Find this essay and more in Someone Said This?! Vol. 1 No. 2: I’m So Done With That

No human in history is more reckless with their feelings than Keith Whitley. Not only did he record “Don’t Close Your Eyes” but he released it as a single. He signed up to perform it to people, face to face??

If you’re unfamiliar, “Don’t Close Your Eyes” is a 4-minute and 12-second plea to Keith’s partner. He asks, for 4 entire minutes, that they not close their eyes to imagine their ex during sex.

I wish I was making this up.

At the height of the chorus, Keith begs, “Darling, just once, let yesterday go.” JUST. ONCE. He doesn’t even feel confident enough to ask for that to be the standard. He’s only asking about right now.

Yikes.

On its own, this would be a lot. But the fact that someone felt it strongly enough to make the feeling a song is unfathomable. But, no one saw it as embarrassing. People loved the song. I love the song. Billboard named it the #1 country song of 1988.

That’s the magic of saying the honest thing when every instinct says shut up. You allow others to respond. They can say, “Yes! That’s what I’ve been feeling but didn’t have language for.”

I’ve never begged someone to open their eyes. But I have silently willed someone to love me. It’s a unique kind of suffering, when you fear saying the wrong thing. You build a cage and force yourself to bear it alone, terrified of the quiet that might follow the truth.

But truth in a song opens the cage. When you sing the truth with other people, it becomes air—undeniable and delicate enough to reach in to the most fearful.

There is no better feeling than the moment in a dark venue when a quiet confession transforms into a hymn for everyone. By definition a confession always has one witness. Someone hears what you thought you’d never say. But that person doesn’t always feel obligated to acknowledge your voice.

But in a live show everyone chose it. They opted in to the responsibility of letting Keith, and everyone like him, know we heard it. And we’re here to stand amongst strangers and recognize the most secret parts of us. In front of each other. And the singer. And ourselves.

I don’t know any secrets to life. But I do know I’ve never once felt worse after showing up. I’ve always liked myself a little bit more after looking someone’s pain in the eye. And I’ve never once regretted standing in a room, singing the words to my favorite songs, knowing, in my bones, everyone there already believes the things I can’t yet say.