I’m Autistic (And Why That Matters)

Fair warning: I’m going to be writing about this topic a lot in the next few months for reasons I’ll elaborate on in a few paragraphs.

And yes, I *will* be using this topic as an excuse to post as many adorable pictures of little Jess as I can.

My last blog post delved a little into what it was like growing up autistic and how I’ve learned to mask to such a degree that most of my psychiatrists don’t even take me seriously when I mention that I’m likely on the spectrum. For that reason, I’ve been hesitant to “claim” the title of autism. If I’m “cured,” then I don’t have autism anymore, right? If I can blend in enough with the “normies” to not have any visible disability, and I can’t even get a proper diagnosis, I’m not really autistic. I’m just faking it for attention. Initially, I gave up on getting “properly” diagnosed for that reason.

Last week, I began research on my project for the undergraduate symposium. It will go hand-in-hand with my presentation that is conditional for my receiving of the Brehm fellowship, awarded to students who are looking to contribute to the field of disability research and advocacy. I chose autism as my focus, primarily because it has affected my life in deeply personal ways, even without a clinical diagnosis.

Even if I had to “change” to fit in with neurotypical society.

One of the books I found myself drawn to study was Unmasking Autism by Dr. Devon Price. His research comes from a neurodivergent place, being autistic himself, as well as having a queer perspective as a trans man. The book focuses on the ways neurotypical “passing” folks have used “masks” to fit in with societal norms. Traditionally, these masks were forced on us by things such ABA, now viewed as harmful by most autistic advocates. Some of us, like me, consciously decided to, as I like to say, break our own bones to fit in someone else’s box.

At this point in life, after decades of studying people’s behavior and learning what works and what doesn’t in social situations. I “pass” well enough that I’ve hesitated to claim the autistic title. I’m scared I’ll be looked at as a fraud by the community, someone who claims the title for clout and to excuse my admittedly sometimes annoying idiosyncrasies. But as I’m learning, that’s about as nonsensical as me trying to pass as straight for so many years when I knew damn well I was pansexual, and about as harmful too. It’s harmful to the community, as I perpetuate internalized prejudices by denying my identity, and it’s harmful to myself, as I force my body and mind into a crevice they were not designed to fit into.

Here’s the thing — Price explains that oppressed folks are ridiculously underdiagnosed because we’re forced to conform even more than people who are part of the majority. Straight white dudes can skate by on their privilege, but we have to try harder to make it in this world, and part of that involves hiding the less socially acceptable pieces of ourselves. Not only that, but the current diagnostic tools used for detecting autism is literally based on its presentation in white little boys. If you’re black, or an adult, or a woman, or any combination of that, it’s damn near impossible to get a proper diagnosis because of implicit biases in the testing process.

Here’s the other thing — a proper diagnosis isn’t a requirement to be part of the autistic community. In addition to the roadblocks mentioned above, there’s also the problem of access to testing, which is often prohibitively expensive and not readily available to everyone. For this reason, self-diagnosis (or as Price puts it, self-realization) is valid. If you relate to the autistic experience, you’re probably one of us. Surprise!

So that’s that. I’m autistic. And no, I don’t have autism any more than I have pansexuality. It’s just part of me. And that’s important, because we need more people to advocate for people like us.

Just a few days ago, a dear well-intentioned friend of mine invited me to an online seminar about some wellness products. The speaker went on and on about how her tinctures and potions can cure this and that. And then — I shit you not — she spoke this exact sentence:

“Our products have been shown to eradicate autism.”

Almost immediately, I excused myself and logged off. I felt gross, like someone told me they could fix my gay, as if that wouldn’t erase the beautiful, loving relationship I have with my wife. This time, that sentence — it was about me. It took me three decades to come to terms with who I am. It took me three decades to learn to have a beautiful, loving relationship with myself, with my own identity. And the fact that someone tried to sell me a cure for that feels insulting.

We need more people to fight the good fight for us. We need more people to stand up and declare that there’s nothing wrong with us, just that society isn’t built for us. We’re not the problem, the current rigid sense of “this is what is socially acceptable and this is what is not” is the real problem. As long as we don’t fit into the narrow ideals of what is acceptable behavior, we’re going to continue to be dehumanized and discriminated against. So something needs to change, and maybe it shouldn’t be us.

This was a lot of words, but I feel like it’s important to say. I am autistic, and I don’t owe anyone a proper diagnosis to claim that. Not in a world that makes it prohibitively difficult for an AFAB adult to even get clinically diagnosed, let alone get assessed. Not in a world that beat all the quirks and idiosyncrasies out of me before I even reached adulthood.

No, I don’t owe anyone a damn thing.

Phantom of Me

Damn it, Rina Sawayama. This website is going to turn into a fan blog if you keep this up.

I swear this woman lives rent free in my head.

I was on my way to work, listening to her as per usual, when her song “Phantom” came on. I’d listened to it in passing, but I never really listened to it. The second verse just hit me like a truckload of turkeys.

If I could talk to you, I’d tell you not to rush
You’re good enough
You don’t have to lose, what makes you you
Still got some growing to do

When did we get so estranged
Haunted by the way I’ve changed
Claiming back the pieces of me that I’ve lost
Reaching in and hoping you’re still, waiting by the windowsill
I’d bring you back to us

I wasn’t a popular kid. Quite the opposite, actually. A lot of it, looking back, was because of my (finally freaking diagnosed) ADHD and (still freaking undiagnosed) autism. I was the weird kid who spun around in the back of the classroom and stimmed by making parakeet sounds. I had special interests like 8-track tapes and Bon Jovi, stuff “normal” kids thought were strange. I had sensory issues when it came to smell and gagged at the scent of ranch dressing, which my peers loved to torment me with. I had to eat lunch in the library to avoid being pelted with the stuff! And it’s so easy for me to forget that I used to come home from school crying every day because kids are so fucking cruel.

What changed?

In the autistic community, there’s a term called “masking.” You hide parts of yourself to fit in. You learn to “pass” as neurotypical, because there’s no other way for people to love you. When I got into middle school, something flipped. I methodically studied what the “cool kids” were wearing and doing, and made myself into a caricature of who I really was in order to be the “most popular” version of myself. I clipped my own colorful wings to become something I wasn’t, all for my peers’ approval. And it worked. By senior year, I was unrecognizable. By college, I was — dare I say — popular. But little Jess—

—that Jess was dead. And I killed her.

I’ve brought up getting a proper autism diagnosis to my therapists several times, and each time I get almost laughed out of the clinic. But you’re so popular, and social. You don’t look autistic, whatever that means. You don’t go on and on about your special interests — because I learned early on that talking about the color of Richie Sambora’s toothbrush would get me ostracized. You don’t stim — because making silly little sounds and moving my body in ways that make me feel good aren’t “socially acceptable.” You don’t have sensory issues — because I had to force myself to deal with things that made me really uncomfortable, because otherwise, no one would like me.

I broke my own bones to fit in someone else’s box, and left me with a phantom of myself.

I wish I could tell my younger self that she doesn’t need to change to fit in. That she doesn’t need to hide entire parts of herself. That she’s valuable the way she is, and doesn’t need to change. That’s why autism acceptable — not just awareness — is so important. Because somewhere, some little girl is feeling the exact way I felt back then. And I don’t want her to feel like she needs to kill her autistic self in order to be loved.

I hope she’s still there, waiting by the windowsill.

Raising a Glass (of Stinky Ass Mineral Water)

Two things happened recently. I saw a beautiful post by a woman who was addicted to crack and got her life together, and made a heartfelt video about her journey. And then, this status popped up on my own memories:

“One Lake Michigan” is a valid unit of measurement in the Midwest.

It’s been a year since I decided to get my own shit together (for real), and while I did slip up a few times, this was the anniversary of the day my wife and I dumped our liquor and threw our vapes in the trash. That was the beginning of the arc of my story where I actually cared about my health, which led to my current character arc of “working out, taking vitamins and proper medication, and eating better.” It started with that small step of deciding I was better than getting blackout drunk every night and poisoning my body.

And it feels good.

Like, I actually LIKE my body now. Who’d a thunk?

This New Years was a dilemma, since it was the first New Year’s Eve I’ve ever spent sober since I’ve been old enough to drink. Would I make an exception for a nice glass of champagne?

Or would I invent my own tradition?

Back in February, Crass and I got legally married (still waiting to have that big official shindig until we have the money). Our first purchase as a couple was this mineral water we saw on some Ghost Adventures-type show. They were investigating a supposedly haunted Well in Texas, and they sold cases of water from it. This guy was drinking some and it looked like he was having a great time, so we impulse-bought a case of fancy schmancy stinky ass mineral water on our wedding night. Our first purchase as a married couple.

So anyways, we still had some leftover. Not because it tasted bad, but because it was the kind of water that’s hard to guzzle. You know, the kind of heavy water that tastes too mineral-y to be refreshing, but tastes good nonetheless. I don’t know how to describe it properly. I’m not a water reviewer, I’m a lifestyle blogger.

So we cracked open a bottle of fancy schmancy stinky ass mineral water, and celebrated at midnight by toasting with it and dancing to the Black Eyed Peas.

It sucks that I can’t partake in traditional traditions like toasting with real champagne, or cracking open a cold beer at a race (because that’s a thing my hillbilly family does). Hell, I can’t even take Communion properly if I wanna get real technical, although now that I’m Methodist, I don’t use real wine anyways.

Might as well drink grape juice if *this* is the bread we’re stuck with.

Sometimes, recovery doesn’t look like a carefully curated TikTok video of all your wins. Sometimes, it involves sacrificing long-held traditions. But the beauty of letting go of tradition is that you can start your own, more meaningful traditions in its place. Champagne on New Year’s Eve is a nothing tradition to me. It’s just peer pressure from dead people.

Now, stinky ass mineral water on New Year’s Eve? That’s something unique. That’s something special.

That’s what recovery looks like.

New Year, New Chapter

So, this is it. The last blog post of 2022 (probably). And I even redecorated for the occasion! Like the new color scheme? I had to incorporate bluey-green, because it’s my favorite color, but the brown just takes it to the next level, right?

I also had to update my picture. I haven’t been blonde for a hot minute, which is so weird to me, but fitting. My teens were blonde, my 20s were weird hair colors, and my 30s will be black. I’m like a Pokémon that changes colors as it evolves, and I feel like I’m finally evolving into the most powerful version of myself. I’m about to reach level 30 and become a mighty electrifying Ampharos after spending several levels as a cute, nonthreatening Flaafy.

Now I just need an Ampharosite so I can have badass hair.

This evolution has brought on a lot of changes, many of which I’ve documented in this blog. I stopped drinking entirely, which is wild to me because I love beer (hit me with your best non-alcoholic beer recommendations in the comments, readers!). It just wasn’t serving me anymore and was causing more damage to my body and mind than I liked. In addition, I got formally diagnosed with ADHD and bipolar disorder and started taking the medications I actually need. Those two changes alone have been revolutionary. I’m not the same person I was this time last year by any stretch of the imagination, and it feels good. I wasn’t a huge fan of that version of me. I like this one more.

But the thing about evolution is that it doesn’t stop happening. In order to be the absolute best version of myself, I need to keep working on the most important project I’ll ever be tasked with — Jess J. Salisbury. Me, the person. Not the blog, although that’s a part of it.

The new year is supposed to be a time of setting goals and making resolutions, many of which won’t make it to the end of January, much less the end of the year. I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want to set goals I can easily set aside at the first sign of failure. My goal is to hit the gym at least three times a week. So what happens when I have a busy week and fall off for a few days? Do I just give up? That’s why I don’t like viewing my goals as “resolutions.” Instead, they’re part of a sort of year-long bucket list.

So what do I plan to do? I’m glad you asked! I’ll start with the goal that’s most pertinent to this website.

Two blog posts a week

That’s right. No less than two blog posts any given week. If I screw up one week, I’m challenging myself to jump back on it the next week. I recently wrote a post about the direction I want to take this blog, but feel free to drop more ideas for things you want to see here. I’m thinking more music musings, some book reviews, maybe some more spiritual stuff, and of course, my guide to living with ADHD, as well as the fiction I’ve been working on. There’s no shortage of things I like writing about, so make sure to keep checking back for new content often!

Keep a planner all year

I started keeping a planner a few months back. Surprise! It’s done wonders for my mental health as well as my organizational skills. My initial trick was to get a subscription to a monthly planner, so every month I’d have fresh new pages with new prompts and visuals to keep my attention. But then, the unthinkable happened — my December planner got lost in the move! Thinking quickly, I downloaded an app called Zinnia, which is essentially a journaling app for your phone. And this has been ridiculously helpful for me, since I’m on my phone all the time anyways. I can’t leave it at home. It’s always with me, everywhere, all the time.

Get down to my goal weight of 140

Ah yes, the dreaded weight loss resolution that everyone either makes or makes a blog post decrying. Yes, losing weight for vanity reasons is a slippery slope into nasty things like eating disorders, and I’m first in line to support the body positivity movement. But here’s the thing about being body positive — it only works if you’re treating said body positively. I gained a lot of weight over the last several years, and I’ve realized I can’t blame it all on my psychiatric meds, especially now that I’m taking Adderall, which should balance the antidepressant weight gain out. No, I gained this weight because I’ve treated this temple like a freaking dive bar, poisoning it with copious amounts of alcohol and greasy low-nutrient foods. This extra weight I carry is a physical manifestation of the baggage that came with being a compulsive binge eater in the beginning stages of alcoholism. I’ve cut out those two habits and already dropped nearly 30 pounds. Now I’m adding the habit of working out regularly and staying active, and I haven’t felt this good since I was in high school and in the best shape of my life. By the end of 2023, I should be down to my pre-gain size, and I’m so ready.

Become conversational in Arabic

Wallah, I mean it this time. It’s easy to forget in my white British-American English-speaking bubble that nearly half of the world is bilingual, but working at my new job has made me acutely aware of how much I suck as a global citizen. Like, I’m useless in any country that wasn’t once taken over by the Brits. But nearly everyone I work with is bilingual. I live in an area with a pretty hefty Arab population, and most of my coworkers and several of our patients can speak Arabic with ease. I don’t exactly plan on being a diplomat to Egypt or a Quranic scholar, so I’m not holding myself to incredibly high standards here. I just want to be able to say basic sentences and hold a conversation in Arabic. Right now, I know how to say “hi,” “bye,” and “give me bread,” which is useful if I’m ever like, in a dire bread emergency in Lebanon or something, but it would be nice to know some pharmacy-specific phrases.

Do 75Hard AT LEAST ONCE

I tried this already. Remember that? Just one of the dozens of things I’ve started and didn’t finish? I’ve been using the “bUt I hAvE aDhD” excuse for too long. Okay, so lots of successful people have ADHD. They’re not whining about how they can’t finish the thing. They’re out there, taking their Adderall and meditating and doing everything they can to do the damn thing. And that’s what I want to do. So 75Hard is a bunch of arbitrary rules you have to follow for 75 days. But I’m gonna follow them if it kills me, just to prove to myself that I have self-discipline, the thing that has evaded me my whole life. I don’t know when I’m going to do this (although it will probably be in the summer when it’s nicer out and I don’t have to do my daily outdoor workouts in a blizzard like a psychopath), but I want to do it once. Just so I can say that I did it.

Release WUJ 2023

Speaking of things I’ve started and never finished, I’ve been saying new music is on the way since our last release, “If I Stay,” which came out more than a year ago. This isn’t just a “me” thing, since I’m only one member of the band and this will be a group effort, but as the frontwoman, I need to make sure we keep moving in the right direction. I’m tired of stagnating as a musician. I write songs to be heard by others, and if no one’s hearing us, what’s the point of having a band? And speaking of which, I want to be more “on top” of our social media this year. People need to hear us, and if it takes TikTok or Instagram to get our music out there, so be it. The world is changing and so is the music industry. I need to take advantage of modern social media and learn how to use it to get us noticed. And speaking of music, there’s my final, most crucial goal for the year.

Finish my classes with at least a B and get that music therapy degree (finally)

That’s it. The degree I’ve been working toward for literally twelve years is so close to being mine. I started down the road to being a music therapist at 18, when my parents convinced me to change my major from pre-med to music (unlike every other parent ever), but I came to the conclusion that I was too mentally ill and messed up to ever help anyone else. And that’s a fucking lie. I now believe my mental illnesses and neurodivergences will make me a better music therapist because I’ve been on the other side. I will know how my clients’ minds work even better than a neurotypical music therapist would because I’m one of them. And now I have the tools, medications, and coping mechanisms I need to make it through the schooling I need. It’s too late to turn back now. I’m going to get this degree and get a fancy little “MT-BC” after my name, once and for all.

And there you have it. I’m done with being mediocre. Only I have the power to change my life for the better, and this is the year I finally do it.

2023, let’s go.

Polyamory 101: Answering the Basic Questions

It started with a conversation with my coworkers about our planned futures. I mentioned I wanted kids someday, and I’d be the one carrying them.

“So you’re planning to get a donor?” one of them inquired.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s between one of my wife’s good friends and my girlfriend, who’s trans and had her you-know-what preserved before transitioning.”

“You have a girlfriend too?” another coworker asked.

“No, she obviously means a friend who’s a girl,” the other said.

“Actually,” I began, “I do mean girlfriend, as in a girl that I’m dating. We’re polyamorous.”

Can of worms, now open.

Cue me getting bombarded with questions about the lifestyle choice, which I don’t mind answering at all. But it made me realize just how little the world as a whole actually knows about polyamory!

That’s where this blog post comes in. I want to answer some of the common questions I get about being polyamorous (a word that literally means “having many loves”). I’m not super open about it yet, but I’m trying to change that, because I think the world needs to know there’s nothing wrong with not fitting into “the norm.” Which leads me to my first question.

How did you realize you were polyamorous?

I never “realized” anything. In fact, I’d argue that being poly is more of a conscious lifestyle choice than a sexual or romantic orientation. No one chooses to be attracted to the same or opposite gender, but I’d argue that everyone has been attracted to more than one person. You haven’t had just one crush or partner your entire life, have you? It’s what you choose to do with these feelings for multiple people that determines whether you’re monogamous, ethically non-monogamous (basically polyamorous), or non-ethically non-monogamous (a cheating asshole). If you’re monogamous, you choose to disregard any feelings for other people and commit to a single person, which is completely okay! But if you’re ethically non-monogamous, you and your partner(s) are open to the idea of dating other people as well, so long as everyone is in the know and consenting. And the second you cross the line into not telling your partner or partners you’re dating someone else, that’s just cheating, and you suck. Yes, it is possible to cheat in a polyamorous relationship!

As for me personally, I’ve never been all that jealous in relationships anyways, so when my wife and I first got together and she mentioned she was poly, I just went with it.

So you’re all dating each other?

Absolutely not.

Some polycules (we prefer that term over “throuple,” by the way) are cool with mixing all together. Those are kitchen table polycules, as in everyone gathers at the table together and does life with each other.

My wife is not into that. She prefers to keep our relationship separate.

It’s not that she doesn’t like my other partner (who I’m not going to name, as she’s not openly poly and queer at this time). She simply isn’t interested in her like that, and she’s not a very social person anyways, so we don’t all sit in a circle and sing kum-bah-yah or whatever. She’d rather me go out and spend time with my other partner, then come back and spend time with her afterwards.

There’s more than one way to be polyamorous, and sometimes that does involve multiple partners living together and coexisting. Should my girlfriend move to Michigan someday, she would either live in a duplex-type situation with us or have a separate house, and I’d split my time between them. But my wife and girlfriend wouldn’t ever live together.

So your wife can date other people, and you don’t get jealous?

Not at all! I simply don’t see love or sex as a finite resource. Now time is a finite resource, but I don’t think it’s advisable or healthy for even monogamous couples to spend every waking hour together. If you can balance your time between two or more partners and everyone’s okay with it, so be it.

Okay, this is a weird sex thing, isn’t it?

Not at all! In fact, I consider sex to be the least important aspect of both of my relationships, and it barely factors into one at all. That particular partner considers herself to be on the asexual spectrum, so it’s actually nice to be able to fulfill that need with someone else instead of guilting her into sleeping with me when she’s not into it. There is some overlap between the poly community and the kink community, but being poly doesn’t necessarily mean being kinky, and vice versa.

But you love one partner more than the other, right?

Again, not necessarily! Poly folks might have a “primary” partner who comes before the others. You could argue my wife is my primary because I live with her and I’m legally bound to her, but I prefer the term “nesting partner,” as it erases that sense of hierarchy in the relationships. I love my wife and my girlfriend in different ways. I have a very romantic relationship with my girlfriend. I want to watch the sunset with her and lay in bed serenading each other and see all of the wonders of the world with her by my side. On the other hand, I have a very familial relationship with my wife (which is why she’s my wife!). I can see myself having kids with her and being silly with them and watching them grow up together, the way she and I grew up together. They’re both very warm, heartfelt, fulfilling relationships in different but equal ways. As I like to describe the feeling, I love one like the moon, and one like the stars

But this is scandalous! Do you tell people about this?

If it comes up, yes. I’ve learned to be a little more open about it because things will never change to become more accommodating to poly folks if no one ever “comes out” as being poly. I’ve told my mom, and while she’s hesitant, she just wants me to be happy. She knows I’m not the “one husband and 2.5 kids with a white picket fence and a dog” type, and I never have been. I’ve tried living that life and it wasn’t for me. As I’ve said on here before, never break your own bones to fit into someone else’s box. I don’t know if the rest of my family knows, but honestly, it’s not their place to judge my relationships. I’m happy and everyone involved is happy, and that’s what matters.

I’m usually a little more open about being polyamorous with younger people. Older folks are a little more set in their ways and old-school about relationships, which is completely okay as long as you don’t try to force people into that box. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again — there’s nothing wrong with straight, cis, monogamous couples and families. I’ve just learned that life is not for me.

Aren’t you a Christian? This is against God’s word!

Lots of people in the Bible had more than one partner. In fact, you could argue that the big 3 Abrahamic religions all condone polyamory. Well, technically polygamy — historically men were allowed to have more than one wife. This is likely due to the fact that 1. ancient societies were decidedly patriarchal and 2. women were more plentiful than men because they weren’t put on the frontlines of war. But God has never said anything condemning polyamory in particular. The only argument against it is the fact that things went sour for Abraham/Sarah/Hagar and Jacob/Leah/Rachel, but that’s less of an argument against polyamory and more of an observation about how sucky human relationships in general are. We all mess up, and obviously, the more people you add to the equation, the more there’s a chance someone’s gonna screw something up.

Thank you, imaginary person whose questions I’m answering.

Okay, this has all been very enlightening.

So that’s the long and short of polyamory and why it works for me. I’ll probably do a part two on what I think are the best parts of being poly are (like getting to eat ice cream and cry with your wife when someone else breaks your heart), but for now, I just wanted to answer the basic questions. Do you think you could ever be in a poly relationship? Why or why not? Let me know in the comments, and feel free to ask me any questions you might have left!

The Glories and Pitfalls of Being the “Rocker Chick”

Last night, I posted a picture of my band, Wake Up Jamie, on our band’s Instagram page. This one, to be precise.

Almost immediately, we got an influx of picture “likes,” many from a new fan who just started following us! I was freakin’ over the moon excited. Any time someone new gives my little band a chance, it feels like the first time I ever played guitar or sang for my parents in the living room of our old house. You really like my music?! I get a taste of what it must be like to be my personal idol, Ann Wilson from the band Heart.

I have posted this exact picture on my social media and people thought it was me.

I received a message from the new fan, which I was excited to read, but didn’t quite have the metaphorical spoons to deal with at midnight on Christmas Eve Eve. So I left it for tomorrow-me to open in the morning. A little Christmas present to myself, you know? There’s no gift like waking up to see someone tell you how cool your band is.

So I open up this message and it’s…uh…I’ll just say this much-older guy wasn’t shy about confessing how he wanted to make me his sugar baby.

Not a damn thing about our music. Just that I was “beautiful” and he wanted a (presumably sexual) relationship with me in exchange for his money and attention.

Never mind the countless Saturdays at guitar lessons in my childhood and the hours teaching myself to sing in the shower and the hundreds of shows I’ve played in my lifetime. To this guy, I’m basically a singing hooker.

Which is a great business idea that hasn’t been done before, to be fair.

I have to admit my feelings of rage for being objectified were soft-serve swirled with a different, more positive feeling. Was I actually flattered this dude came onto me like that? On my band’s page, no less?

Surely Ann Wilson never had to deal with this?

Or did she?

I feel like I’ve written about the subject before, but I’m too lazy to find the exact post about it. But it’s not like Ann hasn’t dealt with being judged for her looks rather than her talent. Like how she was hidden behind layers of clothing and her skinny little sister, Nancy (who is equally talented, in all fairness), back in the MTV days because Ann was a little too thicc for the era’s liking. As if she wouldn’t have been revered at a Kardashian level had she been young today.

And the funny thing is, had she been young today, you know her Instagram inbox would be full of guys just like the one who messaged me. Even today, go to any Heart music video on YouTube and just read through all the thirsty comments from dudes (and probably a few chicks) who would kill for a ride on Dreamboat Annie. (And for the love of God, I hope Ann Wilson never reads this blog post, for that sentence alone. I feel so dirty.) They’re interspersed with comments about her voice at least, but you can’t deny that many of the “Wow, the best voice in rock and roll”-type comments are followed by “and also smokin’ hot!”

Would Heart have made it if Ann and her sister weren’t a certifiable 11 out of 10? How intertwined are music and appearance anyways? Male musicians are judged for their appearance too (see: every boyband ever), but you can’t deny that the pressure is more intense for female musicians. Even the least-attractive female musicians who have “made it” are still conventionally pretty, while guys get more of a pass to look like a foot. Bob Dylan is revered as one of the greatest musicians of the 20th century, and no one’s thirsting for him, right?

I mean, *I’d* go for it, but not everyone’s type is “dorky Jewish guy who plays guitar better than me.”

As annoying as it is to have to be a “hot girl” to make it in music, there’s a certain power in embracing your looks and sexuality to get ahead. You know the saying — “if you got it, flaunt it.” As a band with three female members, we’re going to be judged for our looks, we might as well use it to our advantage. The end goal is to get our music heard, and if it takes luring people in with our hotness, so be it.

I don’t think there’s any shame in using everything in your disposal to get to where you want to be, as long as you’re not hurting anyone else. If guys drooling over mine and my bandmates’ pictures will get them to pay attention to us and ultimately listen to our music, that’s what matters. We don’t write songs to play in our drummer’s studio every week and never see the light of day. We want to make a living doing what we love. We want to spread a message. We want to be heard.

Being objectified sucks — I can’t argue with that — but taking control of the narrative and the way you’re seen is strangely empowering. Maybe being a woman in music isn’t so bad after all.

Get Out of That Box!

I feel bad for leaving everyone on a sad note with my last post, so this one is more optimistic, I swear!

My wife and I stopped drinking earlier this year. Officially, for real this time. We haven’t had as much as a drop in the last several months. And frankly, I’m pretty okay with that. Sure, there’s some FOMO when my friends are sipping on a nice craft beer or mixed drink, but for the most part, I don’t miss it. I’ve lost weight, I don’t have no-reason hives nearly as often, and I’m not constantly in a daze from being drunk or hungover almost every day.

We were paying money to have a bad time.

Something peculiar happened when we stopped drinking though. We found ourselves unable to relate to a lot of our friends who did drink a lot or rely on drugs to have fun. Suddenly, sobriety was lonely as hell. I call these growing pains, though. As in, we’re finally growing up, but the people around us are stagnating. It’s a good problem, although it doesn’t feel good in the moment.

My old church and pastor are problematic for a lot of reasons, and if you’ve snooped long enough through my blog, you’d know why. But my former pastor did have a lot of wisdom I still love by to this day. One of his sayings was “show me your friends, and I’ll show you your future.” As 90s sitcom “special episode” as it is to admit, the people you surround yourself with influence you more than you think.

Think of it this way. If someone’s standing on a table for some ungodly reason, it would be hard for them to pull another person up onto the table with them. It would be much easier for someone on the ground to pull the person on the table down to their level. It’s best to climb onto the table alone. That doesn’t mean you can’t have any friends when you’re working on yourself, though. Maybe people will see that what you’re doing is weird and different and better, and they might even climb onto a table as well.

The point is, the road to getting better is lonely, but it doesn’t have to be. Instead of hanging out at bars and partying your life away, meet new people at gyms or church. Learn a new hobby and join a local group for it. Even online groups like r/decidingtobebetter on Reddit can be helpful. It sucks distancing yourself from old friends, but holding onto habits that hurt you in order to still relate to them is not worth it. You can’t keep breaking your own bones to fit into someone else’s box.

Get out of that box!

ADHD: An Owners Manual (Part Three: The “Why” Board)

The thing about us ADHD folks is we’re natural daydreamers. It’s in our wiring. Many of us are so lost in our own heads we don’t notice what’s around us (or perhaps that’s a “me” problem, I don’t know).

Me, I’ve always loved to daydream about the future. It’s fun for me to imagine where I’ll be in 5, 10, 15 years or so. Of course, I’m at the age where I’ve done imagined myself now. Like, 13-year-old Jess imagined being 30, and in those daydreams, I was Richie Sambora. I am now closing in on 30, and I am still not Richie Sambora.

What all 13-year-old girls aspire to be, right?

But I still find things to look forward to. Maybe it’s the optimist in me. Sure, shitty things are going to happen, like, ya know, my parents dying, and my older siblings dying, and all my friends dying (unless I die first, which would also be sucky because, well, being dead). But there’s a ton I still have yet to do.

The thing is — going back to the dying thing — I have this nagging fear that I’m going to die before doing all the things I want to do. Not because life is short, but because my attention span is.

I think a lot about the story I’ve been writing since I was in high school, but could never sit down and write because of my ADHD. Or the music therapy degree I’ve been working on since 2011 but put on hold twice because I couldn’t handle the coursework due to my ADHD. Or the multitudinous amounts of things I haven’t been able to do because of being broke, which mostly circles back to me spending my money as soon as I get it because I like instant gratification because— get this — I’m ADHD.

Everything I haven’t done in life is because of my ADHD.

Maybe this is you. Maybe you have a million things you want or want to do before you die, but it all feels so unattainable. This isn’t just an ADHD thing, either. It’s a human thing. So if you’re reading this and are not ADHD, here’s a tip you can use too.

Create a “why” board. Put pictures representing your ideal life into a collage, and put that shit everywhere. As your lock screen, on your fridge, on your bathroom mirror, wherever you’ll see it daily. This collage represents why you’re doing what you do. These are the reasons you go to work, or study for your tests, or save your money.

“But Jess, isn’t that just a vision board?” Well, kind of. But this goes further than just Pinterest-worthy magazine cutouts. This is your plan for your life. Make it personal. Imagine what your dream house would look like and find it on Zillow. Imagine your dream career and Google the uniform or outfit you’d likely wear. If kids are part of your plan, search for pictures of children that look like you and your actual or imagined partner, which is definitely not creepy at all.

For inspiration, here’s mine:

There’s a little set of cards with inspirational quotes and phrases that came with a set of gemstones I bought to decorate the new apartment with. One of them says “Imagine your ideal self — then start showing up as her.” I put that card in my living room where I’ll see it every day, because it’s true.

You are what you do every day. If you keep eating like garbage and laying around playing Sims all day, that’s who you become. That’s what I was turning into, and my dreams of becoming a music therapist and getting back into shape and eventually buying a house and starting a family seemed so out-of-reach. But I had an epiphany. I wasn’t going to magically become The Best Jess if I kept living the way I was living, and honestly, what a wasted life that would have been!

It’s a hard truth, but you have to choose to suck less, and you have to keep choosing to suck less every day. Soon, you’ll wonder why you were ever living like a zombie to begin with. I picked up my computer to play with my virtual dollhouse last night and put it down after five minutes. It just didn’t seem worth it to me. I had so much more I wanted to do!

Get all the support you need. Get your friends and family on board, especially those you live with. Make that “why” board and show them, perhaps. Explain why everything on it is important to you, and come up with a plan to accomplish those things. Maybe you’re like me and just need to study and save money, and while it seems impossible now, with the right supports, you’ll get there. Take your meds. See a therapist if you can. Do whatever it takes to crawl out of the hole. But the best place to start is by determining your “whys” and letting them stare you in the face every single day.

ADHD: An Owners Manual (Part Two: How to NOT Be a Clothes Hoarder)

ADHD stands for “attention deficit hyperactivity disorder,” so it goes without saying that lack of attention span and general moving-around-a-lot-ness are the classic symptoms. But there’s a third symptom that doesn’t get a lot of spotlight — impulsivity.

The cause of many a spontaneous midnight Meijer’s excursion.

My impulsivity has probably been the most detrimental part of having ADHD. It’s led to a lot of addictions, like sex and alcohol, which I’ve not been shy about on this blog, especially since I’ve largely overcome these addictions. But one vice continues to plague me. Compared to the others, it seems relatively benign, but that might just be what makes it so insidious.

Yup, I’m a shopaholic. And unlike sex and alcohol, there’s no 12-step program.

Unless those 12 steps are in the direction of a mall.

We recently moved to the opposite end of the Metro Detroit area, a solid 45-minute drive from our old place, and more than an hour if you count the fact that I was driving a moving truck bigger than Arkansas through a thunderstorm to get there. The drive was rough, but the packing was even worse. Despite having the help of several amazing friends, getting all twenty-something bags of clothes into the truck was annoying and draining, and making them fit was another challenge. Even with our huge-ass truck, we had to play Tetris to get everything inside.

I wish I was exaggerating all of this, but my shopping addiction had gotten so out-of-control, it was starting to affect my life. These dresses and sweatshirts and accessories had brought me so much joy when I first held them in my hands, yet now they were little more than a nuisance. I spread them out on the floor of the new bedroom after tearing through the garbage bags they’d travelled in. Did I mention these particular bags were the biggest garbage bags the store had?! Like, designed for yard waste, not clothes hoards.

I started thinking of the financial impact of all these purchases as well. There, lying on the ground, was several thousand dollars worth of terrible life choices, if not significantly more. I’ll get to “dealing with money woes with ADHD” in a future entry in this blog series, but right now, Mt. WhythehelldidIbuythis is occupying half my bedroom and my poor wife is having to take up rock climbing just get to her own side of the bed.

So, let’s start by acquiring some hangers. This step can be as expensive or cheap as you’d like, but considering we’re putting the clothes we truly love and treasure on them, I’d recommend getting some hangers you at least like. Imagine you’re Andy and your favorite clothes are sentient beings. What would you rather rest on — some uncomfy wire hanger or a nice, plush velvet hanger? Just keep in mind however many hangers you get, that’s how many clothing items you get to keep.

You see, my entire perspective changed when I started viewing the apartment as a container for possessions, and by extension, a closet and dresser function as a container for clothes. Whatever doesn’t fit in the container has to go. Think of your closet as Noah’s Ark, and we’re about to flood the bedroom with the wrath of God and/or Marie Kondo.

So begin with the essentials. If you have a uniform, start by putting those aside. I’m a pharmacy technician, so I like to have several pairs of scrubs in various colors so I don’t look like a cartoon person wearing the same thing every day. Then, identify a brand or clothing style you really like and wear a lot of. I have a ton of dresses from the faux-vintage brand Belle Poque that I love, so I’m sparing all of them. They spark joy, and I wear them frequently. They’re safe from the flood.

Now, the fun begins. Start putting everything into piles by type: sweatshirts, t-shirts, jeans, leggings, scarves, etc. Choose a system that makes sense for you. If you’re really into dresses and skirts like me, perhaps sort them into maxi length and shorter length. Then, once everything is in its place, choose a predetermined number of pieces from each pile to save. Noah let two of every kind of animal on the ark, but I like three as a rule of thumb. That allows for a little more variety. If you have more or less closet/dresser space, you can adjust this number accordingly. If your space is very limited, maybe choose one or two articles of clothing, and if you’ve got a lot of space, you can do four or five garments each. But three seems to be the “golden” number. Take your chosen clothing, put them away neatly, and congratulate them for making the cut.

But now, you probably still have a huge pile of crap to get rid of. Here’s a hard truth: you’re not going to take this shit to Goodwill. You have ADHD. All your donation bags will languish in the corner until you have to move again, and the cycle will repeat. Even if you do manage to get to Goodwill, there’s a decent chance they won’t take it. Donation centers are overrun with contributions from people who are also in the process of decluttering their junk. But this doesn’t mean all your leftover clothing is doomed to the dumpster.

The first line of defense against the landfill is your friends. Hit up some folks who have a similar style as you and lure them over with the promise of free stuff and maybe some pizza or something. Then, let them go wild. If you have any trans friends, this is a great opportunity to help them out in particular! Early on in the transition journey, a lot of people are trying to figure out their style and sizing. I managed to offload a lot of cute clothing that no longer served me when my long-distance girlfriend, who is trans, came to visit one weekend. Seeing her face light up as she methodically tried on all my old dresses made my heart happy, and I was glad to give some of the cute pieces that no longer fit me or my lifestyle a second life with someone who would really appreciate them.

Then, see what you can repurpose into something else. If you’re not very crafty, you can skip this step, or perhaps find someone who can repurpose your stuff for art projects and other things. I’m considering saving some of my old band tees to turn into a quilt or tapestry. This is a good way to salvage some of your sentimental pieces.

Now, take what’s left after letting your friends pick through your clothing. Is there a local church or organization looking for donations? Think creatively. Lots of places you wouldn’t even consider may be looking for clothes to help the community. There’s even a kinky art collective in my area that takes donations!

If you’re at a loss, there may be some donation bins in the area. Do a quick Google search to find some places to take your leftover clothing. Some are donation, some are recycling. Take the stuff that’s still usable to a donation box and leave it there, and the more beat-up clothing can go to a recycling box. It’s important to do this step as soon as freaking possible. Do not let your bags of clothing refuse sit in the closet. Put it in the way of your front door so you HAVE to take care of it in order to go anywhere. Unless your house is literally on fire, don’t move the bags unless you’re taking them to the bin.

What happens if you can’t find any place to leave your old clothes? This is the hard part — you might have to throw some stuff away. It feels wasteful, and I’m not going to lie and say it’s great for the environment, but sometimes, sending things to the landfill is the only option you have. In ye olden days, people would bury the things that no longer served them. In fact, in many witchy traditions, old spell ingredients were buried in order to let them return to the Earth from which they came. Make this goodbye a sacred moment. Thank your clothes for coming to you and being in your life, even for a moment, and wish them well on their journey to becoming dust once again.

Once everything is in its proper place, take the time to celebrate. ADHD is hard to manage sometimes and it’s not easy to break the detrimental habits that come with it. I happen to have the triple-whammy of ADHD, autism, and OCD, the last of which being a hallmark sign of hoarding tendencies. But you, dear reader, are stronger than you know, and if my dumb ass can do this, so can you. There’s no feeling like opening the closet to find nothing but things that bring you joy, instead of feeling bogged down by stuff you barely even care about. Once you learn to let go, you’ll discover what it means to truly appreciate what you have.

All the Best Beginnings Have an End

People make such a big deal out of “firsts.” A baby’s first word, a kid’s first day of school, a teenager’s first kiss. All throughout life, we’re experiencing “firsts,” some bigger than others. Today was my first time listening to Rina Sawayama’s new album, and no, this is not the first time I’ve mentioned her in this blog. It’s also not going to be the last.

No I’m not obsessed why would you say that?

But the song that’s on my mind as I write this particular post isn’t by Rina Sawayama. It’s not even by an artist that’s Rina Sawayama-adjacent. It’s not even by the usual suspects (Bon Jovi, natch). It’s a country song by singer-songwriter (and surprisingly badass guitarist) Brad Paisley.

Although I literally would not be able to tell him apart in a line-up of other country stars.

The lyrics talk about how someday, we’ll do something mundane, like have biscuits and gravy at your mom’s house or hear “Purple Rain,” and you’ll have no idea that it’s the last time that thing will happen for you. Maybe the next day, your mom dies, or you die, or the ghost of Prince magically sets fire to every extent copy of his music. But whatever it is, it’ll never happen again, and you just don’t know when that last time will be.

I remember my first time going to Ypsilanti. It felt magical, like this bohemian wonderland full of artists and academics and people with weird colors in their hair who hang out at coffeeshops. I’d spent practically my entire life up until then in the Downriver area, where I didn’t really fit in at all. When I came to Ypsi, I felt like I finally belonged somewhere. And for most of my teens and 20s, that’s where I lived and experienced many, many important firsts.

Last night, I came to the chilling realization that it was the second to last time I’d sleep in Ypsilanti. It was most likely the last time drift off to the sound of the rain hitting Ford Lake at night. And although I’d been excited to move to the Royal Oak area and start anew, it hit me that I was going to have to say goodbye to my little lakeside apartment, the city I’d grown to love, and in a lot of ways, my youth.

You see, Ypsilanti came to symbolize a particular stage of life for me. It saw me grow from an shy, meek girl to a confident woman. It represented my carefree college days, a time when I was able to run wild, when I felt I had the world at my feet. But I began to realize how it also represented some less-than-pleasant things — the advent of my addictions, the worsening of my mental health issues, and more heartbreaks (romantic and otherwise) than I can count. I realized with the growing pains came a certain amount of new freedom and opportunity. As I leave Ypsi, I’m leaving the baggage of my younger days behind.

That’s the part they don’t tell you about growing up. At least in Western culture, getting older is something you don’t want to happen. Youth is something to be cherished and celebrated and held onto for as long as humanly possible. But there’s something freeing about coming to terms with change and the passing of time. As we grow older, we become wiser, and even when doors close, new ones open.

This is hopefully the last time we move into a new apartment. The next move we make, it’s going to be a house. Our house. And we’ll have our big fancy-schmancy wedding that we never actually got to have because we married hastily for insurance purposes. And then, we’ll look into having kids. We’ll start a family of our own.

With the changing of the season, I’m reminded how letting go of the past is necessary, beautiful even. If trees held onto their leaves forever, we’d never have the wonders of autumn.

I may never be 21 again, but that’s okay. There will still be beauty in the next stage of life, wherever it takes me.