The End of the Drumming Stage

Just a week shy of what would have been my two year anniversary of my very first drum lesson, which subsequently led to my purchasing my own drum kit, forming a couple ill-fated bands, and paying for some very rewarding drum lessons, I sold my drum kit. A week ago a man came to my apartment after finding my drums listed on Craigslist, negotiated with me on the price of what had been one of my most treasured possessions, and then handed me cash and walked out of my apartment with my drum kit while I held the door for him on his way out. It made it a little easier for me that the drums were for his 17 year old son - his very first kit after deciding to take up drumming - but I'll admit that it still stung just the slightest.

When I decided to take up drumming two years ago, I was in a very low place in my life. A few months prior I had left San Francisco and the most important relationship of my life and was now struggling with building my life back in Los Angeles. And is was a struggle. Previously a confident, social person, I now had panic attacks on my way to gatherings which under normal circumstances wouldn't have elicited a second thought from me. I still wasn't sure I had made the right decision in leaving San Francisco, or that relationship, and I was lonely and sad and my life was in limbo.

Drumming became part of my new identity, in my mind. It was novel to be part of something I had previously only watched from the sidelines, it was a great topic to bring up when I was floundering socially, and it felt just SO GOOD to be excited about something new - to have daydream fodder that didn't involve mistakes I had made or catastrophes that could potentially occur. I started playing in a band with two awesome girls, led by one of my closest and most trusted old friends. I was slowly starting to be happy again.

I bought a cheap drum kit off Craigslist from a young guy in the Valley. We packed the nicked and time-warn burgundy kit into my '87 BMW and when I drove off he texted me and asked me out on a date. I declined, but I felt so awesome - I was a "drummer" - I got asked out by dudes who thought girl drummers were cool. I set up my kit in the small rec room below my bedroom in the house I lived, in Silver Lake. I practiced frequently, I took lessons from a great guy I had met serendipitously, I'd lay awake in bed at night and picture myself on stage at my favorite local venues - opening for some friend's band with my all-girl band. I was a drummer. It felt amazing. And I must admit I was pretty damn good, too. Drumming made sense to me, in a way which no other instrument I've tried to master ever had.

Deciding to sell my drums took some time, but by the time I posted them on Craigslist, I was sure. I never played anymore, they were taking up a huge corner of my apartment, and every time I looked at them I felt guilty. After a visit from an awesome Feng Shui expert (which I plan to write about in the near future) who told me that it wasn't healthy to have that sort of thing (an ignored, guilty-inducing thing looming in the corner) and instead had some great ideas about what could be done with that corner, I was ready to sell.

So I did. And I feel okay with it. I kept my drum sticks, though. They're sitting in my roller skates - a decorative piece in my comfortable and eccentric living room. One time, years back when I lived in San Francisco and was still happily in relationship-land, I went for a spin on those roller skates and fell so hard on my tailbone I still wake up in the morning with pain today. My now-ex boyfriend had to come pick me up in his car, as I was in too much pain to get up and walk. I haven't put on those skates since. So there they sit, two relics from my past. Two of the thousands of pieces that make me who I am: a happy, curious, enthusiastic person, who loves to experience life, and is ready for the next stage.