I can still see myself sitting in that college English class, listening to our teacher’s lecture on the book we were reading, The Scarlett Letter. He was asking us to imagine the suffering of the story’s protagonist, Hester, who was publicly humiliated for bearing a child out of wedlock. “What must that have been like for this woman?” the professor asked. Then, perhaps trying to appeal to his young audience, he added, “Poor Hester could have used the song ‘Haven’t Got Time for the Pain.’”
A few students laughed at our teacher’s joke, but my reaction was one of admiration. Someone with a PhD was acknowledging the value of Top 40 music, comparing a Carly Simon song to a critically-acclaimed novel! I’m sure our teacher didn’t give his reference to “Haven’t Got Time for the Pain” a second thought, but it’s stayed with me all these years, long after I’d sat in his classroom, silently holding in my pain.
I owned a few Carly Simon albums back in 1974, when “Haven’t Got Time” was a hit. I thought of Simon as a good singer with a talent for writing catchy choruses, like the ones in“You’re So Vain” and “Anticipation.” (That last one’s chorus was so infectious it was used in a TV commercial.) Carly often co-wrote songs with Jacob Brackman and while it isn’t clear which of them came up with the lyrics for “Haven’t Got Time,” the song seems to reflect her life in the early ‘70s: newly married to James Taylor, expecting their first child. You can hear the relief in her voice; a troubled, but finally contented, young woman: “Haven’t Got Time For The Pain”
“All those crazy nights when I cried myself to sleep
Now melodrama never makes me weep anymore…”
Freshman year of college was supposed to be my big break from small town drama. An hour and a half from home, I was hoping to take my true self out of hiding. Turns out I was nowhere near ready to be who I am and reading about Hester’s public shaming didn’t help my self-confidence. But secretly I was contemplating how to finally be free and “Haven’t Got Time” sounded like good advice. Again, it was Simon’s chorus, where she lists the reasons for letting go of her hurt, that makes the song memorable:
“No, I haven't got time for the pain
I haven't got room for the pain
I haven't the need for the pain…”
Letting go of pain was a new concept for me. Before hearing Carly’s declaration of freedom from it, I’d never considered being free of pain an option. As a child, I figured out how life works by watching grownups around me bearing their pain, as if it were an expectation: If I wanted to be an adult, I’d need to learn how to carry the weight of my pain.
“Suffering was the only thing that made me feel I was alive
That's just how much it cost to survive in this world…”
I never told anyone what “Haven’t Got Time” awakened in me while I was in college. Most of my friends were caught up in a different kind of drama, making valiant attempts to hook up. None of them were talking about pain, least of all how to let go of it. But when I was alone, maybe on a weekend drive back to the hometown I was trying to grow away from, I’d listen to Carly’s song. With car windows shut tight, I’d sing it loud, feeling the exhilaration of telling pain to take a hike.
Those top-of-my-lungs renditions actually made a difference. Like so many pop songs have done, “Pain” offered me a new idea: self-care. Music had already taught me how to be a good friend; songs like “Bridge Over Troubled Water” and “Lean on Me” took care of that. But taking care of myself—self-care—was brand new territory.
“You showed me how, how to leave myself behind
How to turn down the noise in my mind…”
I’m pretty sure the “you” that Carly refers to in “Pain” is a reference to her sparkly-new relationship with James Taylor. But with pop music’s version of falling in love looking unlikely for me, I started thinking of the song’s “you” as someone I could trust to talk with about my pain. A wise older friend. A counselor. A therapist.
I took my first venture into therapy after graduating college and landing a teaching job in Pennsylvania. But being even farther from home couldn’t shake my true feelings loose. I never told that therapist what was really eating away at me. That wouldn’t come until I’d been through my second, third and fourth counselor. But in between those attempts to reveal the source of my pain, I’d keep hearing “Haven’t Got Time,” analyzing a phrase here or there that made sense:
“Til you showed me how, how to fill my heart with love…”
That’s really all it would take, one therapist suggested. Fill your heart with love. To make room for it, let go of some pain.
There are lots of people I can thank for my full heart today. Along with family and friends, there’s Carly Simon, who thought to write a song about the joy of releasing pain. There’s my college professor, who raised that song to literary heights. There’s each therapist, whose careful listening brought me one step closer. And there’s me, who never gave up on a good song’s advice.