The Only Pirate at the Party

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The Only Pirate at the Party Page 7

by Lindsey Stirling


  “That was ridiculous. What a waste of your time and talent. From now on, all your gigs go through me,” she said.

  Here are a few typical conversations with Manager Brooke:

  “Lindsey, you didn’t get paid enough for that open mic night last week. You killed it!”

  “That’s because I have to pay them to perform.”

  “Get them on the phone—NOW.”

  Or, “Hey Lindsey, I got you a gig at a retirement home. You got the one o’clock bingo slot.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “I know, but wouldn’t that be fun?”

  Even if Brooke was a terrible “manager,” she did come to almost every performance I played. When I politely told her she didn’t have to attend, she replied: “I’m your manager, of course I have to come. What if someone tries to book a show, and I’m not there with my planner?”

  A few months later I was hired to play at a neighborhood block party. Brooke accompanied me, eager for a change of scenery and some free food. Little did we know, we were stepping into the block party event of the century.

  When I was a kid, a block party meant Crock-Pots in a cul-de-sac, but this was a full-blown carnival. There were bouncy houses, a dunk tank, water slides, a face-painting station, a balloon man, and—that’s right—a dancing hip-hop violinist. The man who hired me, who was the mastermind behind the whole party, had a schedule of events hung across his garage door. In the column for 7:00 P.M. it read, “Performance by Hip-Hop Violinist Lindsey Stirling,” and in the adjacent column for 7:30, it said, “Candy Cannon.”

  “That sounds intense,” I said, pointing out the cannon to Brooke.

  She nodded in approval, her mouth full of complimentary chips.

  “Oh yeah, we can’t miss that.”

  An hour later I finished playing my set, and the host of the block party handed me a check.

  As if he were speaking to several hundred people, he belted to the small crowd, “Thank you, Lindsey! That was fantastic. Next on the schedule is the candy cannon. Everyone gather ’round!”

  Gingerly, he placed a wooden canister on the lawn.

  “This is my first attempt at a cannon,” he said. “I hope it works. Everyone stand back until it goes off!”

  He lit a small wick at the bottom and stepped to the side. Everyone waited patiently for candy to come popping out of the top, but instead there was a pause, followed by an enormous BOOM! The entire thing exploded, spewing burning chunks of wood and candy into the air. For a split second, children and adults gazed up at the candy in delight, watching it rise higher and higher. Then the realization hit: everything going up—candy, shrapnel, and fire—would immediately be coming back down. Parents scrambled to grab their children, everyone ran for cover, and Brooke and I crouched behind a nearby car as smoldering candy rained from the sky around us. One particularly large piece of wood landed on a truck to our left and the alarm started blaring. Brooke looked at me, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and pure joy.

  “This guy is nuts! I heard him say this is an annual party. Put it on your calendar, we’re coming back next year.”

  We never did make it back to the block party, but a few months later I landed another solo gig at a water park. I found out about a summer social for college students in Provo, and I tracked down the woman in charge of entertainment. I casually offered (begged) to play, and to my surprise, it worked! I got the opening slot right before another no-name band, some dudes who called themselves Imagine Dragons. After I finished my short set, Brooke and I spent the remainder of the evening going up and down the vortex slide with a new spring in our step. A real gig and free admission to a water park on a Tuesday? Life was good.

  Given the opportunity, I might have happily played at block parties and water parks indefinitely. Unfortunately, these types of performance prospects were few, so I returned to the open mic night routine. This is where I eventually chanced upon a group called The Vibrant Sound. The first time I heard them perform, I was mesmerized. I had never heard anything quite like it—but more than that, they had a charisma and vitality onstage that was unparalleled. As Brooke and I left at the end of the night, the lead singer stopped me on my way out of the venue.

  “Hey, you played the violin tonight,” he said.

  “Yeah, that was me.”

  “I’m McKay Stevens.”

  He held out his hand and I shook it.

  “I’m Lindsey.”

  He was bald but attractive, confident but not overbearing.

  “Man, I love your style,” he said, still gripping my hand. “We could really use some of your sound. You have to come play with us sometime.”

  We did the phone number exchange and a few days later McKay actually called, inviting me to one of their band practices.

  For the next few years, I shared the stage regularly with The Vibrant Sound, both as a guest performer and a solo artist. I recognized in them the passion and energy I craved in my own music. I could go on and on about McKay as a person and a musician, but I’ll settle for saying he was one of my first inspirations in the music community and became a friend who is more like family. A few years later, when I started my first world tour, I asked McKay if he would come as my opening act. I wish I could say I did it to return the favor, but in reality I loved his music and wanted to bring someone I could trust. My motives were selfish, but I’m not apologizing.

  DISORDERED

  EATING

  Up to this point, most of the book has been full of sunshine and rainbows, because let’s face it, I grew up well. Good parents, good friends, good neighbors, good schools, good opportunities. But we all have something. I don’t want to draw too much attention to my something, because it’s not a badge of honor. I’m not proud of it, and I don’t feel like a stronger or better person for having gone through it. On the contrary, it rendered me weak and crippled for years, and it cost me much more than I ever gained. It’s a part of my past, not a part of who I essentially am as a person. If we’re clear on that, I’ll share my struggle in the hopes that some of you may become stronger and quicker to face and overcome your own “somethings,” whatever they may be. So here it is: I had an eating disorder.

  The first time I admitted it, the words burned in my throat, like I was swallowing coals. Even now I don’t like the sound. When people hear the word anorexic, they automatically associate it with starvation and skipping meals, but those are merely the symptoms of a much bigger mental battle.

  For as long as I can remember, I have been hyperaware of my size: the curve of my hips, the roundness in my face. Like talking out of turn or playing the violin, I always wanted my thin waistline to be one of my defining characteristics.

  When I was eight, my family took our first trip to the snow. I remember putting on a gray snowsuit and staring at my reflection in the hall mirror, pinching and pulling at the sides of it, trying to find my waistline beneath the puffy polyester. It was the color of dust and the extra material engulfed my body, causing me to look large and feel insignificant. I found a belt, wrapped it around my midsection, and tightened it to define my waist again. I didn’t do this to impress boys or my friends—I was eight. I did it for myself. I did it because somewhere beneath my skin lingered a subtle self-consciousness, planted by who knows what. And that’s as far back as I can trace it.

  Insecurities aside, I have always been petite. But in high school it bothered me that my jeans hung limp on Brooke’s body. Brooke loved wearing my clothes but routinely complained about not filling out my jeans properly. She wanted to be curvier like me, and I wanted to be smaller like her. For a while that’s all it was—a desire to look a little different—but by the time I entered college, I was plagued with fear of the “freshman fifteen.” I was rooming with Michelle, and she had to count calories for a Sports Nutrition class. Since we ate almost every meal together, I too started consuming my food by the numbers. I knew the appropriate caloric intake for a girl of my age and level of physical activity wa
s about two thousand calories a day, but I was never satisfied with meeting the quota. I always had to be well below: 1,600, 1,400, 1,200 . . .

  Later, this habit trickled over into my mission in New York, a place overrun by freshly baked goods and greasy street food. Everywhere I went, people were telling me what I “just had to try” next.

  “Have you tried Magnolia Bakery? The banana pudding is to die for.”

  “You must go to John’s Pizzeria while you’re here!”

  “The Bagel Hole has the best honey cream cheese I have ever tasted.”

  The list of decadent must-haves went on and on. So, in addition to walking around New York City all day every day, I cut back on my overall food intake even more to compensate for these occasional indulgences. A bagel for breakfast meant skipping lunch, and dessert at night meant smaller meals the next day. It was a careful balancing act, and when I failed to comply, I felt physically and emotionally heavier as a result. In my mind, I “ate carefully” and lost weight “casually.” My mom, of course, noticed.

  Dear Lindsey,

  You look so thin in your pictures. They say the camera adds ten pounds, but you look smaller than ever. Are you eating enough? I’m so proud of you, but don’t work yourself to death, please. . . .

  Dear Mammy,

  Don’t worry, we have plenty of food, but I’m also working hard and staying busy. Chasing after people in the name of Jesus is hard work. It’s the sinners who run away the fastest! Just kidding, but there is no need to worry. . . .

  I honestly didn’t think there was any cause for concern. So what if I avoided greasy foods and ate copious amounts of veggies? Isn’t that every mother’s dream?

  It wasn’t until I got back from New York that my “healthy” habits spun out of control, and I lost the ability to discern between healthy and unhealthy thoughts. It wasn’t only an issue at mealtimes; my eating disorder completely engulfed my life, dictating what I ate, my emotions, and how I saw myself in the mirror. Still, I continued on with my life, all the while thinking my thoughts were normal. It’s hard to recognize a problem that is gradually consuming your mind.

  For a while, my surroundings made it easy to ignore the problem. I was a junior in college, living with Brooke, and our other roommates were straight out of a sitcom. We were six peas in a very small pod. Cassie was the glue of our group and every night, like moths to a flame, anyone home would congregate in her room to avoid doing more pressing things (like homework or getting sleep). Frequently, these late-night gatherings involved watching consecutive episodes of ABC’s The Bachelor on Cassie’s old-school computer monitor. She had graduated the year before and worked as a social worker at a corrective school for teenage girls. After a long day at work, I suspect she enjoyed watching the train-wreck scenarios, because for once she didn’t have the added responsibility of fixing them.

  One night, after a particularly entertaining and heart-wrenching episode, our roommate Kelsey entered the room wearing a black leotard and high heels.

  “What do you guys think?” she asked, posing dramatically against the doorframe. “For the church talent show. I’m thinking of performing the dance from Beyoncé’s ‘Ego’ music video, but I’d need two of you to back me up.”

  She looked between Cassie, Brooke, and me as she slid clumsily into the splits, snagging one of her heels on the old carpet.

  “Oh my gosh . . . You can’t be serious. Do you know the dance already?” Cassie asked.

  Kelsey answered with a grin. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the last three hours? Studying?”

  “Show us, now!” Cassie yelled.

  Kelsey pulled up a chair and started dancing.

  Immediately, Brooke and Cassie succumbed to uncontrollable laughter. I knew it was funny, but my laugh felt unnatural. Usually these moments pulled me away from my thoughts, but more and more I felt myself getting sucked back in by something more powerful than my desire to be involved. When Brooke finally caught her breath, she got off the floor and started to dance behind Kelsey.

  “I’ll do it, but I will not wear a leotard,” she said.

  Kelsey waved her hand back and forth, “Fine, fine, fine.”

  Brooke reached out her hand, pulling me to my feet.

  “I need backup!” she yelled.

  I danced for a minute before sitting back on the floor. I felt like I was in a cage, watching, but unable to experience anything for myself. Something inside me had gone missing. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it. Cassie’s laugh startled me out of my thoughts and I looked up to see Kelsey awkwardly sliding off a rolling office chair.

  “Gosh darn it! Not even Beyoncé could do this dance on wheels,” she protested.

  “Maybe if you took off your heels—” Brooke suggested.

  “Never!” Kelsey yelled back, sliding off the chair completely.

  Her backside hit the floor first, sending her legs above her head. One heel caught on Cassie’s desk, sending its disorganized contents crashing to the floor. This time my laugh came naturally and I gave myself to it freely, momentarily escaping my preoccupations.

  Aside from the laughter in Cassie’s room, I felt the most content after a long run or a small meal, so I ran longer, and I ate smaller.

  Other than my shrinking appetite I was still leading a relatively normal college life. One afternoon in February, Brooke arrived home early from class and caught me as I was pouring a bowl of cereal.

  “Stop!” she yelled. “Did you know it’s Susan B. Anthony’s birthday?”

  I stared back and said, “I love Susan B. Anthony . . .”

  “Yeah, me too. We should probably celebrate.”

  “Wanna go to Guru’s?” I asked.

  It was our favorite restaurant and the only place we went to celebrate “special” occasions.

  “Uh, yes.” She said it as though the answer was obvious.

  Ten minutes later we were seated in a corner of the restaurant and ordering the usual, a cilantro-lime quesadilla to share.

  “Ooh look, I see a first date at four o’clock,” I said, gesturing to a couple seated across the room. “I’ll be the boy this time.”

  It was a regular game we played, mimicking a real date that was happening around us while we ate. There was no malice in our theatrics, only lighthearted fun. The girl had bleach blond hair pulled back in a messy bun, and the boy was wearing a pale pink V-neck. They were deep in shallow conversation.

  Brooke put on her best Valley girl voice. “So, what are you studying? Something manly that will make a lot of money one day, I hope.”

  “Oh, just bro-science, you know,” I said, lowering my voice a few octaves.

  “That’s super cool . . .”

  Several feet away the girl started to giggle, and Brooke continued.

  “Ha, ha, ha, you’ll have to excuse me, I’m just nervous, and your breath smells like a year-old taco. Did you eat a taco around this time last year?”

  I laughed out loud and the game was over.

  As the year progressed, the thought of eating cheese on a tortilla became more and more revolting. Around March, I stopped eating foods that were obviously fattening.

  Salad dressing: Could I have mine on the side?

  Cheese: No, thank you.

  Mayonnaise: Are you insane?

  From there, the list kept growing. By May I had cut out all dairy products, carbs, sugars, and most meat. Before long my diet consisted entirely of fruits, vegetables, brown rice, and almond milk. Even then, when I was consuming the same nutrients as a ten-pound rabbit, I convinced myself I was being healthy. My self-esteem had become directly connected to the food I ate—vegetables made me feel strangely empowered, whereas the foods I had blacklisted immediately turned into self-loathing in my mouth. At one point, I replaced up to two meals a day with carrots. My body fought back, turning my palms orange. Other people began noticing my weight loss and commented on how skinny I looked, usually out of concern, but I took it as a compliment. Thank you for
noticing, I thought. And I thought of little else, spending more and more time staring at my reflection in the mirror—standing sideways, one hand on my stomach and the other on the small of my back.

  “I feel so fat.” The words finally materialized one evening in July.

  Brooke looked at me like I had rats crawling out of my ears.

  “What are you talking about? You’re so skinny!”

  “My stomach isn’t as flat as it used to be. I’m so wide from the side, I look like a cow.”

  “Whatever, you look great,” she said, brushing it off. But it was the first of many conversations we would have in front of the mirror, until it became the only conversation we had—me complaining about my appearance, Brooke telling me I was skinny, and neither of us having anything else left to say.

  One night, after a long week of studying, Brooke ran into our room waving several pieces of paper back and forth in her hand.

  “Lindsey! I got an A on my Biochemistry test! A ninety-one but that’s still an A!”

  “That’s awesome!” I said, smiling for the first time all day.

  She was ecstatic.

  “I’m taking the night off from studying. Want to go celebrate with me?”

  “Yes!”

  “Let’s go to Guru’s!” She said it like she was sharing a gift.

  My heart sank. I wanted to go with her, to sit in our corner booth and giggle like children, but she’d want me to share the meal.

  My mind raced.

  Should I go? I don’t have to order anything. I could just keep her company. But what if she offers to share? I’ll want to eat some. But the grease, the cheese. No, it’s not worth it. I can’t go. I need an excuse but it has to be good, believable. But she’ll be so disappointed . . .

  I looked up and watched Brooke finger through the test, beaming from ear to ear. Every part of me wanted to go, but something stronger was holding me back.

  I made an excuse, and she went with Kelsey instead.

 

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