I don't have a therapist, so I use me as my own therapist when

Hear the words of Tyler, The Creator, spoken not as boast but as confession: “I don’t have a therapist, so I use me as my own therapist when I’m making the music.” These words shine with raw honesty, for they reveal the eternal truth that art is not merely performance but healing. In this statement, Tyler shows us that music is not only for the ears of others—it is a mirror for the soul, a sacred space where wounds can be examined, where burdens can be spoken, where emotions, once imprisoned, are finally freed.

To be one’s own therapist is to dare to look within. Many flee from themselves, fearing the storm of their inner world. But the artist must not flee; he must walk into the storm with courage, shaping his pain into melody, his doubts into rhythm, his joy into sound. Tyler proclaims that when he creates, he confronts himself. Each note is confession, each lyric is dialogue, each beat is therapy. In the absence of a guide, he becomes both healer and patient, sculptor and stone.

This is no new wisdom. Consider the psalms of King David, sung beneath the stars of ancient Israel. He had no physician for his troubled soul, yet in his songs he poured out his fear, his guilt, his longing, and his hope. His words became medicine not only for himself but for generations after him. His psalms were his therapy, and like Tyler, he turned inward pain into outward song. Music, in every age, has been the silent physician of the human heart.

Or reflect upon Vincent van Gogh, tormented in spirit yet relentless in expression. He did not find solace in doctors, but in the canvas. Each stroke of paint, though born of turmoil, was also his therapy. His art did not cure his pain, but it transformed it, and in doing so, gave meaning to suffering. Though his life was short, the works he left behind continue to heal others. Tyler’s confession belongs to this same ancient lineage: art as self-examination, as survival, as truth.

The lesson in these words is clear: do not wait for perfect conditions to seek healing. If no one listens, listen to yourself. If no one tends to your wounds, tend to them through creation. Whether through song, through writing, through painting, or through silence turned to prayer, give your soul a voice. To create is to converse with your deepest self, to become your own witness and healer. This is not the path of escape, but the path of courage.

What, then, must you do, O seeker of wisdom? Begin by facing yourself honestly. Do not bury your emotions in distraction, nor silence them in fear. Instead, find your art—your way of expressing the unspoken. Pour your struggles into creation. Write them, sing them, move them, craft them. In doing so, you will not only ease your own burdens but also give voice to others who cannot yet speak. For when you heal yourself through expression, you also become a healer for the world.

Thus, let Tyler’s words be a torch: “I use me as my own therapist when I’m making the music.” Let them remind you that art is not merely for applause—it is for survival, for clarity, for truth. When the world grows heavy, turn inward, and let your creativity draw out what cannot be said plainly. For in the act of honest expression lies both therapy and triumph, both healing and legacy.