Under a Leo Moon (A Ritual for Creative Success)

A few nights ago was the new moon, which apparently is a great time to like, do intention setting rituals and whatnot. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again — I’m pretty skeptical when it comes to this stuff, but choosing a goal or vision to work on for a month does tickle the science part of my brain. Besides, I have ADHD. This is the kind of structure I need in my life.

“Jess getting her shit together for once” will take all the magic in the universe.

The new moon is in Leo, which is a thing I don’t know a lot about, but I guess it’s a good time to do creative things. There’s supposed to be a lot of big, bombastic energy surrounding this moon, which is perfect for the average glam rock frontwoman trying to manifest her band’s success. Additionally, I found out when I was researching my birth chart that my moon sign is Leo. Coincidence? Realistically, yes. But I’d like to believe there’s something special there. I’m a frickin’ lion baby, and you’re gonna hear me roar.

My lovely wife, Crass, has been mostly supportive of my magical endeavors (albeit she’s a bit annoyed with how many essential oils and herbs I’ve accumulated in the past few weeks). Although she’s Jewish by birth and generally agnostic, she’s always felt drawn to the witchy side of life. So for this new moon, she decided to join me for an intention setting ritual.

Here’s what all was involved:

– “road opener” candle I got from this dope metaphysical store downtown (supposedly opens new opportunities)

– bay leaves

– citrine crystal necklace

– cedar smudge stick

– a black Sharpie

We started by assembling a makeshift altar on the balcony and smudging the air around it. It was a beautiful summer night, and considering it was dark out, we decided to go out naked as the day we were born. I didn’t bother to look up whether nudity affected the magic at all. Once we were settled in, we light the candle and said a few words. Our incantation was as follows:

Holy powers that be
Ignite a spark in me
Bring success to my art
And creativity to my heart

After reciting the incantation, we scribbled the names of our artistic projects — my band’s name and her art business’s name — on a pair of bay leaves using the marker. We then placed the leaves into the flame, envisioning our prayers being sent up to the heavens along with the smoke. Around that time, I took her hand, and we started daydreaming aloud about what our hopes and visions were for our respective endeavors. It felt nice, dreaming about the future with her. Somehow, it made the evening even more magical. At the end, we brought the candle inside and let it burn on the kitchen table, but not before holding the necklace we had in the smoke. The plan was for her to wear the necklace to art shows and me to wear it to my band’s gigs, as a reminder of our intentions.

It feels silly at times, but I really do get a sense of peace from performing rituals like this, like I have a sense of control over my destiny. Suddenly, my dreams of making it in music don’t seem so lofty. It gives me perspective. Perhaps this magic stuff is baloney, but I think there’s some substance to it after all. It’s retraining your brain to see your full potential and focus on achieving what you need to achieve. Maybe it just takes burning a couple of leaves to finally tame my ADHD. So mote it be.

Banishing Fear

If you haven’t read my last blog post, I’ve been dabbling in witchy shit as of late. It’s been interesting experimenting with herbs and oils and crystals and whatnot and seeing what works. Like I mentioned in my previous post, I tend to approach everything with a sense of skepticism. I like to weigh things against actual proven science. But sometimes, you just have to do something because it feels right. Because you don’t have any scientific way to fight the crushing weight of impermanence and mortality. My Prozac has worked wonders for a lot of my mental health issues, but there’s still that looming feeling of “I am going to die and be forgotten someday” that permeates everything I do.

It’s been a fear of mine ever since I was incredibly young — yes, I, as a sweet, innocent little girl, constantly perseverated on death. I have distinct memories of clutching my Bible and praying there was something after “the end.” It’s persisted to this day, and to be honest, it’s probably gotten louder, considering I’m closer to death now than I was as a child. I’ve noticed my brain tends to dwell on the idea that nothing lasts forever. I prepare for the end of things before they’re even over and can’t seem to live in the moment, because all I can think about is “this is going to end.” It’s not all about death, but it tends to circle back around to death eventually. Take for example my relationships. They might not work out, which is a scary enough thought, but then the thought occurs — what if they do? It’s still going to end someday. Someone’s gonna die first. And it’s going to kill me.

I remember reading something about how people are forgotten in only a few generations. Think about it. How much do you really know about your great-grandma? And someday when you have children of your own, will you tell them in extensive detail about your grandpa? You can only keep a memory alive for so long. The film Coco hit me on several levels. For one, it was the push I needed to get back into music therapy. But the scene where a dead man literally fades away as his family finally forgets him completely ruined me. It hit me that that will happen to me someday. I feel like it’s been a huge motivator in me being creative, since I want to leave something behind after I die, but the flip side is the amount of dread it places in my heart. It gets overwhelming to think about sometimes, and it’s been especially bad these past few weeks.

So, at my wit’s end, I decided to perform a banishing ritual to send my fears surrounding death into the abyss, once and for all. If you have similar fears to me, maybe try this little ritual and see how you feel afterwards.

You’ll need:

-a black candle

-frankincense and myrrh oils

-something to carve a word into the candle

Try to perform this ritual during a waning moon, since that’s the best time to get rid of the stuff that’s bringing you down. Start by purifying your space however you feel comfortable (I used my cedar smudge stick). Get out your black candle and place it in a safe space. The color black is used traditionally for protection and banishing negativity. With your chosen utensil, carve a word that represents your fear into the candle. I chose “dread,” but feel free to use whatever speaks to you. Anoint the candle with frankincense and myrrh. These oils are significant in my Christian tradition as the gifts the wise men brought Jesus as a baby, and for good reason. They’re symbolic of death, spirituality, and holiness. They seemed like the natural choice for this ritual for that reason. Light the candle and keep it in a safe place to burn out naturally, and meditate on the word you wrote melting away.

It’s worth noting here that my practice is rooted primarily in my Christian beliefs. So when I performed this myself, I used the time the candle was burning to talk to God, and I feel like He gave me a lot of insight on why the thought of being forgotten scared me so much. I felt like I was being convicted in my own elevated sense of self-importance. Why do I feel so strongly about being remembered for something? Shouldn’t I be working on staying humble and showing kindness to those around me? Aren’t there more important things in life than being a name in the history books? Jesus Himself said it best in the Parable of the Wedding Banquet:

When you are invited to a wedding banquet, do not sit in the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited. Then the host who invited both of you will come and tell you, ‘Give this man your seat.’ And in humiliation, you will have to take the last place. But when you are invited, go and sit in the last place, so that your host will come and tell you, ‘Friend, move up to a better place.’ Then you will be honored in front of everyone at the table with you. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and the one who humbles himself will be exalted.”
Luke 14: 8-11

Perhaps you’re of a different religious tradition, which is fine. I created this ritual to be something anyone of any faith can participate in, though your conversation with your spirit or deity will likely differ from mine. What’s important, however, is that you meditate on why you’re afraid of what you’re afraid of, and listen closely for insight on how to deal with those feelings. But one universal truth did come to me while I was praying and meditating, a simple affirmation.

I accept the flow of life.

People change, circumstances change, relationships change, and eventually, you will die. We all will die. But that’s okay. As an animated lion once said, we’re all part of the circle of life, and we all need to come to terms with that eventually. What matters now is how we treat each other. Love begets more love, and that will remain long after we are gone.

Straight Outta the Broom Closet

So, uh, I guess I’m a witch?

I started researching my family history during the lockdown. Genealogy is an endeavor my cousin beat me to, though, so I asked her some questions about our ancestors. Turns out, we’re descended from Appalachian witches! You see, before there were doctors in the remote areas of the mountains, wisened granny witches would serve as both apothecaries and spiritual leaders in the community. And it made sense — there were some weird things my family did that I never realized were weird, like being able to tell when a rainstorm was coming by the leaves and using tobacco as an antidote to insect stings. I guess normal families don’t rip up a cigarette and apply it to their child’s feet when they step on a bee.

One thing that struck me as interesting was the fact that these Appalachian witches drew inspiration from the pagan traditions from the British Isles where they once originated, the indigenous traditions of the folks they often intermixed with, and, to my surprise, Christianity! You can be a Christian and a witch?

It makes sense when you throw out the demon-summoning, hex-casting preconceptions people often have about witchcraft and break it down into what it really is — taking charge of your own spirituality. It’s sitting on your bathroom floor with nothing but a candle and praying directly to your higher power. It’s going against the grain of organized religion and interacting with a god or a spirit by yourself, without the interference of a church or priest or pastor. And that’s what spirituality should be, in my humble opinion — a very personal affair, and one that’s unique to you. Everyone has their own interpretations of their sacred scriptures, and while it is wise to seek counsel from people you admire spiritually, no one should have the power to tell you what to believe. The second you succumb to dogma, you check your brain at the door. This is how dangerous groupthink and cults start.

The second you succumb to dogma, you check your brain at the door.

So how can a witch be Christian? Part of witchcraft is communing with a spirit guide of your choice, whoever speaks to you. Some witches work with members of the Roman or Greek parthenon, some with ancient Egyptian or Celtic deities, and others with fae or other spirits. I just happen to believe in the God of the Abrahamic faiths, specifically the Trinity, or the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit (who I often interpret as the personification of wisdom, who is often characterized as feminine). So when I mix together oils to anoint a candle, or hold a crystal that’s supposedly imbued with a virtue I want to manifest, or use my cedar smudge stick to purify my spaces, that is the deity whom I am consulting. Additionally, Christianity and witchy spiritual practices are often intertwined in various cultures. Look at Haitian voodoo, Dia de los Muetos, and, most personally to me, the Appalachian spiritual tradition. Even a lot of standard Christian traditions are essentially witchcraft under a different name. Consecrating bread and wine and consuming to honor a deity? That’s witchy as heck, man.

Full disclosure: I’ve always been a skeptic, even when it comes to Christianity in and of itself. I don’t claim to know everything, and I think it’s foolish to assert that any human has all the answers to the big spiritual questions. If we could understand our God, He wouldn’t be God. Part of embarking on a spiritual journey is accepting you’ll never know everything, and the truth is, this could all be bunk. But I know my spiritual practices give me a sense of inner peace, so even if I’m praying to absolute nobody in the end, the mental and emotional benefits I receive from my practice are worth it. And a lot of “witchy” practices are rooted in things like self-care and intention setting, which are helpful to me as the proud owner of the absolute worst case of ADHD my therapist has ever seen. If burning a candle or holding some rock gives me that extra motivation to create and do what I love, so be it. I’ll gladly psyche my brain into doing what I want it to do for once.

So that’s a little overview of where my beliefs and spiritual journey have been leading me lately. I’ll share some of my rituals and advice on this blog in upcoming posts. Until then, peace out, y’all. I’m off to eat unsuspecting meddling children and absorb their energy to maintain my eternal youth. The usual, you know?

We Need a Revolution

Well well, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?

I’ll admit, a big part of me taking a whole year off of updating this website is because I’ve lacked inspiration. This past Christmas, I lost my childhood best friend to cancer. We’d planned on starting a ministry together and reaching into communities who are often looked down upon and neglected. She had such a heart for Christ and for people, and her death damn near killed any faith I had left in God. I was about to give up and stop calling myself a Christian altogether. What kind of loving deity would ruthlessly steal away of a young mother and community leader in the prime of her life? I knew in my heart she wouldn’t want me to give up my faith over her, but it pained me every day seeing notifications for the Instagram we started and reliving memories of our innocent youths together.

Something bizarre happened the other day, though, that made me reconsider everything. It’s important to realize that when it comes to the church I grew up in, The Church That Shall Not Be Named, the one thing they did right was music. The youth group worship team were essentially celebrities, and being a young musician myself, I admired the members as if they were rock stars. They were hugely influential to me, both musically and spiritually. Even after I left the wildly problematic TCTSNBN, I could never bring myself to talk bad about the music and musicians there.

Then, I saw something on my Facebook feed that made my jaw practically unhinge itself and drop to the floor.

You see, a few days ago, the lead singer and worship leader of that band came out as a trans woman and opened up about how she’d been forced to hide that part of herself.

I was floored. And even more surprisingly, people were so amazingly supportive of her.

The thing is, I don’t know all the details, and I won’t pretend to know them all, but her coming out led to a chain reaction of people who’d left TCTSNBN also opening up about how they’d been hurt by the church and forced to hide who they were, myself included. We all banded together and shared our pain and our triumphs since leaving. And it made me realize something.

There is a large group of Christians — many of whom are queer — who have been excluded from the church. And we shouldn’t be silenced any longer.

I foresee a schism happening, where LGBTQ+ Christians and their allies break off and start their own movement. And I want to be a part of that. Christianity needs a revolution. It’s been co-opted by rich, straight, cis, white men who have no interest in serving anyone but themselves. But Jesus didn’t come for the people in power. He came for the oppressed, for the folks who had been beaten down and ostracized by society. He came for women, for queer folks, for black and brown people, for the poor and needy. It’s absolutely shameful how some “Christians” use their power to oppress others in the name of God, when we should be breaking chains in His name instead.

Chelsea wouldn’t have stood for it, and neither will I. The best thing I can do in her memory is to keep fighting the good fight, to keep posting and sharing my story and the stories of people like me.

We won’t be silenced.

Do You Kiss Your Mother With That #$%@* Mouth?!

CW: strong language, obviously

I remember sitting through a sermon about…I don’t know, helping the needy or something. I should remember exactly what it was, because it was one of those important messages, like the stuff Jesus really cared about. The reason this sermon sticks out in my memory was the illustration the pastor used, though. The thing that made it powerful. A little four-letter word that made the entire auditorium freeze. And the kicker:

“You all probably cared more about the fact that your pastor just cursed than the fact that there are people out there suffering.”

That moment stuck with me. We make an idol out of not saying certain words because hey, that’s not what “good Christians” do. But is there any truth to the old “no cussin’” rule that’s been shoved down our throats since childhood? Do we all need to rinse our mouths out with soap?

Let me preface by saying this: Christian or not, there are certain situations where we should use nothing but clean language. If you’re around children, absolutely do not drop an f-bomb! Same with formal meetings — can you imagine asking for a mother-effin’ raise? You’d be fired on the spot, or at least laughed out of the workplace.

But Christians should never, ever, EVER say bad words! Right, Jess? RIGHT?!

In Philippians 3:8, Paul describes the things of this world as garbage compared to the worth of knowing Christ. Except, that’s not what he said. The word he used for “garbage” was “skubalon,” an old, crude Greek word for dung. In other words, shit. He called it all shit. And is he wrong to compare all worldly things to shit, especially when compared to the greatness that is Jesus? That’s a strong, but not necessarily unfounded, comparison.

Ephesians 4:29 says “Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.” Like I said before, there’s a time and a place for strong language. After all, words have power. We need to think about the context in which these words are being used. Obviously, things like racial slurs are never acceptable, but the traditional “four-letter words” are a little more ambiguous. Spongebob eloquently described them as “sentence enhancers,” and there’s some truth to that. Because of the power of these words, they draw attention. Sometimes they draw attention to things that need attention, like the example at the start of this post. Sometimes, they’re used to cause harm. But like most words, they’re just…neutral.

You don’t need to be Mister Rogers in your speech around absolutely everyone all the time. When the Bible says to build people up “according to their needs,” maybe they need to hear that they’re “fucking awesome,” or that they’re “a badass.” If you’re not comfortable with such language, no one’s saying you HAVE TO talk that way, but as Christians, I feel we need to loosen the “no cussing ever” rule to account for situations where strong language is used positively. No matter what we say or how we say it, it should not be words intended to break someone down. Telling someone to “fuck off” or calling them a “piece of shit” is absolutely unacceptable and has no place in a Christian’s vocabulary. Even phrases that don’t contain profanity can be hurtful. If someone said “I hope your mom dies,” I’d be way more offended than if someone called me a “bitch.” Again, it’s all about context and intent.

Whatever you say, and whoever you say it to, do it with love. That’s one thing I think we can all heckin’ agree on.

Good News, Everyone: WE’RE REBRANDING!

You might have noticed the domain name and blog title have changed. Don’t worry, it’s still me! I wanted to rebrand this blog into something that gives hope, something that can serve you — yes, you! — as an anchor in the storm we call life. Here, you’ll find my personal observations on topics like spirituality and mental health, (eventually daily) devotionals, and things that have helped me through my sometimes turbulent journey.

My perspective is a Christian one, albeit a more progressive version than you’re likely used to. If you have an established faith, or don’t really believe in anything, don’t fret! I’m not here to convert anyone. Instead, I want to be a voice for those who may have been burned by the traditional Church, people who are neurodiverse, queer, or who maybe just don’t fit the “churchy” norm. I know what it’s like to feel excluded from my own faith tradition, but God never abandons His kids, and I’m still learning from Him every day. That’s why I want to share what I’ve learned with you all. Because if I can help just one person reading this feel less alone, everything I’ve been through will be worth it.

So here’s to setting sail on this new adventure. And you are absolutely welcome along for the ride.

The Three Words That Made Me Hate My Own Body

I remember the first time I became aware of the male gaze.

I was twelve.

It was at a Rite Aid with my mom getting some film developed (which definitely just dated me). I saw a pair of older guys talking about something, and laughing, but I didn’t know what was happening. My mom shot them a look and pulled me away quickly.

“Those creeps were looking at you,” she said.

I was twelve. Twelve. Like, all I cared about was Pokemon and my stuffed animals. But I didn’t look it.

The film wasn’t the only thing that was developed.

If you follow literally anyone in the exvangelical community, you’ve probably heard of “Modest is Hottest,” the Matthew West track that’s been setting the Christian music scene ablaze. It’s a silly tongue-in-cheek song — I’m not too cool to admit that I laughed at “a sensible pair of slacks.” But after taking a moment to consider the culture that birthed this tune, it left a sour taste in my mouth. And judging by the backlash it’s received, I’m not alone in that sentiment.

My family never pushed purity culture onto me; rather, it was the churches I attended. The modesty talks were ubiquitous, at least among female leaders. Judging by the gendered sermons we sometimes had to endure, girls had two main problems — not feeling pretty enough, and not wearing enough. I never cared too much about the former as a kid, but as my own body made me painfully aware, I had to care about the latter, lest I get embarrassing lectures from youth leaders and mocking chants of “modest is hottest” from other girls. Yup, there’s that phrase again.

Here’s the thing — I never intentionally dressed to, as these talks put it, “cause my brothers to stumble.” I was just wearing what all of my friends were wearing. But because of the way I was built, my body was inherently dirty, inherently sexual. And people behaved differently because of this. I’d be groped by other students at my school because they thought my reactions were funny (which is doubly fucked up considering I was on the autism spectrum). When swimming with others, I’d be given the “t-shirt of shame” for exposing too much of my breasts, even though I was wearing the same kinds of bathing suits as other girls my age. And of course, I was made to feel like I was this filthy sinner for garnering looks from guys, because hey, it’s the girl’s job to keep guys from stumbling. Even when that girl is — let me reiterate — twelve.

It honestly messed me up for a while. At first, I tried to run away from my sexuality, playing the part of the innocent, virginal ingenue. When I inevitably couldn’t keep up that facade, I learned into my own sex appeal, feeling it was the only real thing I had to offer. No one cared about my intelligence or creativity. I was a walking pair of double D’s.

If you’re in a similar place to me, I’m here to tell you that there is nothing dirty or shameful about your body. Your body is a beautiful gift, every single bone and tendon and nerve and glob of fat! 1 Corinthians 6:19-20 says “Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies.” Conversely, should we not honor other people’s bodies by respecting them, no matter what shape or size they are, if they are indeed temples of the Holy Spirit?

I don’t think modesty is necessarily a bad thing. My philosophy had always been “if it brings you closer to God and hurts no one else, you do you.” My point is that someone’s inherent worth doesn’t come from how much skin is exposed. Forcing modesty on girls as if their worth depends on it isn’t healthy. Rather, we should be teaching young men to honor and respect women whether they’re cloaked in Amish garb or doing their best Cardi B.

When God Sends Your Hogwarts Letter

Let’s make one thing clear: I despise Harry Potter. Absolutely loathe it. I can’t follow it to save my life, the creator sucks, and Pokémon is the superior millennial franchise in every way. But sometimes I fondly remember a sermon I saw many years ago talking about it. No, they didn’t go on a rant about how it’s Satanic and all that crap (surprisingly). Instead, they viewed it as an allegory for the way God calls us to certain things in our lives, and the absolute ridiculous lengths He’ll go to in order to owl-airdrop that Hogwarts acceptable letter to your front step. I think about that scene with the with all the letters flying around a lot still, even though I’m not a huge fan of my old church and certainly not a fan of Harry Potter.

From a young age, I always imagined that Hogwarts letter to be an acceptance into a doctoral program. My joke is that I refuse to die before adding the letters “Dr.” in front of my name. It just made sense. I was (almost) top of my class and had a passion for learning and academia like none other. And full disclosure, a good part of why I wanted this so badly was to prove to everyone I was actually smart! To be honest, it was more than a little vain — I craved the status that came with the title.

So I decided there was no way around it. I was going to become a doctor of something or other. Medicine, psychology — trust me, I’ve cycled through all the aspirations. But every time I try to commit to something, life gets in the way. Too much money, mental health issues, parents convincing me to pursue classical guitar instead of premed (no regrets; music school was the time of my life).

Maybe it’s not in this season of life to pursue such things. Or perhaps — even scarier — I’m not supposed to pursue them at all.

Jesus Himself said to deny yourself and take up your cross (Matthew 16:24). What does that even mean for my own life though? Do I really have to give up on my futile attempts to glorify myself, to add a little pizzazz to my own name, to hold the coveted title of “doctor” I’ve dreamed about my entire life? And it hit me.

Maybe I’m supposed to be Pastor Jess instead of Dr. Jess.

It’s perfect. I get to learn theology (which I’m already a huge nerd about), play music, write, interact with and help people on a personal level, and perhaps most importantly, further the Kingdom of God. I keep going back to a certain phrase: “Be the change you want to see in the world.” I keep complaining that there are so few affirming churches, but what am I doing to change that? I personally know so many queer folks who feel disenfranchised by their churches and the Christian community at large. Maybe it’s my job here on this little blue planet to help give them a community who loves and accepts them as they are while leading them home to a God who loves and accepts them as they are. I know I’m not a perfect person by any means, but God uses imperfect people all the time. I’ve prayed about this for a while now and all signs seem to point in this direction. I feel like I finally got my Hogwarts letter.

Maybe being a pastor isn’t as glamorous as being a professor or doctor. But if I can help just just one gay or trans kid feel like God hasn’t abandoned them, it will all be worth it.

Devotional #1: Created to Create

Oh no, not another analysis of the Biblical creation story. Like there hasn’t been ten million of those dating back to the dawn of civilization. What’s some twenty-something chick with too much time on her hands going to teach me that I haven’t already heard?

Surely you know the tale by now. God took a week of His eternal existence to make this big round blue thing we call home. Well, maybe a week, maybe several eons, depending on your interpretation. I’m not here to debate the many views on that argument ~~and why Old Earth Creationism is the correct one~~. I think in the noise of whether or not the creation story is to be taken literally, we lose what is possibly the most important verse in the first chapter of the Bible.

So God created mankind in his own image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them. –
Genesis 1:27

It’s worth noting that the creation story of the Abrahamic faiths doesn’t start with sex or violence, as many of the creation stories of that day did, not did the Creator make us to be slaves or toys. In the Catholic tradition (full disclosure: I am not Catholic, but the podcast I learned about this stuff is), it’s explicitly stated that we were simply created because God wanted to share life with us. He never needed us; he wanted us. Which is cool in and of itself. But we often miss the coolest part — we were made IN HIS IMAGE.

Male. Female. Heck, I’m certain non-binary folks would be included had there been a word for y’all on Ancient Hebrew. We were created creative. Let me say that again.

You were created — BY a creative God — to be creative. The Creator of everything ever gave you His awesomest superpower.

If you’ve spent even one afternoon around a kid, you know how imaginative we are from birth. Children will weave together entire universes. It’s an innate power built into our software, yet it so often gets beaten out of us by adulthood. Just listen to “Flowers Are Red” by Harry Chapin. We sacrifice our gifts of creativity and imagination on the alter of adulthood and leave behind that part of ourselves that was created to be divine.

What did you do as a kid that brought you joy? What sparked your imagination? Take a moment to reconnect with that part of your soul. Give any reservations to God and jump right in. Who cares if you’ll never be the next Stephen King or Pablo Picasso? Humans were created to create, so break out that pen or paintbrush and get to it.

So I Published a Comic…Now What?!

As of today, I’m a published author.

Well, self-published.

It’s tempting for me to discredit this accomplishment for that reason. No one had to “approve” my comic, nor did I sign a professional book deal. Hell, I doubt my sad niche semi-autobiographical comic would impress any publishers if I did submit it to them. But it’s out there. The first installment of the series that’s been in the works for over ten years has been published.

And you know what? I fucking deserve to feel good about it.

If you’ve been following my blog for literally any amount of time, you’ll know that I’ve been on an uphill battle with severe ADHD my entire life. If I’m forced to complete something that takes multiple days to finish, you better believe it’s not getting done. And an entire comic book, one that I needed to write, edit, and illustrate myself, would take weeks, months even.

But I did it. Be it due to divine intervention, Adderall, or my fiancee’s knack for drawing backgrounds so I don’t have to (ew), I did it.

The Downriver Kids: #1 by [Jess J. Salisbury, Crass Deneweth] — AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

It’s okay to celebrate these victories, especially when that victory is a reflection of your personal growth and ability to overcome a disability that’s stifled your creativity your entire life. Still, looking ahead is scary. I have ten years worth of story and character development built up in my head, and as my beloved characters age with me, there will only be more. Writing this first issue felt like scrubbing a chalkboard with a toothbrush. I finished one, but now there’s an entire highway built out of chalkboard screaming for me to clean it, while cars in the form of ADHD and my other mental illnesses swerve to deter me from continuing.

But maybe the problem is with the way I’m viewing the prospect of writing more issues. It’s not this daunting task but something I do because, well, I love it. I created these characters with care and watched them grow, and I want to share them and their stories with the world. I don’t want to make a full-time job out of cartooning, simply because I never want it to feel like a job.

Creating something you love is a journey without a destination. And trust me, if I can take that first step, ADHD be damned, so can you.

View and buy the new comic here!