed in the moment that I couldn’t even lift my arms to wipe my eyes. I could neither breathe nor feel my fingertips as the music began manifesting a truly physical aching inside my heart.
“Emotional shredding”. It’s what’s for breakfast, maybe even lunch, and even in a Costco parking lot like me today. It’s the gift you’ll never see coming, only to find that you needed it so fucking badly, and could even lead to some of the most significant crossroads of your life. With that, I have an appointment with a brand new surgeon tonight, “Doctor James”. I’ll be sitting alone in this fortress I get to call home with all the space and freedom I need to let his hands bleed me to nothing so that if I’m lucky enough to wake up again tomorrow, I’ll be able to feel EVERYTHING!
The Diary Of My Perfection 
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