The Queen of Hungry: Surviving When Food Loses All Appeal

I just had a horrific realization.

All I’ve had to eat today is two mini Reese’s cups and three bites of a Tim Hortons croissant. There was a nonalcoholic beer and a virgin Moscow mule in there too for good measure, but for the most part, I’ve been subsisting off whatever nutrients my body has stored up.

And I’m still.

Not.

Hungry.

It’s not that I don’t want to eat. I simply haven’t had an appetite in months. And it’s getting worse.

My mukbang videos would consist of me staring at a cupcake and maybe licking the icing off while crying.

A few years back, I started Adderall as a way to combat my ADHD symptoms with quite a bit of success. For such a scary drug with so much potential for abuse, I didn’t notice any negative side effects at all — except for the small fact that it nuked my appetite. But I didn’t mind at the time. I was pretty overweight due to having just quit drinking in order to stifle a worsening alcohol problem, and getting sober did wonders along with the Adderall in getting me back down to a healthier weight. But now that I am a healthy weight, I don’t want to go too far in the opposite direction either.

So here’s the real scary thing I realized today. it was around noon and I’d been awake for a few hours when I went to grab food and coffee for me and my wife from the Tim Hortons down the road.

Okay Canada, just annex Michigan already.

I was ordering and nothing sounded appetizing, which isn’t unusual. Except I remembered I hadn’t taken my Adderall this morning. Instant-release Adderall only lasts 4 to 6 hours and the XR version lasts 12 hours, which means yesterday morning’s dose shouldn’t have been affecting me anymore. Typically by noon, if I don’t take my Adderall, my appetite starts coming back, but it was crickets. My appetite was still nowhere to be found.

Desperate, I got home and hit the uh, Penjamin Button.

Typically I can stimulate my appetite with a certain herb that is legal (and very prevalent) in the great state of Michigan. Today was different, though. I could have smoked enough green to make Snoop Dogg and Willie Nelson look at me funny, and absolutely no amount of THC in my bloodstream made me want to eat.

If my Adderall isn’t what’s causing me to stop eating, and if weed isn’t making me hungry anymore…

Am I dying?

Probably not, to be fair. My brother and my mother are certifiable hypochondriacs, so it’s not too outside the realm of possibility that I, too, am assuming the worst about my own state of health. My doctors have all commented on how healthy I seem. Like, high blood pressure runs in my family, and I’m at the age where my siblings had to start worrying about it, but my blood pressure is always low. (Pretty sure I’m a vampire or something — it would also explain the light sensitivity.)

Let’s play “Vampire or Just *Really* British?”

Still, there’s something unsettling about living with anorexia. And that’s what this is, albeit not the anorexia nervosa most people would associate with the term. Anorexia is the medical term for a loss of appetite, and while I’m not intentionally starving myself, I am afraid I’ll start seeing some of the symptoms of the eating disorder if I don’t get some nutrition in me soon. I could develop such nasty side effects as dry skin, bad breath, and even infertility, which is a deep-rooted fear I’ve written about before. Like, not to be TMI or anything, but my periods have dwindled to almost barely extant. And worst of all, I could lose my hair. Female pattern baldness and facial hair already run in my family. If I play my cards wrong, I could spend my twilight years looking like the white woman version of Steve Harvey.

I don’t know what the solution is to this problem either. Forcing myself to eat is nauseating, even when it’s stuff I love. Sometimes, when I need a quick snack, I buy myself a two-pack of Reese’s cups, which are by far my favorite candy, only to leave the second cup uneaten. My wife’s been racking her brain trying to think of ways to get me interested in food again. She’s spent probably well over $100 on fast food in the last few days trying to find anything that will get me eating. Most of it is still in our fridge, languishing. I feel awful about wasting it, but I just can’t bring myself to consume it.

This isn’t the first time an alarming lack of appetite has been a problem for me. As a kid, I was very sickly and uninterested in food for the most part. Part of it was because it often hurt to eat (I was prone to tonsil infections), and part of it was because I was a small autistic child with the taste of a small autistic child. But a lot of it was because I just wasn’t into eating anything. Nothing tasted good to me. And when I got sick (which, again, was frequently), it was even worse. At one point, I dropped down to a potentially deadly weight following an unfortunate flu immediately after my tonsillectomy. I vaguely remember even being turned away from the pediatrician; they didn’t think they could do anything. So my parents stocked up on Pediasure, intent to fatten me up one way or another. My dad would even go out of his way to bring me my favorite food at the time, the only thing I’d eat half of the time — Pizza Hut.

And I mean, I’m still here today. And I’ll get through this somehow. I often think back to just a few short years ago when I wrote about my struggles with being overweight, back when I was still drinking heavily and *surprised Pikachu face* not losing weight. There’s probably a simple solution. My friends who’ve been in a similar situation say they lost their appetites due to stress. And while I personally don’t think of myself as stressed, I do work three jobs (including a new one that’s probably going to be hella stressful), in addition to having classes, several music projects, and two serious romantic partners. My bandmate often chastises me for getting in over my head, and I’m realizing they often have a point.

That being said, I don’t know when things will eventually slow down for me, and part of me doesn’t want them too. I enjoy staying busy, although if it’s coming at the expense of my health, maybe I really do need a break. For now, I’m going to try to be diligent about taking my vitamins and attempt to drink a protein shake every day. That’s what I had been doing for a while, when my Adderall first started messing with my appetite. I made myself a shake every morning to drink with my medications, and I took my multivitamin, and so I knew that even if I didn’t eat anything else for the day, I’d still have some nutrients going into me. I need to get back into doing that.

Anyways, apologies to anyone who reads this and freaks out (Mom). My health has otherwise been pristine, although I am knocking on like, all of the wood. And I promise most of my life is actually going very well for once. I have some creative endeavors to throw myself into, a new job that will help me make enough money to afford the emo cruise I signed up for (IT’S GOOD FOR NETWORKING!), and I have the best support system in the freaking world. I just wish I liked food still, because you could air drop me a chicken shawarma from my favorite restaurant in the entire world and I’d maybe take three bites, tops.

If you enjoyed the writing in this post and elsewhere on the site, please consider donating to Jessa’s tuition fund! Any help is appreciated!

CashApp: $TheJessaJoyce

Venmo: @TheJessaJoyce

Jesus at the Karaoke Bar: How Singing With Friends Can Maybe Heal the World

I had a real odd revelation recently. I haven’t been to church in a while now, and as a fairly pious person, I should be hankerin’ for a robust spiritual espresso shot of the Good Word. Like, I’ve been an active churchgoer for much of my life, so not having a church home in my town is pretty unusual for me. I checked out a progressive, queer-affirming church in Kalamazoo and even attended a few times, but it didn’t stick the way I thought it would. In fact, you’d think I’m in a terrible spiritual rut by the looks of it.

But believe me, I’m still finding Jesus every week…just in a much stranger place.

That is, the karaoke bar.

I’ve been an avid karaoke-goer since the move to Fort Wayne last year, when my wife decided on a whim to check out the local gay bar on karaoke night. She doesn’t sing, but knows I love to. So we got all dressed up and sure enough, we met some of the coolest folks there. That was enough to spark something, and we kept going back. When we finally moved to Kalamazoo later on in the year, one of the first things we sought out was another outlet for my newfound karaoke lust. That’s when we found Old Dog Tavern.

So we’ve been going every Friday for half a year now. I’ve got a whole slew of friends I see every week. We’ll go out on the back balcony, smoke a joint, and catch each other up on life. Then, when we’re back inside, we all take turns singing our favorite songs and cheering each other on. There’s no competition (well, except when another girl sings Heart — that is my territory), and it’s all in good fun. Some of us are natural performers, and some of us just like being silly on stage. But no matter what, we all go because something keeps drawing us back.

And I think I know what it is.

It’s community.

For years, church was my only community. It was where I went to socialize, make music, break bread, and share life. And I think for a lot of religious folks, that’s the case. The Bible even encourages this:

And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.

-Hebrews 10:24-25

We need each other. I’ve written extensively about how we’re not designed to live in isolation, and one of the good things I think religion contributes to society, for all its ills, is the inherent sense of community it brings to its congregations. But there’s a hitch. Though the statistics may have changed in the last ten years, data as of 2015 shows that folks in the United States are less religious than they used to be. And people are also lonelier than they used to be. So should we be working to get more butts into pews?

Maybe there’s another solution.

No, not the church — the karaoke bar.

I often describe my experience at karaoke as almost spiritual. I leave with my heart full every time — it’s how I recharge my internal battery each week. It reminds me of the feeling I’d get from singing in church when I was younger. It connects me to the music, to my community, to God, to the universe.

What if everyone had a place like that to go to every week?

The world is a scary place right now, and it’s getting even scarier. What we need now is more singing and more community. Revelations 21:3 and Acts 17:4 maintain that the Lord doesn’t live in a particular building, but within us. When we all gather together, we know that God is there with us. As silly and almost blasphemous as it sounds, I find Jesus every week in the smiles of my friends and the sound of the music. In a weird way, it’s my church.

Religion obviously isn’t for everyone — many folks have been burned by it, myself included — but everyone needs a community. In a culture that’s becoming increasingly secular, we need to figure out spaces for people to fellowship together. That’s why I feel karaoke and similar activities like trivia night and music bingo have the power to really create these strong connections between people.

On Thursdays, I host music bingo at a little bar in a small town north of Kalamazoo, and you really need to see it to believe it. Last week, it felt like the entire population of the town was there, and the air had an electric energy to it. Everyone was talking. Everyone was making friends. I even had a brief heart-to-heart with one of my regulars outside. These are the nights that will make life still worth living when things go to hell.

I leave y’all with a song.

Maren Morris has the right idea. Sometimes you find God in the strangest places. Maybe that is driving down the highway with the radio on. For me, it’s when I grab the mic every Friday.

Grieving in Advance: Why My Brain Won’t Just Let Me Enjoy Things

I have severe OCD. I’ve talked about it pretty extensively on here, but I don’t think I truly delved into how cripplingly bad it was at its height. When I was dealing with fears relating to the internet, I wouldn’t even touch a phone or computer without someone sitting with me in case I had a panic attack. In my “literally everything in this room could be used to kill me” era, I couldn’t even take a shower unless my mom was in the room.

As of writing — and I am knocking on like, an entire lumberyard’s worth of wood right now — I have not had any compulsions in multiple years. I define “compulsion” as a thing my OCD makes me do, like demand my mother watch me bathe at age 14 like a complete lunatic. Lately I haven’t had any of that, so by the looks of it, we’re out of the woods! (I’m not going to make another Taylor Swift reference here, I swear.)

But these days, I still deal with anxiety, albeit internally. To be fair, a lot of my anxieties about the world are, uh, justified (I don’t even know which awful news article to link to in order to make that point). That being said. I worry about a lot of things normal people don’t think about. Take, for example, my terrible habit of pre-grieving.

“Jessa,” you begin, “what the fuck is pre-grieving?” Glad you asked, nameless faceless reader! This is when I start mourning things that haven’t even happened yet!

Want me to ruin pets for you? By adopting a fuzzy ball of love, you’re basically investing in a shit ton of heartbreak a decade or so down the road. Like, Krubby is gonna die someday, and my brain literally can’t handle that. It’s not an irrational OCD fear like my old ones — this is something that will inevitably happen. And there’s no ritual I can do to alleviate that anxiety. I can’t beg my mom to sit with me. I can’t Google random words until I feel better. I just have to live with the knowledge that one day, I’m going to lose my feline soulmate.

And that fear extends to everything. I was with Olivia, my girlfriend, for our anniversary. We rented the same hotel room we got together three years prior, when we decided to meet in Kalamazoo, but the pool was closed. And you don’t get between a Pisces and the idea of soaking in a body of water. So I had this idea — let’s go to the hot tub gardens instead.

And it was nothing short of magical. We got there well past midnight, after a romantic evening together. We sipped sparkling raspberry juice and she held me under the stars, so close I could hear her heartbeat beneath the bubbles. At the end of the hour and a half session, we dried off and got dressed and I found myself saying something to the effect of:

“That was great. Even if it’s all going to be over soon.”

It really hit me in that moment. Maybe it won’t be that weekend, or in a year, or in 10 years, or even in 50 years if we’re lucky. But there will be a last time I’ll ever see her, and that scares the shit out of me. The current political climate only exacerbates this fear — I don’t want to think about my sweet Olivia being taken and tortured and killed, and it’s unsettling to think that could even be a possibility. I love her so much, and I don’t want to imagine my life without her.

It’s not just Olivia, or Krubby for that matter. It’s my wife Crass and my parents and my karaoke friends and if I’m honest, it’s everyone and everything. It’s all impermanent. Everything will eventually crumble. And I hate that. I hate that eventually, I’m going to lose everyone I love and quite possibly everything I love and then what? I die too?

There was this mostly forgotten very underrated vaguely Christian emo-tinged indie band called Shirock back in the late 2000s. I was a fan of them — my friends took me to see them for my 16th birthday and I got to sing onstage with them, actually. Their music was pretty good, and I still remember a lot of their songs fondly. But the one that stuck with me the most throughout the years is “Everything Burns.” The theme of the song is that nothing lasts forever — everything burns in the end.

But love lives forever. At least that’s what the song implies.

I’d like to think my love will live on in some way after I die. I’d like to think that should my loved ones die before me, their love will live on in some way too. Maybe it’ll live on through me. I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers. I sincerely wish I did, because that would make this whole anxiety thing a lot easier.

Unfortunately, considering my mental health history, I don’t think this is going away soon, but I’m trying to keep things in perspective as much as possible. As upsetting as it is to think about, everyone dies eventually. It’s natural. It’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m going to keep trying to enjoy life as much as I can, though. I don’t know how much longer I have in this earth. If I use this fear as motivation to spend time doing the things I love with the people I love, it might not be all bad.

If you enjoyed the writing in this post and elsewhere on the site, please consider donating to Jessa’s tuition fund! Any help is appreciated!

CashApp: $TheJessaJoyce

Venmo: @TheJessaJoyce

Girls Just Wanna Have Funds: Figuring Out How I’m Going to Pay For School

What is the biggest challenge you will face in the next six months?

So I started audio engineering school this year. That was the best next step for me after the disaster that was my music therapy internship. And so far, so good! I’ve gotten nothing but As in both of my classes so far, and while I’m far from being finished with this degree, I’m confident I have what it takes to make this one happen.

There’s just one little problem. You see, school is like, really fucking expensive.

So therein lies the dilemma. Ya girl needs money, and I’ve been racking my brain trying to think of how I’m gonna raise like, $6,000 between now and September. I’ve toyed with a lot of ideas. I’ve considered streaming video games, and even tried launching a streaming channel a few times with varying amounts of success. I’ve thought about busking on the streets with my guitar. Heck, OnlyFans crossed my mind on occasion. I do, uh, have a lovely bunch of coconuts.

Big ones, small ones, some as big as your head!

None of these ideas are great, though, and I know this. I think about my wife and how the only thing she’s talked about for the last two months is buying this huge T-shirt printer for her merchandising business. She’s locked in. She knows what’s going to make her money. Meanwhile, I feel like I’m throwing spaghetti at a wall and seeing what sticks. Ideally, I’d earn the money I need for school doing something I’m good at, but it’s hard to monetize the two things I’m actually good at.

I wish I could monetize this blog somehow, since it is where I publish much of my writing. I have made money as a writer before, but it was damn near impossible when I’d just graduated with my journalism degree in 2015, and the climate is even worse now. Between the rise of party press bullshit in the journalism world again, the fact that many writers are willing to work for free, and the elephant in the room that is AI, writing jobs are pretty much extinct.

So I’m going to try something new in my blog posts. At the end of my posts, I’m going to add a section asking for donations. I’ve toyed with the idea of switching to a subscription-type of platform, but the end of the day, this blog is a labor of love, so I want to keep my writing free for everyone to access. But if anyone feels particularly moved by a certain piece of writing, I’d like to have the option for readers to give whatever they deem reasonable.

That’s my plan for hopefully getting a little extra cash for my classes. I’m also looking into additional jobs. I’m far too attached to my teaching and performing gigs to let them go, but I’m interviewing for a position at an overnight vet clinic tomorrow, so I’m praying that works out. (Here’s your cue to pray/send good vibes/make a neat spell jar too — I need all the divine intervention I can get.) Until then, me and my broke coconuts will brainstorm other get-rich-quick schemes.

If you enjoyed the writing in this post and elsewhere on the site, please consider donating to Jessa’s tuition fund! Any help is appreciated!

CashApp: $TheJessaJoyce

Venmo: @TheJessaJoyce

Mom Jeans, Ugly Sweater

Earlier today, on the Platform That Shall Not Be Named, I happened stumbled upon this, uh, gem:

It’s not a secret that I grew up in an evangelical environment. Not the fault of my parents, mind you — my mother and father are Christian culturally but otherwise pretty irreligious. It was primarily the influence of my friends, who all grew up with moms and dads who swore by Focus on the Family newsletters and listened to Newsboys for fun. I found myself heavily enveloped in the local megachurch by high school, thanks to these friends. I’m aware that I talk mad shit about that old church (and pastor, who recently asserted I had lost my “mind, soul, and conscious” by becoming a filthy liberal — no hate like Christian love, as they say). But there were good things about it, like the music. And the food. And the people. Some of the people, at least.

But I won’t lie, that church messed me up in a lot of ways. It goes way beyond just the gay stuff, which I’ve already addressed on here before. My body image was pretty fucky wucky for a hot minute, all thanks to the “modest is hottest” rhetoric. Basically, tank tops were verboten for two reasons. Two big reasons.

First and foremost, modesty was to protect the boys, because of course it was. We were taught that looking at a woman lustfully was just as bad as sleeping with her, so instead of, you know, plucking out your eyeball like Jesus said to do, the crux of the responsibility was put on the girls to not be a “stumbling block.” We couldn’t cause the poor innocent boys to sin with our exposed bodies!

But there was a second, almost more sinister reason.

It was to protect us from the boys.

Because boys have no self-control, right?

It’s like putting a steak in front of a dog and expecting him not to eat it. I heard that one in church before. You can’t be dressed “slutty” in front of a guy because if he takes advantage of you, people assume you wanted it. It’s a shitty sentiment for both guys and girls. It’s basically saying all guys are inherent rape machines, ticking time bombs that will assault a woman with no remorse the second he has the opportunity, and I know that’s not correct. I know this because I surround myself with quality men who’d never, ever do that to someone. I’m fact, I’ve been around them dressed in my sluttiest apparel, and never once did I feel unsafe.

The one time I was raped, though?

Mom jeans, ugly sweater.

I still remember the exact sweater. It had chunky stripes of dark blue and purple and white and orange and pink and yellow. The jeans weren’t my typical sexy tight skinny jeans either. Nothing about this outfit was attractive. My hair was also a mess. When it happened, I don’t even think I was wearing makeup. I was literally at my homeliest. My point is, I was giving no signal to the world that I was “asking for it.”

Neither are the countless children who are sexually abused. Or the hijabis who get assaulted despite covering up far more than most women in the western world. A woman could wear a burlap sack over her entire body and still be a victim.

That’s because rape isn’t about the sex. It’s about power.

That’s what “memes” like the one I shared at the beginning of this blog post don’t get. Clothing is irrelevant. Do you think my rapist was deterred by a few buttons? He wanted what he wanted, and it didn’t matter if I was wearing my sexiest lingerie or, ya know, an ugly sweater and mom jeans.

It’s sad that we essentially teach girls that they’re to blame if they get assaulted. That’s what this line of thinking will inevitably lead to. Instead, we should be teaching young men to respect boundaries. Men aren’t all predators, and we need to show boys that they have the choice to be a good man. We need more positive masculinity. We need dudes to be more Mr. Rogers, less Andrew Tate. We need guys who are strong enough to stand up to abusers and gentle enough to not become one.

If you’re reading this and are a survivor yourself, please know it wasn’t your fault, no matter what you were wearing at the time. And always remember that you are more than the sum of your trauma. The awful shit that happened to you doesn’t need to define you. Rather, defy it. Live so completely and fully that the bad memories are entirely overwritten with positive ones. That’s what I’ve been trying to do, with quite a bit of success. It’s been nearly seven years and I don’t even recall his name. I recently stumbled upon a picture of him in my phone that I’d saved in case I ever wanted to press charges. It’s odd — the picture didn’t really freak me out as much as I’d thought it would.

But if I’m honest, I don’t know if I could ever bring myself to wear that ugly sweater again.

Re-Joyce: How My Grandma’s Name Became My Identity

What is your middle name? Does it carry any special meaning/significance?

Here’s a shocker: my government name is not Jessa Joyce. I explained my choice of stage/pen name in a previous blog post, but I didn’t really go in-depth about the significance of the name Joyce, which is legally my middle name. Jessa was an older girl from my high school who was way cooler than me, so I ganked her first name. But who was Joyce?

Well, readers, this was Joyce.

My grandmother was born Joyce Sturgill in 1930 in the state of Kentucky. No middle name, as she was born at the tail end of the time before middle names were common. She was by all accounts a sweet person, and from what I remember of her, she was a bit sassy as well. She loved cats. She loved her family. She was an ordinary housewife and enjoyed simply taking care of her kids and grandkids. She never wanted for more than that.

I still remember her signature Appalachian accent yelling “Jaysee Joyce” from the other room when I was messing with something I shouldn’t have been messing with. Like the one time I hid her sweatpants under the bed and she caught them vacuuming. That was fun! But she was always quick to forgive my childhood pranks. I would cuddle up in her lap and watch Wheel of Fortune with her before falling asleep. Because she lived with us for the last few years of her life, we became pretty close.

She had a great sense of humor. One thing the women in my family are renowned for is our silly, off-the-wall, sometimes irreverent humor. When me, my mom, and my grandma were in the same room, there was never a dull moment. We’d have the entire family howling. And the food-catchers! The joke was that the female members of the family grew to be, uh, well-endowed in conjunction with our messy eating habits. In other words, my grandma’s shirts were never clean!

She unfortunately passed when I was still in high school. I remember walking into the hospital room to find her lying there dead. It appeared as if she’d been lying there alone for a while — no one had checked on her. I was the one who found her, actually. That was one of the darkest moments of my life. Things weren’t the same for my family after that. We grew apart. She was the glue that was holding us all together.

My grandma was not without her flaws. She had severe anxiety her entire life and would seldom leave the house over it. Her first attempt at driving a car, she crashed into a building, so she never tried again. Her cool Oldsmobile languished in the garage. I know people talk about how trauma can be passed down through generations, and it’s been established that anxiety is hereditary. My mother has severe anxiety as well, which has manifested as not really wanting to leave the house or drive. Sometimes I wonder if my grandmother’s and mother’s mental health issues poured into my own, as I’ve had almost crippling anxiety for most of my life. I don’t fault them for this, of course — we don’t pick our genes. In fact, it gives me perspective. I’m assuming these issues go back even further, perhaps multiple generations. The fact that the strong women in my family survived this long is remarkable.

Still, I don’t want to live in fear like the women in my family who came before me. I want to go outside. I want to live in the light. My grandmother was an amazing woman, but I’m sad she never got to adventure or see the world. That’s one of the reasons I embraced her name as part of my name. I want her legacy to live on through me. I want to travel and create and thrive, and I hope she can see me as I become everything I was meant to be. I hope I bring honor to her name.

Grandma Joyce never got to know me as Jessa Joyce. Sometimes I wonder what she’d think of me today, if she’d be proud of me. She wasn’t a performer or entertainer by any means. This life would be foreign to her. But I know she’d love me no matter what I went on to do or accomplish. She was more than just the matriarch of my family. She’s a part of me.

The Entertainer: How I Found My Life’s Calling

I write this from the fancy-schmancy professional studio I’ve been holed up in for the entirety of spring break. It’s almost 2 in the morning, and going by track records here, my bandmate and I won’t be leaving until 6, if not even later. The only thing I have to eat is a jar of cashew butter I shoved into my guitar case. I’m running on Adderall, enough caffeine to kill a horse, and a brief power nap I took hours ago. But as much as I want to complain, I can’t.

This is the life I chose, you know?

When I was a kid, this is the kind of stuff I’d dream about doing someday. I don’t think I can overstate how influential music was to me growing up. I’d watch Behind the Music religiously and dream about the day I’d be in my heroes’ shoes. I’d even imagine my own episode someday, all of my wild ups and downs throughout my career. Music was a mystical thing and I had my own pantheon — Bon Jovi were gods and Ann and Nancy Wilson were my goddesses.

I’m not actually goth, I was just really influenced by the music video for Heart’s “Alone.”

This past week, I’ve spent five nights and one long day doing what I’ve been wanting to do for years — work as a professional musician. I feel like I’m so close to phasing out any form of “real work” and just doing what I love, and it feels great to be honest. I’m sick of menial unimportant work. I want to do something with meaning.

For a long time, I assumed my role on this planet was to help people in a really real and tangible way. In high school, I was insistent on becoming a doctor so I could do just that (and for the clout of being able to call myself a doctor, obvs). Of course my parents talked me out of that career path, and probably for the best, because knowing how flaky I can be, I’d probably be the person who leaves a scalpel in a patient or something.

But even after I left my shallow dreams of doctorness behind, I was convinced I’d someday be a music therapist, and that was going to be my method of helping people. My first love has always been music, so I knew that had to be involved somehow. It was the perfect arrangement — I’d get to do what I love and also help people. Alas, those dreams didn’t pan out either, no thanks to my nightmarish internship that soured me to the entire profession I’d been pursuing for a decade.

Which leads me to where I am now. I host music bingo for a living. I put on trivia shows for local bars. I’m studying audio engineering and on special occasions, I get to be a studio musician and help out with recording guitar or bass. Nothing I’m doing is groundbreaking or livesaving. No one needs a game of music bingo. But I’m content, because the things I am doing are still important in their own way. I talked a little about serving glimmers as an entertainer on here, but it stands repeating. Entertainment and the arts are crucial to every day life because they’re an intrinsic part of being human. It’s why I’ve got mixed thoughts on AI. Art and humanity have been linked since the dawn of civilization. It’s what makes us different from other creatures, even relatively intelligent ones like dolphins.

Try making art with flippers, you untalented swine.

We need arts and entertainment. It’s the thing that keeps us sane in this hectic society. And honestly, it’s a huge honor work as an entertainer. I love what I do. I love putting smiles on people’s faces. I used to think working in entertainment was selfish. After all, I only want to do it because I love attention, right? And I mean, I do enjoy being the center of attention, but there’s an altruistic element to it as well. Making people happy — just giving people something to look forward to in this dark world — is what keeps me going.

I’ll end this sort of rambly blog post with an anecdote from my freshman year of college. I was very casually dating the sweetest, gentlest guy. He was smallish in stature and cute in a nice Jewish boy way and really, really loved sloths. My point is you’d never expect this young man to play guitar like a fucking rock god, but he did. He could shred. And he had such a way with crafting beautiful songs. We didn’t work out for reasons I’ll never know, but I was madly in love with him. That’s not why he holds a place in my heart to this day, though.

One night, we were sitting in the car. He was showing me Buckethead, one of his biggest influences, alongside John Frusciante, whom I also came to love. And my sweet kinda-boyfriend revealed to me the meaning behind his band’s name, Smiles and Anchors. He wanted to honor his passion for making people happy through music. That’s all he wanted to do. It wasn’t about becoming famous or rich. He just wanted to bring a little light to people in his little world.

And that shook me.

Music has always been my way of connecting with others, but I’d never heard anyone put it that way before. Until then, music was more about what it did for me. It made me happy. It made me connections with others. But what about the folks listening? To them, we’re the ones making life a little more bearable. We’re the ones providing the soundtracks to memories. And it’s kind of humbling in a weird way, and I like that. I never want to lose sight of why I play music. I never want to let my ego soil the joy I get from making my listeners happy with my songs, because it’s not about me. It’s about them. That conversation was part of the reason I ended up getting an anchor on my foot for my first tattoo. I wanted a physical reminder to stay humble, no matter where music takes me.

I intentionally censored my horrendously long and upsetting toes. You’re welcome.

And that’s what being an entertainer is all about to me. It’s hard work. It’s scary. You have to put yourself out there. You have to practice a lot. Sometimes you’re in the studio for so long your contacts practically melt into your eyes and you get a gnarly case of conjunctivitis (true story). But for all the sacrifices this lifestyle takes, it’s worth it. Being a performer has been some of the most rewarding work I’ve ever done, and I’m happy I get to share it all with you.

Don’t Fear the Reaper: Coming to Terms With Growing Older

Your girl almost had a “crying in the club” moment, and on her own birthday, no less. Ever become like, overwhelmingly aware of your own mortality? Like, really aware?

I was at karaoke and scrolling through That Accursed Platform™ when I stumbled across this picture:

My hero, Ann Wilson, whose trademark long dark hair and straight bangs were the inspiration for my own hairdo. Her signature hair is missing. She looks beautiful, as always, but she no longer resembles me. She resembles another woman now.

My mother.

Ann is getting older.

My mom is getting older.

I’m getting older.

And if I’m honest, it terrifies me.

I don’t want to think about a world where Ann Wilson doesn’t exist. No one wants to think about their hero dying. Dying is such a vulnerable state, and your hero is supposed to be invincible, right? It’s the cracks in that invincibility that give you that unsettled feeling. Also, your hero is supposed to be someone you see yourself in. And seeing Ann get older is like seeing myself get older in real time. I’m seeing an older version of me.

I guess this is a Part Two to my first birthday post, since that last post also talked about my impending death. I won’t lie, I’m actually pretty content in my life right now, but there’s always that nagging feeling of “You are mortal. You will die. You will be forgotten.” It colors everything I do. I thought I was out of the OCD woods when most of my lifelong obsessions and compulsions went dormant a few years back, but now I’m realizing it just morphed into something else. There’s something called existential OCD, and it’s hell. Imagine grappling with the Meaning of Life every single fucking day.

Yeah, it’s not fun.

The good news is…well, I started typing that and didn’t really come up with anything great. I am going to watch all my heroes die. I’m going to watch my mom die. I’m going to watch my dad die. I’m going to probably watch a lot of friends die. And God forbid Crass or Livvy die before me.

But I’m not alone in any of that.

Death is part of the human experience. There’s a reason tarot experts tell people not to fear the death card. Everyone in human history has perished eventually. No man has truly achieved immortality. The closest anyone has ever gotten has been men like Jesus and Mohamed and Aristotle, whose ideas transcended millennia. But they’re rare exceptions. Most humans fade quietly into time. No one remembers who your great-great-grandmother was. In a way, the universal experience of dying and becoming forgotten unites us all.

I may be slowly catapulting toward death, but we’re all slowly catapulting together. I named this post “Don’t Fear the Reaper” for the Blue Öyster Cult song, but when I was writing it, I had the words from “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac in my head. “Time makes you bolder, even children get older, and I’m getting older too.” There’s a good reason I chose it as my daddy-daughter dance (which was the only dance I was allowed to do at my own wedding — long story short, don’t marry a Baptist).

I wish there was an easy answer. I wish I was gullible enough to believe wholeheartedly in afterlife, but I don’t know anymore. I still consider myself a Christian, but a fairly agnostic one. I want to believe more than anything that there’s a special place for our souls after we die. More than that, I want to believe in that elusive Meaning of Life, some higher purpose for our existence, but I’m starting to lose faith in humanity for a lot of reasons.

I want to leave a mark on this world somehow, because I’m finding the only way to quell my fears of death is to life fully and with purpose.

I want to believe that should I die, there will have been some reason for me to have been here.

The Art of Becoming Immortal Through Writing

You’re writing your autobiography. What’s your opening sentence?

“She was born in the middle of a snowstorm on her mother’s birthday…”

Okay, maybe I won’t be pretentious and write it in third person, but I’ve very much toyed with the idea of writing an autobiography of sorts. I always said I’d wait until I was actually important to write one, but honestly, who’s the judge of importance? Lots of ordinary folks have put their life down into words.

It seems fitting to get this prompt on the eve of my birthday. I’ve been thinking a lot about how I want to preserve my story as I get older. I know I don’t want to be easily forgotten, that’s for sure. My biggest fear stems from one of the best animated films of all time in my opinion, Coco. At one point, a man literally dissolves into nothing after the last person on earth who remembers him dies. I don’t want to fade quietly into obscurity, with my story and my creations and my entire existence irretrievably forgotten.

Nothing like a whimsical cartoon fantasy to launch you into an existential crisis.

That’s why I write this blog. In a way, it is my autobiography. There’s stuff on here I’m very proud of. There’s stuff on here I’m not as proud of, but it’s part of my experience nonetheless. It’s different from my social media accounts where everything is sort of curated for the particular medium I’m posting on. In this blog, though, I can be completely myself. I’m not beholden to any standards or expectations. This is my little corner of the internet to do whatever I please with.

And so I write. I write about all of the things I love. I write about all of the things I’m passionate about. And most importantly, I write down my life story. Because when I make it to the end of the road, I don’t want it to be for naught. I want my life to have meaning.

I’ve been considering my own mortality quite a bit lately. I’m becoming acutely aware of the fact that I’m slowly catapulting toward death, maybe quickly if things in the world keep progressing (or rather, regressing) the way they are. I don’t want to be a doomer and assume it’s going to get that far, but if it does, we need to preserve our stories. Anne Frank humanized an entire people group through her writing, even if she ultimately perished. Her writing lives on. She lives on.

And that, my friends, is why I write.

Jessa’s Top Three Things: A List Nobody Asked For

What are three objects you couldn’t live without?

I’ve been enjoying these prompts, as it gives me more ideas of neat things to share with you guys. Writing this blog has been one of my favorite ways to connect with people, and one of my favorite ways of connecting with people is sharing stuff I like. Usually, when I say “stuff I like,” I mean like, Bon Jovi and shit, but what about the actual stuff I own? What objects can I not live without?

Glad you asked, unnamed reader! Here’s a list of three things I absolutely require to function (well, aside from food and water and the obvious):

1. My Guitar

Is this too obvious? I picked up a guitar for the first time as an awkward 10-year-old who desperately wanted to be Richie Sambora, and I never looked back. Over the years, I’ve accumulated many instruments, which means this answer is kind of a cop-out since “my guitar” could describe like, ten different items. I’ve got my cherry red Epiphone Les Paul and my sunburst American-made Fender Strat. I’ve also got my Baby Taylor, a scaled-down acoustic I got for myself due to the portability. There’s also one with my name on it that’s shaped like a J that a family friend custom made for me (I don’t know how well it works — I think it was unfinished — but it’s mostly for show anyways). Then there’s my Franken-Dean — a guitar with a neon green neck slapped on a hot pink body, complete with a spider decal.

But nothing compares to my Epiphone acoustic. That is probably the real answer to this question — if I had to choose one, that one would be it. It’s not the best sound-wise, nor is it especially flashy-looking, but it belonged to my grandfather, a bluegrass player, and was then passed to my late uncle, then me. The guitar is so old it was literally made in the very city I live in, Kalamazoo, before the company moved its operations overseas years ago. I’ve been considering getting it fixed up so if shit hits the fan and we need to skidaddle from like, the whole ass country, I can smuggle this guitar and have it be functional. As much as I love my Baby Taylor, the Epi is my pride and joy for sentimental reasons. Should I have a kid someday, I’ll pass it along to her too.

2. My Phone

Again, I feel like this is fairly obvious, and also something most people would pick. It is the 21st century — your whole life is on that thing. But I’m not much of a talker or texter, even though I do use it to keep in touch with my friends and family. There’s a lot of other stuff I use my phone for everyday that a lot of folks probably don’t realize. I use my phone for writing primarily, as it’s easy to transport, unlike a bulky computer or notebook. The word processors work almost identically to computer word processors, but I can write from anywhere whenever inspiration strikes. I’m writing this very blog post on my phone! I’m a bit of a compulsive reader so I also use it for reading, since it’s easier than lugging books with me everywhere. Had the internet not been invented, I’d probably have a bag full of books at all times!

The fact that I keep my phone with me at all times is why I opted to put it in a wallet case with a lanyard. I know myself and I know I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached to my body, but if my wallet is literally an object that is always in my hands, I know it’s safe. I also use my phone as a planner for the same reason. I highly recommend the app Zinnia for my fellow ADHDers, as it’s very customizable and colorful! I’ve made a ritual of updating it every Sunday night, and I swear it’s the only reason I’m ever punctual at all.

3. My Piano

Of course there’s another musical entry. What do y’all expect from me? My piano (or rather, electronic keyboard) was a gift from a former producer of mine who no longer needed it. I’d wanted one primarily for the sake of practicing the songs I’d have to learn on keys for music therapy, but honestly, even though that didn’t work out, I’m happy I ended up with this instrument anyways. I remember being heartbroken that my paternal grandmother’s piano went to another family member. I always wanted to play piano, almost as much as I wanted to play guitar, but I never had the opportunity to learn as a child. I guess having this keyboard now makes up for it a little.

Piano is important to me in particular because it’s the instrument I mostly use for songwriting purposes. I’m so familiar with the guitar and have so much training on it that I don’t feel like I can be fun and experimental as much on it. I’m too worried about playing correctly. But with keys, I don’t know as much about proper technique because my only lessons were a few classes in college, so I’m not as afraid to make mistakes and play around. I don’t hold myself to a super high standard, which means I can get my ideas out there in a more raw and real way. Sometimes I’ll just write out some lyrics and sit at the piano bench and try out different melodies with the chords. I love guitar, but I feel like I almost have more fun playing piano.

So that concludes my top three objects I absolutely, positively need. What are your top three? Drop them in the comments section!