Mitxoda Weekly #105 – Three albums, an invisible illness, and a Belgian radio show.
This week, three albums from my life are having birthdays.
Nirvana’s Nevermind turns 35. In a Bar, Under the Sea by Belgium’s dEUS turns 30. Blind Melon’s self-titled debut turns 34. You remember that cover, don’t you?
I could write about the records, the years, and what it felt like to discover them. I probably will, at some point. But this week I keep coming back to something they gave me that has little to do with collecting albums.
Nevermind taught me something about being rather than having.
I didn’t have those words for it when I first listened. I only knew that the music made room for a person to be uncertain, angry, awkward, vulnerable, loud. It didn’t ask me to arrive with an impressive life and proof that I was doing everything right.
Thirty-five years later, I need that lesson in a different way.
The invitation I wanted to accept
A few hours before a party, I can still be looking forward to it.
I’ve said yes. I meant it. I want to see the people who invited me. Maybe there will be friends I haven’t seen in ages. Maybe I’ll hear a song I love and stay longer than planned. I want all of that.
Then my body says no.
From the outside, what happens next is simple: I cancel. From the inside, I’m losing an evening I wanted to have while trying to find words that won’t make my absence sound like a choice.
I live with SPA. It is part of my life whether or not it is apparent to someone looking at me. On a day when I seem well, I can make plans with complete sincerity. That doesn’t guarantee I’ll be able to keep them when the day arrives.
And the clock is cruel about it. If I knew a week in advance, I could tell people a week in advance. Often, I don’t. I find out when everyone else is getting ready to go.
Then comes the message:
I’m sorry. I can’t make it tonight.
I write it, hesitate, add an explanation, take some of it out. Will it be enough to be believed? Have I cancelled too many times? Will they think I’m making an excuse?
I know that someone may be disappointed when I don’t come. I’m disappointed too. I was going to be there.
I don’t want every invitation to become an examination of my health. I want to be able to say yes with joy, and, if things change, say no without having to prove how much I wanted to come.
What other people don’t see
Invisible illnesses are numerous. So are the ways they can alter an ordinary day. For some people, they change whether a journey is possible. For others, they affect work, friendships, money, or how much help they need from those around them. Sometimes they make a person dependent on someone else for things they would rather do themselves.
That dependence can be painful to admit. So can loneliness.
A person may stop accepting invitations because cancelling hurts too much. Friends may stop asking because they assume the answer will be no. Nobody has necessarily decided to end a friendship, yet the distance grows.
I’m not speaking for everyone who lives with an invisible illness. I’m telling you why I care about this so much. I want us to notice the people who disappear from gatherings and ask what might help them stay connected. I want a last-minute cancellation to be met with care, even when it’s inconvenient. I want people to be believed without having to recount their medical history over dinner plans.
This is a kind of fight for me. It happens in small moments, in the language we use, in whether we invite someone again. It also happens when people with invisible illnesses ask to be taken seriously in places where decisions are made about their lives.
Being ill can make life smaller in ways other people rarely see. Indifference makes it smaller still.
The records that stay with me
I’ve been thinking about Blind Melon’s debut, too. Thirty-four years on, its cover takes me straight back. I remember the feeling of finding music that left room for someone who didn’t quite fit. I still value that feeling: the relief of being able to recognise something of yourself in a song.
And then there is dEUS.
In a Bar, Under the Sea is 30, and I still cherish it. It’s a Belgian record that has stayed close to me through the years. Listening to it again reminds me how long music can remain part of a person’s life. I have changed since I first heard it. My relationship with my body has changed. The affection is still there.
None of these albums can get me to a party when I cannot go. I wouldn’t pretend otherwise. But they have given me company at different points in my life, and they’ve shaped the musician and radio host I became.
That brings me to Friday.
Le Salon Indie de Mitxoda #74: Belgium special
For the 74th episode of Le Salon Indie de Mitxoda, I’m putting Belgian music at the heart of the show. Most of the bands are friends, which makes this one especially dear to me.
You’ll hear the Siffredi’s, The Electrozixx, Boum Patate, and others. There will also be collaborations with me, Mitxoda. These are people whose music I’m proud to share.
I’ll play “SPA, Je Te Hais”, too. After everything I’ve written here, that song belongs in this episode. Its title says something I don’t need to tidy up for anyone. Some days, anger is part of living with this illness.
This Friday’s show won’t be live for me; I won’t be there with you in real time. I’m still as proud as ever to present it. Reaching episode 74 means a great deal, and I love that this one gives me the chance to bring these Belgian artists together.
If you’re listening from home, you have my company for the show. If you’re on your way somewhere, take us along. And if you had plans that your body changed at the last minute, I’m sorry you’re missing them. You’re welcome here, exactly as you are today.
I hope the people you wanted to see will ask you again.
Until next week,
Mitxoda
