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!

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

Scrolling through Instagram as I tend to do on a lazy Sunday evening, I found this infographic:

I could write an entire doctoral thesis on how this relates to my own life. Like, how I’m glad I didn’t end up a journalist, because I can’t handle that kind of pressure. Or how I’m glad I never reached Taylor Swift levels of fame, because, well, I can’t handle that kind of pressure.

I’d like to think I’m the fancy bejeweled Russian kind, though.

Young Jess wanted a lot of things that, in retrospect, adult Jess would have considered a nightmare. None more so than my middle school crush, who I absolutely believed was my soulmate.

Ah yes, the face of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

I remember crying myself to sleep over this kid, who will remain unnamed, but we’ll just call him Kyle. The way his floppy auburn hair jostled in the wind at youth group meetups, the way his blue-green eyes shone like sea glass at Cedar Point. I was obsessed with this guy in a way I’d never been obsessed with anyone ever. I didn’t think I was capable of having a crush. The closest I’d come before was strange thoughts about Ann Wilson from the band Heart and this dude from an American Idol knockoff no one remembers. I wasn’t supposed to have crushes on people I actually knew. That was preposterous.

But there he was. I was so enamored with him, I couldn’t imagine a single flaw in him. And young me thought this is what love is. I would have done anything for him. I would have let him walk all over me if he wanted. I would have readily given up everything that made me, well, me, if it meant a chance to have him. And I did. I changed the way I dressed to be more like his then-girlfriend. I started trying to be someone I wasn’t. And surprisingly, it worked! A few years later, I ended up dating him. And…it was anticlimactic. We kissed once, and there were no sparks. I had this boy of my dreams, but something wasn’t right. Shortly after, we broke up. it was mutual.

I had many crushes since, but none were as intense as Kyle. I think everyone needs a Kyle, just to show them what love isn’t. Love isn’t obsession. Love isn’t being a doormat. Love isn’t losing yourself to someone else. Kyle wasn’t a bad person. In fact, he was a great person! Just not my person.

Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like had I ended up with him. Before writing this article, I looked him up on Twitter, my last connection to the boy that changed my life. It was…mostly hockey. Some stuff about Bitcoin. A retweet of Ben Shapiro, which is probably not a good sign. But mostly just hockey. Even if middle school me got her way, she’d be miserable today. I’d be miserable today. I don’t give a shit about hockey or Bitcoin, and Ben Shapiro kind of sucks. And he’d be just as miserable with some eccentric artsy chick who likes Bernie Sanders and blogs for fun.

Sometimes we don’t get what we want, and that’s okay. I’ll let the Rolling Stones take it from here.

An Open Letter to the Church

Hi Church! Yup, the “big C” Church. Whether you’re a pastor or part of the congregation or even just an Easter-and-Christmas Christian, this letter is for you! Yay!

So here’s the thing. I really want to go to church with you. I really do. I want to have Bible studies and deep theological discussions with you. I want to break communion bread with you. I want to lift my hands in worship and bawl like a baby to “How He Loves” with you (the “sloppy wet kiss” version, of course). But I can’t. And all because I’ve committed the heinous sin of wanting to marry and start a family with someone else who pees sitting down.

Consumer favorites rely on hot dog casings and netting | 2020-06-13 | The National Provisioner — This is crucial for a Godly marriage, apparently.

It’s not for lack of acceptance — roughly 80 percent of unaffiliated Christians support gay marriage. And trust me, we want in too — about 50 percent of queer folks consider themselves religious, many of them Christians. So what’s the deal? Are we too afraid to let the gates fling open, as Christ would have wanted? Are we so stuck in our old ideals that we can’t possibly change the way we do things?

I urge you to question everything. Don’t take it from me, take it from the Good Book itself.

“Test everything that is said. Hold on to what is good.”
1 Thessalonians 5:21

What if everything we were taught about gender and sexuality as it relates to Christianity is wrong? I could deconstruct the infamous clobber verses, but scholars much more well-versed in the Scriptures already have. I want to take a different approach. In Matthew 7, it is said that we are to distinguish God’s truth from lies of false prophets by examining their fruits. What are the fruits of exclusion theology? In addition to alienating the aforementioned 50 percent and denying them the church experience, we have to think about the next generation and the messages we’re sending them by holding to these toxic ideas. According to The Trevor Project, queer youth are 8.4 times more likely to attempt suicide when in an non-supportive environment. Kids freaking dying isn’t a fruit of the Spirit, right? Because that’s a pretty rotten fruit.

But Jess, you say, my church welcomes everybody! Well…

“Let your yes be yes, and your no be no. Anything else comes from a non-denominational pastor asked whether his church affirms gay people.”
Ken Wilson, the wisest pastor I know

Seriously, ask your pastor if they officiate gay marriages. Ask if they let queer folks have leadership roles. I guarantee you’ll get some convoluted “love the sinner, hate the sin” spiel. You’d be hard-pressed to find a “come as you are” hip megachurch with its own coffeeshop that would let me, a bisexual woman, even just play guitar for the worship team, much less be a worship leader. Not unless I denounced part of my sexuality and ended up with a dude, which, uh, didn’t happen.

Pastors, please rethink your stances on LGBTQ issues, and congregants, speak up. Let your church leadership know that you won’t support anti-LGBTQ rhetoric any longer. I remember standing onstage at my old church while a thinly veiled conversion therapy course for young girls was revealed. I should have walked off the stage right then. I still regret it to this day. Friends, don’t be like me. Christ has gifted us with bravery and strength to stand up to oppression. Now’s the time to be brave.

Peace be with you and all that,

Jess

How Sad, How Lovely (Or, The Tragic Tale of Connie Converse)

It’s not uncommon for me to feel a kinship to a person I’ve never met — and never will meet. From Freddie Mercury to Zelda Fitzgerald to a number of murder victims from the scores of true crime podcasts I binge, I have a tendency to see myself in various figures. I think everyone does this to an extent. Whether it’s a fictional character or a real human who walked this earth, we all want to find someone to relate to in the things we consume.

I was listening to a podcast on unsolved mysteries when I learned her name. Elizabeth “Connie” Converse, a fledgling but pioneering singer-songwriter who gave up and ran away to places unknown, never to be heard from again.

The listening experience was eerie as hell, as the narrators rattled off various facts about her life. She worked as a writer and editor. She was also into visual art in addition to music and writing. She lived in Ann Arbor and likely walked the same streets I do today. And like me, she was plagued with depression, or as she worded it, a “blue funk.”

Connie, born in 1924, would throw herself into the local music scene in the 1950s, playing living room shows and doing home recordings with artist and animator Gene Deitch of Tom & Jerry fame. Her songs are often described as ahead of their time — think a proto-Joni Mitchell. She wrote about subversive themes for the time, things like sexuality and racism. In fact, many consider her the earliest example of the singer-songwriter genre in the US. So why has no one heard of her? Simply put, she never managed to make an impact on wider audiences. Disheartened, she gave up on music and eventually would pack her bags and disappear forever, not even telling her own family her whereabouts. Her fate remains unknown.

But her music survived. In an interview, Gene Deitch shared some of the music he’d recorded in his younger days, including Connie’s music. This sparked a renewed interest in the forgotten artist, and in 2009, an album of her music was released to the public. She finally gained the recognition she’d always wanted. And yet, no one knows if she was even alive to see her half-century-old project see the attention it deserved.

Considering she’d be closing in on 100 years old now, the chances she’s still alive somewhere is incredibly slim. But I wish she was. I wish I could meet with her in some quiet cafe and just talk about music, art, life, anything. I know we’d be kindred spirits. I’d tell her my own frustrations about trying to make it in music, about my struggles with mental illness, how I’ve fantasized about simply disappearing sometimes.

But I can’t have those conversations, so I’ll settle for continuing her legacy. I’ll take her life and learn from it, glean inspiration from it. I’ll be the best songwriter I can be. I’ll be the best writer I can be. I’ll live a life that would make her proud and kick depression’s ass.

Do it for Connie.

Like life, like a smile
Like the fall of a leaf
How sad, how lovely
How brief

The Pen is Mightier

When I threw in the towel on writing after several failed attempts at breaking into the languishing journalism industry, my mom was the one who inspired me to start blogging instead.

“The world needs your voice,” she said. “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

And then I reminded her of this bit, and then we both laughed because we have such highbrow taste in comedy.

But me? Why me? I have nothing to offer. Who wants to read the ramblings of some twentysomething millennial with too much time on her hands and no real expertise on anything except Bon Jovi and Pokemon? It’s not like I’m a political pundit or theologian. I can’t start a compelling mommy blog with all zero of my children, traveling to fascinating places is well outside my means, and I don’t have a brand to promote. All I have is myself and my admittedly mundane life experiences.

But maybe that’s enough. When I posted my most recent blog post, I was blown away by the response it garnered. In a day, it became my most viewed post by far. And my messages exploded with responses. People saying I inspired them, that they didn’t feel alone anymore in their own battle.

You see, when I began writing, back when I was in second grade, it happened out of another, albeit less traumatic, trauma. As a weird-ass kid who almost definitely had some kind of autism spectrum disorder, I was bullied pretty relentlessly as a child, and I needed an escape. That escape was storytelling. My mind overflowed with these silly stories I’d make up, and the characters in these stories became imaginary friends to me in a way. Whenever something shitty happened to me, I’d write it into the story, and by having one of my characters experience it too, I felt less alone. Writing became something therapeutic and almost sacred to me. I wrote relentlessly during class throughout elementary school, and when my family got its first home computer in eighth grade, I eschewed chat rooms and games for the word processor. Whenever I had a bad day, I’d just throw myself into my writing, and everything around me would be just a little better.

I think that’s why I still write, even after all these years, and I think that’s why I share my writing here, even when it’s difficult. Because if I can help just one person feel less alone in their struggles, everything I’ve ever gone through — every mental illness, every bad experience, every ranch dressing packet hurled at child-me — will have been worth it.

This Is Me Trying

I was fortunate enough to grow up with Taylor Swift’s music, quite literally. She was always walking a step ahead of me, writing music that reflected upon the season of life I was currently in from the perspective of someone who’d just lived it herself. She felt like an older sister figure of sorts, creating the soundtrack to my own dreams and fears and letting me know that whatever interpersonal peril I’d gotten myself into, she’d been there as well.

Cardigan' Easter eggs decoded - CNN

She knows all too well.

This isn’t an article about Taylor though. It’s about me.

If you’ve been following this blog at all, you’d know that I could slap my name on a copy of the DSM-5 and market it as my autobiography. And for the longest time, I was getting shitfaced at my own personal pity party in a paltry attempt to numb my own head. I was a ragged tapestry of depression, anxiety, a budding eating disorder, and what was becoming an addiction to alcohol. My fiancee was heading down the same road, two flaming tanker trucks careening down a highway with no brakes. Two nights ago, we crashed. I was sick. She was scared. I didn’t know how to help her. She had the worst panic attack she’d had in years. I just passed out in my own vomit.

In “this is me trying,” Taylor Swift details her own failures. Once again, I hear myself in the words:

I’ve been having a hard time adjusting
I had the shiniest wheels, now they’re rusting

They told me all of my cages were mental
So I got wasted like all my potential

I was so ahead of the curve, the curve became a sphere
Fell behind all my classmates and I ended up here

I was always the “good girl.” The “pretty girl.” The “smart girl.” I’d had mental health issues my entire life, but I’d always been able to manage them somewhat, at least enough to retain my position as the golden child. The stresses of adulthood and the weight of some poorly dealt-with traumas wore down my defenses until suddenly, I barely recognized myself. Of course I wanted to drink myself to death. I felt like I had little left to live for in the first place.

Then I woke up.

My fiancee drew a line. No more drinking. No more self-medicating. Instead, we stand and fight, and this time, we fight together. The battle against addiction and mental illness is never an easy one, but now, we have something to live for. In just the first few days of sobriety, we’ve rediscovered our creative passions, our love for each other, and our futures. Today in Whole Foods (while shopping for tea to displace our alcohol), we stumbled upon a can of fancy-schmancy cold brew coffee. Nothing special at first glance, but the brand name? Cadence. The exact name she and I had agreed to name our first daughter someday. And it felt like this peculiar sign that maybe everything would be okay.

No, no maybes. We were okay. Even if the road is hard, we’re going to get healthy and happy.

It’s still early in the battle, but I already feel victorious. The first step is admitting there’s a problem. And as I go into my second month of work, I’ll get my insurance back and finally be able to tackle all of the physical and mental health issues that have been holding me back. Then eventually, I’ll be able to finish my music therapy degree without the weight of my own mind pinning me down. We’ll save up money and get into a better living situation. And someday, God willing, I can be the mother Cadence deserves to grow up with.

And I just wanted you to know this is me trying.

“Add Lbs.” (Or, How I’m Learning to Cope With Not Being a Stick Figure)

I remember the first time I searched for a music video on YouTube, I was in my early teens. I wanted to find my favorite band at the time (and still one of my all-time favorites), Heart.

You don’t look at the comments section of YouTube. You never look at the comments section of YouTube.

It was the first time I was made painfully aware of how important looks — specifically weight — was for a woman. I couldn’t scroll past three comments without seeing someone mention lead vocalist Ann Wilson’s weight, usually in a rather snarky manner. Quite a few comments of the “man, she really let herself go” variety, though not typically that kindly worded.

Album Review: Ann Wilson's 'Immortal'

OH GOD, WHAT A SHE-BEAST!

I didn’t understand it. How on earth was one of the greatest female rock vocalists — no, one of the greatest vocalists — of all time reduced to something as shallow as how she looked? Oh, was I a sweet summer child.

For the majority of my life, weight wasn’t something I struggled with. I was quite the sickly kid, so I was actually dangerously underweight for most of my childhood. Puberty led to hormones and its associated cravings, so I gradually got a tiny bit pudgy as a preteen, but nothing alarming. As a teen and young adult, though, I had the body most women only dream of. The slim waist, the sizable bust — there was a reason I was called the “Barbie doll” of the school.

That was then.

After getting my hormonal IUD placed, I somehow ballooned almost 70 pounds. Now, I try to put on clothes I wore not too long ago and struggle to comprehend why I can’t even pull them over my hips. I have the strangest kind of body dysmorphia, where I see myself as smaller than I am, just because I’m so used to my body occupying less space. Then, I grab a dress I haven’t worn in a while. Oh wait, you’re fat now. That happened.

I started getting desperate to get rid of it, to the point where I began forcing myself to throw up after eating quite a bit. This is obviously very, very bad.

I don’t like having an eating disorder, but the first step to getting better is admitting it’s a problem in the first place. I want to be happy and healthy again. I want to feel pretty again. I got my IUD out last week (my birth control nowadays is having a female partner, which is pretty effective) and managed to drop almost ten pounds in one week from that alone, but I feel like the damage is done. Some women love to brag about their stretch marks. Your body birthed life into the world! I have nothing to show for mine. I don’t feel like a badass tigress. I’m a freaking housecat.

Chonker fat cat : Chonkers

Actual photo of me at the doctor’s office.

I wish I had a happy ending for this, but I don’t think I will until I’m at a weight I’m finally happy at. Even then, I think this is something I’ll always deal with in some form or another. I think it’s something most women have to deal with in some form or another, whether it’s weight or wrinkles or zits or skin tone or boob size or any variety of things we’re conditioned to fixate on. Not that this is a uniquely female phenomenon, but men tend to be judged by what they do first, and then by what they look like. Women tend to be judged by attractiveness first, then by their talents, especially in the entertainment industry. Men act, women are. And unfortunately, not even the greatest rock vocalist of all time was immune.

Ann Wilson - 80's music Photo (41808456) - Fanpop

HOW DO I GEEEEET YOU to dismantle toxic ideas about women’s appearances?

Music Reviews No One Asked For: Bon Jovi’s “New Jersey” Bonus Tracks

I’ve been itching to get back into “journalism,” or something resembling it. I enjoy writing about music (obviously), but my taste in music isn’t exactly current. Or good. So, welcome to the new series, Music Reviews No One Asked For, where I write about whatever I’m listening to at the moment, no matter how old or irrelevant or weird. Anyways, what better to start this series with than the object of my lifelong obsession, Bon Jovi.

Bon Jovi is admittedly not a critical darling. In fact, I’ve heard them described as “the Nickelback of the ’80s.” And to be honest, I don’t entirely disagree. Some of their music can err into cliche territory, especially more recent releases. That being said, they were the band that shaped my entire perspective on music and — let’s be real for a minute — have some catchy-ass songs in their extensive catalogue. In other words, I love this band to death, both for the music itself and for sentimental reasons, but I’m not so much of a stan that I can’t acknowledge their glaring weaknesses.

Anyways, back in 2014, Bon Jovi’s fourth studio album, New Jersey, was rereleased in honor of the band’s 30th anniversary, tacking on almost an entire second album’s worth of demos and outtakes. New Jersey is easily one of my favorite albums in Bon Jovi’s discography, so I couldn’t imagine what could possibly be added to improve upon it, but surprisingly, some of the new tracks were so good, I wasn’t sure why they were ever scrapped. Then again, Jon Bon Jovi didn’t want to release “Livin’ on a Prayer.”

The Ballad of Jon Bon Jovi | My Accidental Muse

Maybe he’s not the best judge of those kinds of things.

Here’s a track-by-track breakdown of the bonus tracks. I’m not going to review the main album, as that’s probably been done to death by music critics with much better taste than me. This isn’t the Rolling Stone. This is the blog of a random dumbass with a journalism degree and nothing better to do.

“The Boys Are Back in Town”: This is Thin Lizzy’s “The Boys Are Back in Town,” recorded by Bon Jovi. There’s not much else to say about this track, but it kind of slaps.

“Love is War”: Written by Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora as an obvious attempt to write another “You Give Love a Bad Name.” Scrapped because it sounds too much like “You Give Love a Bad Name.” This is one of the best songs in this list, but that’s to be expected, as it’s basically just “You Give Love a Bad Name.” Still not a bad song in its own right, in all fairness.

“Born to Be My Baby” (acoustic): Apparently, Jon believed this song would have hit number one if this version had been released, and I don’t disagree. This version benefits from a Spanish-influenced solo and more prominent backing vocals from Richie. Then again, there aren’t many Bon Jovi songs that wouldn’t be improved with more backing vocals from Richie.

“Homebound Train” (demo): The official version of this song was one of my favorites as a child, although I don’t know why. It’s a little forgettable next to all the other songs on New Jersey. The demo is okay. Some harmonica, some weak “woo-woos” from Jon that are sort of amusing, but overall nothing special.

“Judgement Day”: The lyrics of the band’s ’90s era utilized quite a bit of religious imagery, so this feels almost like a precursor to that. Like a lot of Bon Jovi songs, nothing especially profound is espoused, but it’s a certifiable earworm.

“Full Moon High”: The opening line “penny for your thoughts now, baby,” was recycled in Jon’s solo release “Miracle,” but I can’t give him too much grief for self-plagiarizing, as I’ve used lyrics from scrapped material in new songs. Also quite glaring is how the prechorus has aged like absolute milk in the same way as “Baby It’s Cold Outside.” “You say stop, I say go, I say yeah, you say no” comes across as a little skeevy in a post-#metoo culture. Otherwise, it’s one of the stronger songs in this list, lyrically.

“Growing Up the Hard Way”: They really wanted those “na na nas” on the album, because I swear I’ve heard it on at least three different songs already.

As a songwriter, JBJ’s strength lies in character building. You want to cheer for Tommy and Gina. You want to chill with Captain Crash and the Beauty Queen from Mars. You want Joey Keys to find a better life and for the protagonists from “Someday I’ll Be Saturday Night” get out of their funk. This song hits a lot of those same notes. The young groupie escaping from an abusive father, the would-be golden child whose drunk driving derailed his otherwise charmed life. Bon Jovi loves to create characters and subsequently break your heart for them.

“Let’s Make It Baby”: Ah yes, the triumphant return of the talkbox, first introduced in “Livin’ on a Prayer.” I have to admit I have a soft spot for this particular guitar effect. Maybe I have a Freudian excuse for this, as Peter Frampton was certainly the catalyst of my sexual awakening.

I'm A) Road Runner by Peter Frampton on Amazon Music - Amazon.com

DO YOU BLAME ME?

Anyways, speaking of things that are sexual, Bon Jovi was, for the most part, not. Sexy, perhaps, but compared to their contemporaries, Jonny and the boys look like nuns, so much so that my mom didn’t even bat an eye when I got interested in them as a youngin’. This song, though? This is the song I’m certain she’s happy I didn’t discover as a child. If, by the end of the song, there’s any doubt as to what it’s about, the ever-cheeky Richie makes it absolutely clear in the last five seconds.

“Love Hurts”: Not a cover of the song made famous by Nazareth but a good song nonetheless. Out of all of these tracks, this one is probably the most likely to get stuck in my head. Not a whole lot more to add, except that it’s a classic Bon Jovi bop.

“Backdoor to Heaven”: A classic mid-tempo ’80s ballad that may or may not be about butt stuff. This might actually be my favorite on here, if I’m honest. The desperation in Jon’s voice, coupled with those soaring harmonies from Richie, it’s just … ugh, chef’s kiss. This one should absolutely have made it to New Jersey. What the heck, guys?

“Now and Forever”: I’m sure if I heard this at any other time in Bon Jovi’s history, I’d write this off as just another vaguely cliche song. Having heard it after Richie’s departure, I just …

Richie Sambora Wanted Bon Jovi to Be Less of a Solo Vehicle

I’m not at all emotional about this.

Anyways, “a heart’s just a heart and songs have to end, dreams will be dreams but friends will be friends now and forever” just hits differently.

Come back Richie. We need you.

“Wild is the Wind” and “Stick to Your Guns” (demos): My two favorites from the album proper, but the demos don’t really add much. They’re literally just the songs we know and love, but less polished and not as inspired. I didn’t even feel the need to cover them separately. If you’re at all curious about these, don’t be. Just listen to the official versions. Take my word on this.

“House of Fire”: If you hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t have guessed that this was written by Alice Cooper and Joan Jett. This feels like a Bon Jovi song. That’s really the only thing I have to say about this.

“Does Anybody Really Fall In Love Anymore?”: Repeat after me, Jon: It’s okay to lower the key. If you can’t reach the high notes, it’s okay to drop it down a half-step or so. It’s not a big deal. Richie and David are big boys. They’ll figure out how to play it.

As an aside, this song was also recorded by Cher, because there was a weird time during the late ’80s when Bon Jovi and Cher collaborated. Anyways, Cher is an absolute queen, and even when recorded by her, this song is kind of boring. “Love is War” would have been a better choice for her. In fact, I’d gladly saw off my own toe with a nail file to hear her cover it. Seriously.

Cher - Age, Songs & Movies - Biography

Cher if you agree.

“Diamond Ring” (demo): I almost skipped over this song. The official version was released with These Days years later, and it was the only song I didn’t really like off that album as a child. After all, it was slow and boring, and it was about getting married and boring stuff, unlike “My Guitar Lies Bleeding in My Arms,” which was about more kid-friendly problems like, uh, contemplating suicide.

I’m glad I didn’t pass this one up, though, as the demo is a thousand times more badass than the version that actually saw a proper release. Even without being explicitly about sex, this song manages to feel almost as horny as “Let’s Make It Baby.” Those guitars. That bass. Jon’s rasp. Good Lord.

Wait, was Bon Jovi actually the thirstiest band of the 1980s?

Confessions of the Class Weird Kid

“Eccentric.”

That was the word my older sister used to describe me when I was struggling as a child to fit in. Not necessarily wrong or bad. Just eccentric.

I supposed she was right, although I wanted so badly to hide it. My social skills were admittedly lacking. People, especially kids my own age, were a strange anomaly to me. I wanted so badly to connect, but it was as if a brick wall stood between me and them. Despite my lack of friends, there were things I sought solace in, primarily things I obsessed over. Things like Bon Jovi, Pokemon, birds, and whatever else I could learn as much about as humanly possible and further alienate myself from my peers.

parakeet budgie

My nickname was “Tweety Bird.” It was absolutely not an affectionate nickname.

This is all textbook Asperger’s, looking back, but the idea that I was on the spectrum at all didn’t enter my mind until I was well into my teen years. The therapist I’d had at age 13 had mentioned the possibility to my mother, but I don’t recall her ever telling me for several years. And why would she? Back then, “autism” was even more of a dirty word than it is now. Why supply the kids who gave me hell in elementary and middle school even more fodder?

A few days ago, this popped up on my Facebook feed.

Credit: Hvppyhands

This comic hit me hard. I slipped through the cracks as a kid because I got good grades and didn’t cause any issues in the classroom, but no one ever bothered to address my difficulties relating to others and making friends.

You see, when you’re on the spectrum, you’re often forced to “mask” the quirks that make you, well, you. You’re a square in a circle world, and you better believe that world is going to hammer your edges hard until you barely resemble the shape you began as. I remember when I first became aware of my own weirdness, somewhere around seventh grade. The stereotypical teen dilemma. I had a crush on a boy, and a popular one at that. I observed the way his friends acted and dressed and tried my hardest to emulate that. Gone were the clothes I felt comfortable in, and I put away the childish things I was obsessed with in favor of more typical interests. It got easier in high school. I was lucky enough to come of age at a time when the “manic pixie dream girl” type was trendy, so suddenly it became “cute” to be the weird girl. It took me a while to learn to pass as “normal,” but I became damn good at it. By senior year, I was class president and colorguard captain, but I still felt like I was concealing parts of myself.

That’s one of many reasons why autism is so hard to detect in adulthood — you’ve had all these years to learn how to mask these quirks. By the time you ask your current therapist about it, you’re met with a shrug. You might be some variety of autistic, but it doesn’t affect your life, so why bother getting a proper diagnosis? You’ve held down a job, you’ve had relationships — hell, you’ve been married! You’re not a “true” Aspie. And to be honest, this hurts. Your identity is entirely invalidated by the hammers that smushed in your edges to make you a socially acceptable circle. Or perhaps hexagon, because you know you’ll never be the perfect little circle everyone expects you to be. No matter how well you pass, you’ll always feel “other.”

That’s why I want to be more vocal about my experiences with Asperger’s and being on the autism spectrum, “proper” diagnosis or not. Because someday, some little girl not unlike my younger self might read this and realize that she doesn’t need to change herself for anyone.

It’s okay to be eccentric.

These Days, The Stars Hang Out of Reach

So I fell down a pretty sizable nostalgia hole lately.

Anyone who knew me in my childhood years will tell you I was a pretty eccentric kid who, for whatever reason, latched onto the strangest things to an almost obsessional degree, starting with Shania Twain when I was just a toddler and cycling through everything from parakeets to Pokemon to vintage audio.

8-tracks

Shout-out to the poor librarian who scoured the entire building for a book on 8-tracks.

My biggest obsession, bar none, was Bon Jovi. I lived Bon Jovi. I breathed Bon Jovi. Normal kids played house; I played Bon Jovi. I still remember all the starter Pokemon each band member had in my make-believe game, because my idea of “fun” was acting out bizarre crack fics involving my favorite musicians, video games, professional wrestlers for some reason, and whatever else I liked at the moment. I’m pretty sure I had a Bon Jovi-themed birthday party. While all the other kids wanted to be marine biologists, I wanted to be Bon Jovi. I probably could have told you what color Tico Torres’ toothbrush was. And of course, right above my bed, I had a huge poster of Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora.

jon and richie ;)

This exact one!

These two were absolutely iconic to me back then. It’s not that I found them attractive — I mean, I certainly did, but that wasn’t the main appeal for me. They were more than a rather unconventional teenybopper crush for a girl growing up in the age of boybands. They represented something I related to, something I wanted to be someday. And their friendship with each other was integral to that. The way they wrote together, the way they harmonized, even the way they looked at one another — I wanted that kind of connection with someone. And I knew no matter what happened, no matter where life would take me, I could always count on Jon and Richie to be there, my first “friends” of sorts, by virtue of writing the songs that made me feel something as a lonely kid.

When I picked up the guitar at 10, I learned that music was the telephone wires that could connect a shy, eccentric girl to the outside world. It was my form of communication, and as I got older, music was this sacred thing, something akin to intimacy for me. The break-up of my old band hit me harder than almost any romantic break-up I’ve experienced.

Perhaps that’s why the fact that Richie is no longer with Bon Jovi hits me in such a sharp, visceral way. It feels like I lost a friend.

Sometimes it’s hard to come to terms with the fact that I’ve grown up. I’ve written extensively about my quarter-life crisis on here, mostly my fears of getting old and not accomplishing everything I’ve wanted to accomplish, but there’s another facet I’m just now coming to terms with — change. I’ve never feared change because in the past, I always had so many positive things to look forward to, but you forget that the future is chock full of unpleasant surprises and inevitabilities as well. The places you loved will be torn down someday, and all material things are destined to crumble into dust. As your own body grows weaker, the people you love will age and eventually die. On a less grim but still somber note, your relationships will evolve and change too. New connections are made as old ones fade into the past. I realize my friend group now differs drastically from my group ten years ago, and while I occasionally reconnect with those old friends over coffee or beer, it never goes back to how it was. Life continues rolling along in a straight unwavering line.

I just watched a video of “It’s My Life” being played live through the years. I remember the first time I heard that song and how enamored I was with it, how I’d freak out every time it came on the radio. I remember the first time I saw Bon Jovi play it live on some VHS tape I’m honestly surprised I didn’t wear out. The video started out with that performance, and showed a snippet of performances from each year thereafter. In a weird way, as I watched the band grow and change, I felt like I was watching myself grow alongside them. And of course, after 2013, after Richie’s departure, there was a whole different energy to the music. That connection wasn’t there anymore. Nothing about the music itself changed, but I could feel it. And it broke my heart.

This isn’t the first time I’ve waxed poetic over Bon Jovi on this blog, but no matter what other music I get into, they’ve always been my “comfort band,” the auditory equivalent of a warm blanket. They’ll always have a special place in the depths of my heart, even in the face of change, both in the band and in myself. No matter what, I still have the memories. I still recall screaming along with Jon and Richie at my very first concert. I still remember my old friends singing me to sleep in my childhood bedroom. And the gift they gave me, the music, is something time, age, and change can never take away.

jon and richie 2

“I’ll be there for you, these five words I swear to you.”