There’s Something About Screaming
Hood? Up. Sun? Down. Voice? Cracked.
In the spirit of two contradictory things, I have developed a night-time routine of driving and screaming.
After having panic attacks while driving for about a year and a half, I became fearful of trips on the highway. I developed this trigger after a job experience I’d rather not talk too much about. Needless to say, it’s been an unwelcome reality— feeling like you’re dying, while driving, is extremely scary.
What isn’t scary, though, for me, is opening up every cavern of my head, nose, mouth, and throat, to release a nasty demon sound over some djenty guitars and proggy drums. I’ve always loved high-energy music, and recently rediscovered my love for myself, therefore, returning to music I like. It turns out, there are a few amazing male-reared metal bands that I like, for many reasons, and I can’t stop listening to them.
From a technical standpoint, I know next to nothing about screaming, but I have always been able to summon a voice demon out of nowhere, discovering it on the playground at preschool. The distorted vocal is part of an unexercised vocabulary of movement and sound in my dictionary of artistry.
This autumn, I had a long drive home one night, alone on the worst stretch of highway, and I let out a completely unfiltered, horrible scream. My diaphragm rattled against my ribcage, my ears sang out in agony, and my entire body tingled. It felt SO GOOD. It sounded SO BAD. I did it again. And again! I sweat through my clothes from panting and flexing my muscles out of rageful catharsis.
Something about this environment, the solitude, the progress of the melody, is extremely peacemaking for my overdriven, cortisol-ridden body. The air leaving me is powerful, backed by strong legs and a stable abdomen. Suddenly, I am transformed into a sea siren scaling the water with my fins, rather than a swirl of sand turning in on itself under the weight of the waves. My strokes shine against the tide. I feel restored.
There’s something about screaming.