A musician without music
HOW AN INJURY CAN AFFECT YOUR PHYSICAL AND MENTAL HEALTH
By Ana Tinder
Music has always been a huge part of my life. I started piano lessons at the age of six, guitar lessons at the age of eight, and violin lessons at the age of nine. Music is the one thread that connects my eighteen years of childhood and young adulthood together. My upbringing and memories all center around the violin — going to concerts, playing in concerts, practicing, spending weeks at classical music summer camps. Violin was the one thing I was sure about myself.
Fast forward to college where I decided to major in music. In college, you meet so many people you don’t have time to really get to know someone. Instead, you settle for a quick and easy introduction like, “Hi, my name is Ana, I’m from Wisconsin and I’m a violin performance major.” What’s your name, where are you from, and what’s your major. Just three simple facts about yourself, three small details, that make up all of who you are to every person you meet. For so long, I viewed myself like all those random people I met freshman year and never talked to again. My name was Ana and I was a violinist. I clung to music, because if I wasn’t a violinist, who was I? I limited myself and my potential believing violin was the only thing that made me me. I let it define me and believed it was the only thing I could do.
That is, until sophomore year, when what started out as a typical rehearsal ultimately ended my entire career as a violinist. It was a normal day. We were playing some demanding symphony repertoire that required everyone’s hard work and attention. I was so focused on playing the music I ignored the burning and throbbing in my shoulder for hours until something snapped. Literally. It felt like someone reached into my back, grabbed my muscle, and yanked as hard as they possibly could. There was a single, ominous moment of complete stillness until my arm erupted on fire with excruciating and unimaginable pain. My surroundings became blurry and dead silent, save for the ringing in my ears. It felt like I was the only person on a stage of fifty. All I could think about was pain.
I thought everything would go back to normal after a few days. People were understanding and sympathetic in the beginning, but after a few weeks, their patience started to wear off. People were convinced it wasn’t as bad as I was making it out to be or just stress. I was told to play until it hurt and I couldn’t turn back, and if I didn’t play, I would fail classes I needed to graduate, classes I had no option of retaking. So, I set my stopwatch and counted the hours until my body gave up. I played for three, sometimes four hours a day until I reached my physical breaking point. I played to the point I could barely write, carry a backpack, or sit in a lecture. I could barely move my head, my shoulder was always burning, and my hands often went numb.
To fall asleep, I took pain meds, iced my shoulder until it went numb, stayed awake to extreme exhaustion, or some twisted combination of everything. I tried to keep progressing on the violin, but I struggled. I was forcing myself to go through the worst pain I’d ever experienced day after day. Everything I knew, everything I thought I could do, and the person I thought I was becoming… was unrecognizable.
Many people say their injuries make them realize how much they love what they do. For me, it did the opposite. I became filled with anger, guilt, and self loathing. I was failing at the violin, so I felt like a failure as a person. I was suffering from the physical pain of playing and the mental exhaustion of always feeling completely useless. I was so angry with music and mad at everything it cost me. Nothing seemed right. I started to have panic attacks and could feel the control over my life slipping through my fingers.
Eventually, I had to make the impossible decision for my mental health to stop playing. There was and still is a chance for physical recovery, but I knew my mental health would never recover if I continued to pursue a professional career in performance. When I finally stopped playing, I realized the world was so much bigger than the violin. For years, I was playing the violin not because I loved it but because I believed it was the only thing I could do.
If it wasn’t for my injury, I never would have learned the difference between doing something I love and doing something out of obligation. The violin is no longer something I center my entire life and identity around. Yes, my name is Ana and I am a violinist, but I’m also so much more.
This piece was written and shared during the IDONTMIND Writing Workshop. Learn more about our free, nine-week course and be the first to know about the next workshop here. Visit Mental Health Connecticut’s YouTube channel for a video version of Ana’s story.
Ana is a musician, writer, and activist. A senior undergraduate music performance major, she plans to pursue a career in arts management to advocate for systemic change.
