I Need a (Punk Rock) Hero

I’ve found hope in the form of angry masses.

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My life changed the moment I discovered Joan Jett. She was totally hot, for one thing, and everything girls weren’t supposed to be, for another. I would love to say my hero was someone who was a little less corporate, or maybe someone who was , but I cannot. It was Joan all the way.

I was a thirteen-year-old in Texas, and I felt like I was going to explode out of my skin. The therapist I started seeing after my depression became undeniably crippling told me she believed I was avoiding my feelings of anger.

“I just don’t think I’m as angry as you think,” I said. “I don’t have the energy to be. I’m just sad.”

My therapist pursed her lips. “Why don’t you try punching a pillow?” she suggested. “Just try. Or go outside and scream.”

I didn’t do either. What was the point?

Looking back, Joan Jett provided me access to a sort of catharsis my therapist hoped I might achieve through more typical displays of pent-up aggression. Joan was loud, dirty, and pro-sex. She was openly bisexual—a label I had never seen anyone proudly embrace—and quick to challenge any preconceptions those around her had about womanhood. I stared at pictures of her for hours. I turned my…