A fan letter I wrote to Dave Matthews before the band’s three-night run at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley, CA, this past summer:
Dave-
Don’t know if you ever read these, but I have a question.
Why don’t you play the third verse of Grey Street anymore?
I don’t know if you realize how incredibly important that part is to some people. I suffer from multiple sclerosis, fibromyalgia, and post-traumatic stress disorder following a shooting at my workplace. The third verse of Grey Street followed by the final chorus is the best metaphor for the pain of chronic illness and chronic depression I’ve ever heard in my life, and playing it for other people has actually made it easier for me to talk about my frustrations with people.
When you have a chronic illness like multiple sclerosis (which I was diagnosed with thirteen years ago on Sunday at the age of nineteen), people try to be helpful and with the best intentions tell you to take comfort in the small things in life, the things that are positive, the things that don’t suck as much as everything else - in essence, it’s like someone is standing outside my door telling me to take what I can from my [shattered, ruined] dreams and make it as real as anything so that it can take all the strength out of the courage. (It has to be strength. Not work. When you have a chronic illness, people LOVE to tell you how “strong” you are. Which hurts. A lot.)
And my response to that is wanting to tell them that they’re crazy, that what they’re saying is horrible and wrong and doesn’t take into account all of the other suffering and hard experiences I have.
I have the final part of that - “I live on the corner of Grey Street and the end of the world” - tattooed on my arm as a way to communicate with people about my experiences; in essence, it’s a grounding point, a place to find me, so I can get help from all of the suffering I’m so used to. The words are surrounded by flowers and shading in colours bold and bright, but around the words themselves the leaves and swirls mix to grey, because that is EXACTLY what it feels like. I could change everything about me and my life using colours bold and bright - that is, to say, by taking what I can from my dreams and making them as real as anything - but any time I try all of those colours, those dreams, those feelings, just mix to grey.
So please. I think people need to really hear and understand the true meaning those words, rather than just hearing it as a mention of a creepy stalker outside a woman’s door.
And thank you for writing those words. You cannot begin to understand how they’ve allowed me a way to communicate all of my pain and frustration with people in a way that can be beautiful and thought-provoking instead of off-putting and dreary.
I’m going to be at all three nights of your Berkeley show (came all the way from Pennsylvania!), so if you get this before then, please consider doing that for someone whose life was in many ways saved by your words.
Thank you.
Dave-
Don’t know if you ever read these, but I have a question.
Why don’t you play the third verse of Grey Street anymore?
I don’t know if you realize how incredibly important that part is to some people. I suffer from multiple sclerosis, fibromyalgia, and post-traumatic stress disorder following a shooting at my workplace. The third verse of Grey Street followed by the final chorus is the best metaphor for the pain of chronic illness and chronic depression I’ve ever heard in my life, and playing it for other people has actually made it easier for me to talk about my frustrations with people.
When you have a chronic illness like multiple sclerosis (which I was diagnosed with thirteen years ago on Sunday at the age of nineteen), people try to be helpful and with the best intentions tell you to take comfort in the small things in life, the things that are positive, the things that don’t suck as much as everything else - in essence, it’s like someone is standing outside my door telling me to take what I can from my [shattered, ruined] dreams and make it as real as anything so that it can take all the strength out of the courage. (It has to be strength. Not work. When you have a chronic illness, people LOVE to tell you how “strong” you are. Which hurts. A lot.)
And my response to that is wanting to tell them that they’re crazy, that what they’re saying is horrible and wrong and doesn’t take into account all of the other suffering and hard experiences I have.
I have the final part of that - “I live on the corner of Grey Street and the end of the world” - tattooed on my arm as a way to communicate with people about my experiences; in essence, it’s a grounding point, a place to find me, so I can get help from all of the suffering I’m so used to. The words are surrounded by flowers and shading in colours bold and bright, but around the words themselves the leaves and swirls mix to grey, because that is EXACTLY what it feels like. I could change everything about me and my life using colours bold and bright - that is, to say, by taking what I can from my dreams and making them as real as anything - but any time I try all of those colours, those dreams, those feelings, just mix to grey.
So please. I think people need to really hear and understand the true meaning those words, rather than just hearing it as a mention of a creepy stalker outside a woman’s door.
And thank you for writing those words. You cannot begin to understand how they’ve allowed me a way to communicate all of my pain and frustration with people in a way that can be beautiful and thought-provoking instead of off-putting and dreary.
I’m going to be at all three nights of your Berkeley show (came all the way from Pennsylvania!), so if you get this before then, please consider doing that for someone whose life was in many ways saved by your words.
Thank you.
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