I can remember the beginning of April when I was in seventh grade like it was yesterday. Kurt… I can remember the beginning of April when I was in seventh grade like it was yesterday. Kurt Loder burst onto MTV with news that would change my life, or at least the next three and a half years of it – Kurt Cobain committed suicide by shooting himself.

Immediately I went into a downward spiral. I was angry at the world because a talented voice had chosen to exit way too soon. My CD collection consisted of every Nirvana album and EP available at the time. They were in heavy rotation in my stereo – actually, they were the only CDs in rotation.

My wardrobe consisted of baggy jeans, Nirvana T-shirts, shirts with Kurt on them, black T-shirts and pretty much anything that came out of my Dad’s closet – punk rock T-shirts that were older than I was and way-too-big flannel shirts. I painted my nails black, blue, green and silver before it was “cool” and the white soles of my black Converse All Stars – high tops – were covered in angry phrases. On days that I had to wear my cheerleading uniform to school for games, my Latin teacher would ask if it was Halloween.

I discovered Kurt’s widow, Courtney Love. I wanted to look like her, act like her – I wanted to be her. In ninth grade I had to recite William Ernest Henley’s “Invictus” as someone else. I portrayed Love so well that when I threw a chair across the room at the end, my English teacher said he wanted to call me a bitch, just like Courtney.

My dirty blond hair became a mess tamed with baby doll barrettes and thick dark blue eyeliner lined my eyes, dark lipstick accentuated my lips. I took it as a compliment when people told me I looked like her.

I immersed myself in biographies of Cobain and Nirvana. Upon learning that the first song he taught himself to play on the guitar was Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven,” I sought out the song and fell in love with Zeppelin – not because Kurt liked them, but because they are truly a remarkable band. Nirvana posters covered the walls of my room; there was even a shrine to Cobain at one point.

A shopping trip to Abercrombie ‘ Fitch was my horrible punishment for mouthing off to a teacher and getting in-school suspension. After refusing to wear the new digs, my parents stopped fighting with me about my clothes and idols, realizing that in time I would grow out of it. They were right.

About as quickly as I fell into what I affectionately call “The Phase,” I fell out. I don’t know if it was growing up or the crush I had on a preppy hockey player, but one day in the middle of 10th grade I looked in the mirror and realized how stupid I looked.

April 5, 2003, will be nine years since Kurt Cobain took his own life. When I pop Nirvana CDs into my stereo every now and then, I’m hit with nostalgic waves. Still a fan, I was elated when the Nirvana compilation came out in October, and disappointed when I heard it.

“The Phase” has shaped me into who I am today. I discovered music that traversed wide boundaries. I learned to keep an open mind when it comes to other people’s tastes and interests. People sometimes made fun of me because they didn’t understand – when they weren’t worried that tiny, angst-ridden Katie was going to deck them for making an ill comment. I learned that every life is precious, that music is both an escape and a reality check.

I learned never to be afraid or ashamed of who I am, no matter how often it changes, to what, or why. And for that, Kurt, I thank you.