Without realizing it, I’d written songs that were cries for help. I’d started writing music the year we moved to Los Angeles, the year life flipped upside down. Now, I was silencing myself for good. There was no room for the vulnerable child, the messy and experimental teen, the sinful or ordinary human. There was no time for sad memories, overwhelming stress, or spiritual temptation. I needed to perform whatever role I was given and please whomever was in front of me without interference. There was only one way to push through the relentless work schedule and family dysfunction, the public
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