PUP: cheaper than therapy

The primary reasons I started this blog are to disclose and discuss:

1. the break-in at my old apartment on October 2, 2021
2. the fact that PUP probably saved my life after that and at bare minimum kept me from having a Full Blown Meltdown

Both topics will be covered in this inaugural post.

11:30pm. 10/2/21. East Village, NYC. I awoke in bed to an unexpected bright light. My eyes adjusted and came into focus on a tall, masked man wearing a hoodie and backpack. He was standing in the bedroom doorway, staring at me and my partner in bed. Behind him, he’d turned on several lights in our apartment so his shape was backlit — a startling silhouette.

This is it, I thought. This is the end and I’m not prepared. What is he here to do? I don’t have any weapons. I can’t defend myself. I can’t believe this is happening. Another light flashed in my eyes. Did the masked man shine a flashlight at me? Did he take a flash photograph of me looking in his direction, terrified and naked?

My heart raced. I couldn’t make a sound. I turned away, unable to face my fate, and tried to shake my partner awake. I shook him longer than seemed necessary and when I finally heard his voice, my eyes returned to the doorway and found it empty. Where did the masked man go? Is he hiding?

I silently watched my partner get up and leave our bedroom. One by one the lights went off again without a sound. Is the masked man still here? Who turned the lights off? Will they both re-enter the bedroom now?

My heart continued to race as only my partner returned, wondering why the lights were on. I managed to choke out “Someone was in the apartment.”

Between the look on his face and my inability to breathe normally, I knew our lives were now significantly altered. My struggle to form words continued while my partner searched our home and small building for a trace of the masked man and found nothing and no one. My body fixated on our front door. Why was he here and why did he leave? He has our keys. What if he comes back? He can return anytime with anyone. We need to call the police.

These phrases were on repeat in my mind when I realized we still hadn’t searched our 6-year-old daughter’s room, which appeared undisturbed. Her sound machine was still running and she seemed to be sleeping through this. How could she? My partner asked me to check on her. I froze. What if she’s not in there? What if the masked man came here to get her? What if he followed us around our neighborhood and targeted us? Were we an easy mark?

My heart stopped again. My feet wouldn’t move. My partner repeatedly asked me, begged me, to please check on our daughter and all I felt was an overwhelming fear that my choices had endangered her life. I was unable to do as he asked so he looked and she was there, awake, wondering what was happening. “Please come in here and talk with your daughter.” Still, I couldn’t move away from the door. If I move, the masked man might come in here again. I’m not moving until the police get here.

Two hours later, I was still at our door when the police arrived. They searched everywhere, dusted for prints, stayed out front until sun-up. It was comforting to have them there. For the next week, we stayed with some very kind friends and returned to our apartment only during daylight hours so my daughter could attend school nearby. The locks to our apartment and building were changed.

Days passed before I went to the closest police station in desperate emotional shambles. I can’t sleep. I can’t stop crying. I need to take care of myself and my daughter and I’m struggling to do so. Can someone here please help? The patient, considerate officer listened and recommended we get out of town for at least one weekend, suggested we move if possible, and gave me some safety tips on what to look for and avoid in our next apartment.

We followed his advice and spent a weekend away from the city, which offered temporary peace of mind. Outside of those whose support and generosity we relied on during the initial post-traumatic weeks, I was too embarrassed to talk about what happened. Guilt and shame overwhelmed me. I could have prevented this by not raising a child in New York City. Our building had no security and was on a shitty block with a bunch of dive bars, loud cars, and late night bodegas. We had already found a stranger sleeping in our building’s basement. Cities can be dangerous. Who was I to think I could get away largely unscathed? Judgments passed against me and my way of life were correct, and I was wrong.

Burying all of this inside was agony which outwardly manifested as depression and anger, yet somehow I had to keep moving forward. I had to walk my daughter to school every day. I had to entertain her at home and take her to the playground. I had to make small talk with other parents. I had to grocery shop. Cook. Clean. Focus on my career. Act like an adult human when all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball, sob, and have someone tell me everything will be okay. This is where PUP became my lifeline.

PUP gave me permission to think negative thoughts and simmer in my messy feelings. It was fine to walk around with my head down, headphones on, and scowl at the ground. It was acceptable to constantly feel pain, misery, dread, sorrow, anxiety, frustration, loneliness — all those emotions that we work so hard to limit or stop. I was drowning in them but you know what? So was Stefan Babcock, which meant I wasn’t alone. He was on call for me day and night, singing about bad feelings and providing a catharsis no one else around me could rival. Sometimes specific lyrics would provide a necessary release while other times a revelatory breakdown would help me through a tough moment (in particular the endings of “Reservoir” and “Factories”).

Babcock himself has revealed that he struggled with the fact that many PUP lyrics are based on the band members’ own mental health issues, as he does not want to fetishize or perpetuate the myth of the tortured artist. However, in the absence of music as a form of therapy, many of us would lack an immediate, indefinite source of refuge and empathy — not to mention a source that does not cost $300 an hour, the going rate for most therapists in my city.

That’s not to say I haven’t paid my share of dues to PUP. I saw them live in 2022 and 2023. I own all four of their LPs and two t-shirts. I still regret not purchasing their tour-exclusive tote bag that said “PUP: Perfect music for genuises” because I have SO MANY TOTE BAGS but damn if that isn’t the one that got away.

My family and I eventually moved into a new apartment. Over time I discussed what happened with some friends and family members and went to weekly therapy for a few months last year. All in the name of progress, healing, moving on. Yet as I sit here typing this, my stomach is tight and tears are welling up in my eyes. I still wake-up nearly every night at the tiniest of sounds and stare at the bedroom doorway, half expecting to see that bright light shining in my eyes again. Rest assured that after the worst nights, I always listen to PUP the next day.

Have you heavily leaned on a specific musician or album during a difficult time? Can music be equally or even more helpful than therapy in certain situations? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.

To quote the great James Hoffman, thank you so much for reading and I hope you have a great day.