I'm Not Going

When words fail, find a song that screams

There’s a song called “House” by singer and songwriter, Ben Folds. Released in 2011, it’s been the soundtrack to some of the most painful  moments of my adult life.

The “House” he sings about could have many interpretations, but I’ve always considered it to be less of a physical place and more of a state of being. Either way, it’s clear: whatever happened and wherever it happened, it left emotional scars.

“There’s a sign up in the yard,” he sings, “and the furniture has gone. Filled with fetid memories, unworthy of a song. Flashes of sad and angry faces come and go. Could anyone live between those walls and never know?”

Without so much as downbeat, the song jumps straight into that first verse with lyrics that suggest a story of undefined pain, some kind of trauma. Then, comes the chorus.

“And I could go there. But I’m not going. Pulse is slowing. No, I’m not nervous anymore. I’ve had the nightmares. I’ve seen some counselors. But I’m not going. Back up in that house again.”

Within the first minute of the song we get the sense that whatever has passed, whatever damage done, an effort has been made to keep it from being confining or defining. A gentleness accompanies the sentiment.

The beginning of the second verse resonates with me most. I have played it over and over and over in my mind so many times. It captures a fraction of a moment in time and a feeling that is raw and relatable.

“It’s just like waking up,” he sings, “in that second and a half. The bliss of not remembering. Before it all comes flooding back.”

Whenever I wake up with my heart broken or my spirit wounded, I think about this line — the truth of it, the frustration and the anguish of trying to hold onto a moment that is already gone. I can feel the weight of my own grief and fear and anger jockeying for position, nothing to be done but to stare up at the ceiling while they all settle and I muster the strength to get up.

“So what do I do as all these voices come and go?” he asks. “Could anyone live inside my head and never know?”

Once again the chorus repeats — a refrain of struggle and work, resolve and resilience. But then, the music swells and the gloves come off at the bridge; because while struggle and work, resolve and resilience are all admirable and signs of maturity, growth and strength — make no mistake — you can’t just dismiss every heartbreak and trauma as inevitable, mere byproducts of just being alive. 

Some things that damage our hearts, our sense of peace and our safety should never happen. There are things we do not deserve to endure, places we should not have to go physically or emotionally and we are not required to be polite about that.

“I’m not sorry for what I’m feeling,” Folds belts out, “Blow the walls out! Bring the ceiling to the ground!”

And now the chorus takes on a different tone — forceful, direct, definitive. 

“I’ve had the nightmares. Seen the counselors. I’m not going. Back up in that house again!”

I’ve returned to this particular “House” more times that I can possibly even count. I’ve felt every note of it in different ways at different times — something, importantly, that speaks to the impact of art. 

When thresholds are crossed or rugs ripped out, artists find ways to form words around thoughts and screams; giving a voice to the speechless, putting chaos to good use. Art holds space for both the beautiful and grotesque, holding a mirror to humans struggling with or maybe unwilling to see their reflections in the world.

Ben Folds has another song I listened to on repeat during the last weeks of my father’s life. The ballad, “Picture Window,” written with writer and lyricist Nick Hornby, captures the emotions of spending the final days with someone who is terminally ill. The line that resonated:

“You know what hope is? Hope is a bastard. Hope is liar, a cheat and a tease. Hope comes near you. Kick its backside. Got no place in days like these.”

I think about that… a lot. And I could go there. But I’m not going. 

This essay appeared in my column in the November 21, 2024 edition of the Perry Herald in Perry, NY.