The first time I discovered A Perfect Circle I was living in Boston, barely 21 and experiencing a change in my life I can only describe as “pre-Goth-Girl” with all its trappings and broodings. I palmed the CD from my roommate and listened to it on repeat for hours. When I’d worn out my borrowing welcome, I purchased the CD on my own and started the listening rampage over again. I’d lie on my bed, leg draped halfway off the mattress, hand curled over my eyes, listening with my whole body. It spoke to me. 3 Libras was everything I knew about the world, everything I believed. A few weeks later I’d discover POE, which was like discovering myself, profound and debilitating. Just a few weeks after that I was dressing like an extra in Blade and waxing poetic about my place in the world. I’m only a little embarrassed for myself, because during that time period, despite the ridiculous clothing, I learned more about who I was and who I could make myself out to be than I would at any other junction in my life. I also discovered how pliable other people are, and how manipulation was an art I had a particular knack for. I knew early on that plying my dark talent meant I was destined for stardom amongst journalists and advertisers, which was fine by me. Stardom of any sort was good enough; I wasn’t picky about the destination.

 

I’m paralyzed by those two years spent amongst Boston’s beautiful history and dark underbelly. I have stories in spades, and yet they remain untold, stored up inside like some terrible emotion. Those stories are toxic, the best kind to be told I suppose, but not by me. Somehow by not telling them, they remain just that, stories. Not non-fiction, not my life, not my terrible choices or the things I’d seen. Fairy tales, maybe, or at least tales of caution. Careful kids, this could’ve been you.

 

Which I realize is ridiculous. It wasn’t nearly as terrible as my mind spins it to be, and I certainly came out of it just fine. And yet, for all my love of creative non-fiction, this is the one area that seems off limits. My very secret diary. They aren’t just my secrets, they belong to others too. A society of secret holders. A lifetime difference and with no desire to return.

 

When I returned from Boston to Omaha, it took only a few days of being back to feel the heaviness disappear. Like a shroud being drawn back from my face, I felt like a person for the first time in a long time. Not some marionette. At some point, driving on the interstate, I made the decision to not talk about my time in Boston, to put it away, to keep to myself. To not have to face those things or those people or those moments that I regreted. I wanted to believe, I still do, that I regret nothing. But that’s not true. I regret things. I don’t hate them or fret about them, but I am not quite ready to profit from them either. I’m not quite ready to reunite that section of time with the rest of my life. Like the missing link between the truth and the fairy tale, I’m not ready to start connecting the dots.

 

Some CDs, including Mer de Noms disappeared into boxes under my bed, recalling moments and time that I had no interest in returning to. It took me several years before I could listen to POE again, and even to this day the emotion it welled up inside of me is no longer there. Music is the great emotional memory of every person in the world. Hearing a song can take us back to a moment, back to a person or a time or a thing that is potent. An anchor in time. A Perfect Circle takes me right back to my bedroom, draped across my bed, emotions welling, mind racing, a new persona roaring out of the gloam.

 

Yesterday I placed 3 Libras on my iPod play list. Reluctantly. Like a ticking time bomb. Hitting shuffle, I never know when it’ll appear or if I’ll listen to the whole thing before a shaking finger pushes the next button. I have a sinking feeling this was a bad idea. Knowing that it’s there, waiting to be heard. One out of 204 songs could unlock it all. Damn it.