Lord Let That Tesla Crash

Lord Let That Tesla Crash

By Ollie

It was my sister's birthday yesterday, which meant my parents, my sister and I had to go out for a family meal to celebrate. On the surface, it's a lovely thing to do: sharing a meal with the people you love. The reality, however, is somewhat different. Instead, it becomes two hours of dodging insults, biting your tongue and wishing you were anywhere else. Personally, spending more than five minutes in their company can be a struggle. Somehow, they manage to irritate me every single time, without fail.

Being an awkward person, I tend to wear my discomfort on my sleeve like a new tattoo. This, in turn, upsets my mum, and so the cycle continues. Our relationship has always been difficult, rather like an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. The force being my charismatic personality; the object, her apparent lack of one. Add to that my dad's desperation to please and my sister's self-absorption, and the combination isn't particularly pleasant. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, we continue to have these dinners.

As usual, I ended up bearing the brunt of the criticism at dinner. I get bored easily and have little patience for what I perceive to be their bullshit. Consequently, I make comments to provoke a reaction or divert attention away from myself. Inevitably, this gives everyone an opportunity to turn against me, pinning the blame on the easiest target rather than acknowledging their own shortcomings. It's a familiar routine, one in which everybody seems to have a part to play, myself included.

By the end of the evening, I was left feeling guilty, frustrated and rather disgusted with myself. The inevitable conclusion? Retreating home, smoking in the back garden and listening to sad music.

Lately, my musical obsession has been CMAT's new album, Euro-Country, particularly 'When a Good Man Cries' and 'Lord Let That Tesla Crash'. Her music has a distinctive pop-country sound, often exploring themes of religion, Catholic upbringing and the questioning of God's existence. These are subjects I can identify with deeply, particularly in moments like these, when feelings of loneliness and uncertainty seem to creep in.

One particular lyric has stayed with me: 'Help me not hate myself, help me love other people'. There's something incredibly poignant about those words. They capture the desire for someone else, perhaps even a higher power, to intervene and make everything feel a little less difficult. There's a certain comfort in the idea of surrendering responsibility for your own happiness, even if only temporarily. Sometimes, the business of existing as your own person, making decisions and navigating your own emotions feels like an awful lot of work.

I considered texting the guy I'm seeing to tell him how I was feeling, but ultimately decided against it. I didn't want to bother him. As deep and brooding as I might be, there's a part of me that would rather keep these feelings to myself than risk burdening somebody else with them. Instead, I convince myself that I can manage everything independently, even when what I really want is a little reassurance that I'm not alone.

Perhaps this is why expressing emotions through music and imagery comes so naturally to me, whereas articulating them through conversation feels considerably more difficult. Music takes complicated, often distressing themes and transforms them into something structured, melodic and, occasionally, surprisingly catchy. You can listen to and enjoy a song about an incredibly sad subject, such as the death of a friend in 'Lord Let That Tesla Crash', without the sadness necessarily diminishing your enjoyment of it. There's also something rather comforting about being able to empathise with another person's emotions without fully understanding why they resonate with you. In some ways, music manages to articulate feelings that you haven't quite found the words for yourself.

Keeping my feelings to myself, whilst perhaps the path of least resistance, also gives me a certain sense of control. It acts as a form of self-protection, creating a barrier between myself and other people. If nobody knows how you're feeling, nobody can misunderstand you, judge you or make you feel particularly vulnerable. There's comfort in keeping something so personal entirely to yourself. Of course, there's also something rather lonely about it.

Perhaps that's the contradiction I struggle with most: wanting to feel understood whilst making very little effort to let myself be understood. I want reassurance without having to ask for it, companionship without having to admit that I need it, and the comfort of knowing somebody is there without having to explain why.

My sadness is mine to carry alone. Or at least, that's what I keep telling myself.