The Waiting is the Hardest Part

Last night was my interview for my dream internship. So much is riding on me getting this position. If I get this internship, I’ll get to graduate by next December, meaning we’ll get to move to Kalamazoo so I can start grad school and perhaps most excitingly, start our family. Should I fail to get this position, I’ll have to either wait another year or move (potentially out of state) for a different internship. Which is a lot to take in.

I just wish I knew one way or another. Like Tom Petty said, the waiting is the hardest part.

I talked in a recent post about how I wish I could fast-forward my life story and know for sure that everything works out the way I planned. I’ve been reading books on things like the law of attraction and how you can manifest the life you want just by imagining it really hard. I hope that’s true, but at the same time, I hope it isn’t, because I’m secretly afraid the second I lose faith, everything will come crashing. If my hopes can manifest good things, surely my anxieties will manifest bad things in turn. That’s how it works, right?

And all I can think about is, if I’m this much of a wreck waiting for news on whether or not I got an internship, imagine how much more of a wreck I’ll be waiting for news of whether or not I have some terminal illness or something.

Is there such a thing as being terminally anxious?

I don’t have a lot of family baggage, but there is one generational curse that’s plagued the women in my family for time immemorial, and that’s anxiety. My grandma was so anxious she rarely ever left the house and consequently never learned to drive. My mom’s better, but not by much. I see how anxious she is and it breaks my heart. She’s scared of heights, bridges, highways, serial killers — she once told me not to date a guy because he looked vaguely like a local murderer who was on the run (it wasn’t him, for what it’s worth). And as much as I’d like to consider myself fearless, I do have things that scare me. One of them is death, and the other is not being able to do everything I want to do before death. So really, I only have one fear, but it’s a whopper.

This internship and the anxiety I’m feeling over it is a microcosm I’m of my bigger fear — that I won’t get to accomplish everything I’ve set out to do. I’m scared if I don’t get this internship, I’ll have to wait another year for it to happen again, and what if I don’t get it then and have to wait another year? What if I can’t have kids by then? What if I’m like, 50 by the time I graduate from grad school? I’ll already be halfway dead, right?

I don’t have an easy antidote for anxiety, and if I did, trust me, I’d sell that shit in a heartbeat and make millions. I guess there’s always Xanax, but you need a prescription for that and that’s too much work. I think the thing that’s helping me is one single affirmation — “What if it all goes right?” We’re so used to telling ourselves it’ll all go wrong, just changing your inner dialogue to something more positive helps alleviate the stress. Will it make the thing you want to happen, happen? Maybe, if you believe in the law of attraction. But it’ll make things easier in the meantime.

I’m holding onto the hope that this internship will come through and I won’t have to uproot my entire life to finish my degree. But if it comes down to it, I know things will work out in the end. God has always provided a way for me in the past, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. There’s always a way forward, even when the waiting is daunting. You just gotta trust that the universe will catch you as you’re free falling.

Love, Your Mom Friend: A Guide to Growing Up

I think it hit me when my wife brought up yet another youngin’ who latched onto her. You see, for some reason, we attract people in their early 20s. And we’re the ones they turn to when they need advice, or even just an ear.

We’re the mom friends now.

I never thought I’d see the day when we’d be the wise, old, responsible ones in our friendships. Two years ago, we were lazy drunks who contributed nothing of worth to society, who barely scraped by in life. We were the former gifted kid burnouts everyone pities, squandering what little money we had on booze and vapes for a sad little hit of dopamine. It’s a wonder we managed to pay our rent on time. We should have been on the streets.

Now we’re in the gym every other night, and we’re no longer bloated and sick from poisoning ourselves with alcohol. We have a measly savings account, but that’s more than a lot of people our age can say. I’m interviewing for my dream internship tonight, and my wife is preparing to start her costuming business.

I think at some point, you have to get sick of sucking in order to grow. It’s the difference between real adulthood and adolescence (which goes way beyond the teenage years in some people, us included). I get why a lot of folks our age have stagnated, especially due to economic/financial issues. But at some point, staying in this prolonged state of adolescence is just sad. We’re not meant to have our growths stunted. We’re meant for bigger, better things.

How do you reach real adulthood, though? The path is different for everyone, but here are the steps we took to get out of that adolescent rut.

1. Stop Drinking

All together. Even if it’s just for a little while, but I think you’ll find you like yourself more when you’re not guzzling booze every other day. I know I’ve improved significantly as a person since I ditched alcohol. I sleep better, I don’t have weird abdominal pains, I’m actually creative again, and I don’t bitch like a baby at my poor wife who had to deal with my bullshit. There’s a book called The Alcohol Experiment by Annie Grace that I highly recommend. If you do nothing else in this list, at least read this book. It changed my entire perspective on why we drink.

2. Make a Budget

No one likes talking about money, but it’s an important part of everyday life. And if we’re honest, we all like money — we just have a complicated relationship with it. One way to make that relationship a little less tumultuous is to make a budget. Sit down one afternoon with a nice cup of tea (or whatever helps relax you — NOT ALCOHOL) and see where your money is going every month. You might be surprised how much you’re spending in certain areas, and how much you could be saving by not throwing money at Taco Bell three times a week. It might help to hire a financial advisor, but I realize that’s not in everyone’s budget. You can do it yourself with a free hour and a spreadsheet and/or pen and paper, so there’s no excuse to not be doing this!

3. CLEAN YOUR SPACE

“But it will just get dirty again—“ Enough of that nonsense. Imagine if we said “Why eat if we’ll just get hungry again?” You’re a living being, and by living in your house or apartment, it is by extension a part of you. Take a little time every day to tidy up one thing. Just one single thing. Maybe clear off the kitchen counters, or scrub the tub, or do laundry. Just make sure you’re doing ONE thing. And if you keep going after that one thing is finished, don’t stop the momentum! Keep on cleaning until you don’t have it in you to do anything else. Having a clean space will help you feel more relaxed and “at home.” And while we’re at it…

4. Decorate Your Space!

The fun part! Now that you’re an adult, you get to do whatever you want with your home (within reason — don’t get in trouble with your landlord because you tried to set up a pool inside your tiny apartment). Put stuff on the wall that makes you happy. I suggest buying art from local artists and turning your space into your own personal museum. It will make you look really cool and cultured, trust me. Especially if that art’s on a canvas. That screams adult.

5. Get Moving

When we were kids, running and jumping felt right and natural. What happened?! As we step into our new adult bodies, we need movement just as much as we did as kids. It doesn’t need to be structured or have a specific goal in mind. If you want to run a 5k, it’s great to have that as an objective, but even just dancing a little every morning to get the blood flowing is good. I have a routine of waking up early, swimming around a little, and doing 20 minutes of cardio on the elliptical. That helps me stay grounded and focused all day. Find ways to make movement fun again. Play tag with your significant other. Play that Just Dance game I suck at. Take a walk every night and see what sights there are to see near your place. There’s a whole wide world to explore!

And most importantly, don’t be too hard on yourself. Growing up is a process, and there are some aspects of adulthood I have yet to master. But as your mom friend, this is me telling you that you gotta step up your adulting game, because you deserve to live an amazing, fulfilling, grown up life.

And don’t forget to change your underwear!

Every Hello Ends in Goodbye (Or, My Newly Realized Abandonment Issues)

It’s probably not the best idea to start my week with therapy, because I’ll inevitably be walking back into work with my eye makeup looking like Avril Lavigne circa 2004.

“Why’d you have to go and make things so complicated?” -me to my therapist, probably

Today’s session left me a big teary mess once again, but now I think I realize why I’ve been a big sad lately.

I’ve been coming to terms with the fact that all things eventually end. Places you loved get torn down, your pets will all die, and even if something manages to stick around long after you’re dead, like a really cool sturdy rock or something, there’s still the inevitable heat death of the universe to look forward to.

But love lasts forever, right?

I’ve been through a lot of close friends, and the one thing they all had in common is that they invariably went their separate way from me. Crass is the only best friend I’ve ever had who stuck around, and I’m still paranoid she’s going to get tired of me someday and leave me. Even though we’re legally married. You know the whole “til death do us part” thing? What if she dies first? What if there’s no afterlife and all of this was for naught? What if there is an afterlife and her spirit like, divorces me? What if I get ghosted by a literal ghost?

Family lasts forever though, right? Except the only members of my family I even talk to are my parents, and I’m acutely aware of the fact that they are likely going to die before me, leaving me with exactly no blood relatives I’m actually on regular speaking terms with. There’s always my brother, but he’s been weirdly squirrelly since he got all up Trump’s butt, and he stopped talking to me altogether after I dared to not be straight. “But what about chosen family?!” Ah, yes. That brings me back to the whole “friends eventually inevitably leave me” thing.

Maybe I do have abandonment issues.

I was today years old when I realized that this was a likely problem for me. Before today, I thought abandonment issues were for people who got left on a stranger’s stoop by their parents as a baby. It’s not like I have daddy issues — my dad and I are actually really close. Maybe that is a problem, since I know deep down he’s gonna die someday and I’ll be a wreck without him.

The logical side of me, the part I’ve beaten to death with a hammer and still comes popping back up like an asshole zombie, says that if I never let anyone get close to me, I’ll never have to worry about losing anyone. That’s such a sad way to live, though. The beauty of life is in the connections we make, and by shutting other people out to protect ourselves, we’ll never know how fulfilling it is to love someone else. Maybe that’s the feely side of me talking, though.

Facebook is an absolute hellscape, but I found something vaguely encouraging amidst the general dumbassery. I’ll share it here in its entirety.

Maybe it’s unreasonable to expect every relationship in my life to remain unchanged until the day me and all my loved ones die simultaneously in our sleep of old age. The world is in a constant state of flux, and things will change and evolve over time. Perhaps it should be enough to enjoy what we have in the moment and savor every second we get to spend with the people we care about. That way, when “goodbye” inevitably comes, there are no regrets. “Show love with no remorse,” as the Red Hot Chili Peppers said in their song “Dosed.” That’s the mantra that guides my entire life, and yes, I get my most treasured wisdom from four men whose most iconic outfit is one singular sock.

The Delicate Art of Surrender

So there’s this old song by a band no one remembers called “Happily Ever After.” In it, the singer, Bethany (I don’t know if that’s her name but she sounds like a Bethany), croons about how she hopes God gives her story the ending she desires. “Author of the moment, can you tell me, do I end up happy?”

I’m being informed by Google that her name is actually Rachel and judging by the haircut worn by no straight woman ever, she ended up gay.

It’s been hard lately to surrender to the unknown future, and as of late, the future feels more unknown than ever. I have my music therapy internship interview this upcoming week. My band is starting to get some attention. I’ve been considering a number of additional paths, such as becoming a writer and teaching music full time. And my heart still longs for a child, as stupid as I feel for saying that. I sound like the “my biological clock is ticking” women I made fun of when I was younger.

Every day feels the same, but I know things are slowly changing. The future needs time to cook, and I need to let it simmer for a while. I know logically I can’t rush things, but I want to get to the next stage of life so badly it hurts. I want to know I’ll have my little girl and my unconventional yet happy family and that it’ll be cupcakes and roses for everyone involved. I want to know that my career will be successful, whether it’s music therapy or playing in a rock band or something else entirely that I haven’t figured out yet.

There’s this book I just finished called You Are a Badass by a writer named Jen Sincero. The logical side of my brain considers it a little too foo-foo at times — you’re telling me I can manifest anything by wishing for it hard enough?! — but there’s some value in being thankful to the universe for all of the possibilities it could give to you. She writes of having gratitude toward God or whichever higher power you like the best as if you already have the thing you desire, and then surrendering that thing to the Universe. That’s what I have trouble with I think. The surrendering part. I hold onto things with the tenacity of a particularly angry dog.

THESE ARE MY DREAMS, UNIVERSE. NO TOUCH.

I’m in the best position I’ve ever been in. My band is on the verge of something great, I’m about to finish my degree — finally — and I have not one, but two significant others whom I love with my entire heart. There’s still room for things to go awry, however, and that’s what scares me. What if I don’t get this internship? What if one of my partners gets sick of my bullshit and leaves me? And — the one that hurts the most to think about — what if my little Cadence never comes to be? I don’t know if I could handle that.

I wish life were as easy as it were in The Sims, where I could press a few buttons and enter a cheat code and everything I ever wanted would be right there waiting for me. Maybe it is there, like Sincero said in her book, and I just need to manifest it. I should be grateful for all these possibilities that are coming my way, but it’s so hard to shake the nagging feeling of something will go wrong.

I think the real power comes in trusting that God/the Universe will provide an even cooler alternative if I don’t end up getting what I want, like how He provided a Black Sabbath tribute band after my wedding reception when the fuddy-duddies at the church I got married at didn’t allow dancing at the shindig itself. (There’s a reason that marriage didn’t last, but at least I got to party with Ozzy freakin’ Osbourne.)

The only Prince Charming I needed was the Prince of Darkness himself.

There’s a verse in the Bible that talks about how God works all things together for the good of those who love Him (Romans 8:28). That’s what I’ve been meditating on as of late. It hurts to surrender my plans to Him, but I know He’s got my best interest at heart. The Author of the moment knows more about the storyline than I do. I think back to everything I thought I wanted years ago. Had I reached Taylor Swift levels of fame and fortune, for example, I probably would have thrown myself into a meat grinder by now, with all the pressure and scrutiny weighing on my mental health. My desire to be the biggest rock star on the planet wasn’t from God — it was from me — and only in retrospect do I realize that achieving that dream would have been my ruin.

Still, I’m worried about a lot of things. I’m worried I’ll never get my real dream wedding with either of my partners. I’m worried we’ll never have our kid. I’m worried I’ll never get to go to the UK to meet my long-lost cousin/penpal. I’m worried I’ll never get to live in a little home by the lake. I worry a lot more than I let on. But I’m learning to trust that things always seem to work out for the best in the end.

No, Trans Women Are Not Threatening Womanhood

I’ve largely disconnected from Facebook because I’m trying to love myself. Still, the primal urge to check in on that hellhole creeps in every now and then. It’s like how some folks enjoy watching pimple popping. It’s often disgusting, but fascinating all the same. I don’t know, maybe I’m following the wrong people.

Anyways, this is what I opened that God-forsaken app to:

Do you know how tempted I am to NOT hide these losers’ identities?

Basically, Jess Hilarious is a comedian (you gotta be with a last name like Hilarious). Recently, she said some pretty TERF-y things, which is what the status above is referring to. Here’s the direct quote, for anyone too lazy to click on the link:

What is the difference between you and someone who has been diagnosed to be mentally insane? The only difference is you don’t have a straitjacket on. Stop talking out your (bleep). Wake up. How are you projecting your anger on real women? Because we are the gatekeepers. We are the gatekeepers for periods. We are the only one that (bleep) bleed, honey.
Jess Hilarious, being decidedly unhilarious

The tirade was in response to a TikTok video of a trans woman who claimed cis women don’t “own” womanhood or periods. The second point is decidedly true — (almost) all AFAB people of a certain age have periods, which includes some trans men and non-binary individuals. And the first point, well, that’s also true, but it’s worth noting that the two aren’t synonymous. Read that again — womanhood and periods are not synonymous. One can exist without the other. Lots of cis women don’t have periods, too, for a number of reasons.

The TERF agenda seems to revolve around the idea that womanhood is this finite resource, and if non-AFAB people get a slice of the pie, there’s less available for what they’d consider “real women.” It’s a silly argument. Someone with a penis wearing a sundress or makeup and going by she/her doesn’t make you, a cis woman, any less of a woman. She’s just out here minding her own business, and you should too. (And everyone should experience the unbridled joy of wearing a sundress on a pretty spring day, I don’t care what gender you are.)

Womanhood should not be gatekept. After all, it is a concept, above all other things. It’s a societal construct that shifts and changes depending on time and culture. 200 years ago, womanhood looked like wearing a corset; in Muslim-majority areas, it might look like wearing a hijab. Heck, pink used to be a masculine color until we decided as a culture to code it as feminine. These are all arbitrary things — we could decide as a society that women need to wear saucepans on their heads and if enough people went along with it, that would be the new normal.

My point here is that if the norms of what your culture considers “womanly” fits how you feel, then womanhood is open to you, and that’s regardless of your naughty bits. It’s the Shania Twain Principle. If you wake up in the morning thinking man, I feel like a woman, I have news for you.

Sure, pregnancy and childbirth (and periods, by extension) are traditionally associated with womanhood, but like everything that depends on societal norms, there will always be exceptions. Look at women who cannot conceive or carry a child. Do we revoke their woman-card? Absolutely not, and the very idea of doing such a thing is wildly offensive.

There’s room at the table for all of us: cis, trans, or non-binary, able to bear children or unable to bear children, sundress-lovers and pantsuit connoisseurs alike. When addressing important issues like bodily autonomy, such as abortion and birth control rights and the right to receive gender affirming care, it’s more important than ever that all women band together against our common enemy — the greedy, misogynistic old guys in power.

Like most people I don’t agree with, I don’t think Jess Hilarious is necessarily a bad person — just misguided. I hope she, too, someday comes to realize that womanhood is for anyone who dares claim it.

ADHD: An Owner’s Manual (Part Four: Habits You Can Keep!)

I’ll admit I haven’t been keeping up on my ADHD: An Owner’s Manual posts as much as I’d like. It’s almost like I have ADHD! Who’d a thunk it, right?

Nevertheless, I want to get back into writing these again, since I know a lot of people found them useful. When the daily prompt of “habits” came up, I figured it was a perfect opportunity to jump into some of my own personal habits for success with ADHD. These are simply habits that work for me, but feel free to borrow any or all of them for your personal life.

Without further ado…

What are your daily habits?

1. Read

This one is so important. I’ve always been an avid reader, usually of nonfiction. There’s so much out there to learn that it feels neglectful not to study a topic of interest a little bit every day. My habit tracker simply says “read,” but I try to aim for at least a page of something a day. That typically turns into several pages, maybe even several chapters, but the most important thing is getting your foot in the door with just a single page.

Here’s the cheat for ADHD — it doesn’t need to be a physical book. The cool thing about having a phone with you at all times is you can download whatever you want to read and have it in your pocket at all times. Whip it out whenever you have a spare moment. Hint: bathroom breaks are perfect for reading.

Another trick is to pick a topic that interests you. If you’re like me and have something (like a badass glam emo band) to promote, look into a book on digital marketing like One Million Followers by Brendan Kane. If you want to improve your communication skills, How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie is a classic. If you want to better yourself as a whole, I highly recommend Atomic Habits by James Clear or Eat That Frog! by Brian Tracy. Another one of my favorite authors is Austin Kleon, whose books should be essential reading for any creative. Whatever book you choose, make sure it’s interesting to you!

2. Study a Language

Languages are the building block of human civilization — so why does there have to be so freaking many of them?! I’ve been to Sunday school, I know the story. A bunch of ancient assholes ruined it for us as always, right?

The downside of there being a bazillion languages is that a portion of humanity is essentially behind a paywall, and the price you have to pay is hours upon hours of studying a foreign language. But as daunting as the task is, learning languages can be fun! Gone are the days of burying your face in a book and trying to figure out how to conjugate verbs on your own. Modern technology has game-ified language learning, which makes it accessible to even the most ADHD among us.

There’s two apps I regularly use — Duolingo and Drops. Duolingo is better for grammar, Drops for vocabulary. Both are good options and certainly be used together. As for which language to learn, that’s up to you. Obviously anything that uses the Roman alphabet is going to be easier for the most part, but if you want a challenge, take up something that uses a different writing system. I did the latter, choosing Arabic, which has the added bonus of being the second language of many of my coworkers. That’s another consideration — do you have people to practice with? Consider choosing a language many people in your area speak.

3. Clean a Thing

That’s it. That’s the habit. Just pick one thing in your dwelling space and put it where it belongs, or give it a good scrub. You don’t need to make an entire ordeal of it, and just cleaning a little every day will make cleaning your entire home less daunting. Sometimes cleaning one thing will snowball into cleaning another thing, then another, and another, but the important part is initiating the act of cleaning. Breaking up huge, seemingly impossible tasks into bite-sized pieces like this helps me to keep a clean apartment.

4. Do Something Creative

That’s it! I make it a point to either write or do art every single day. Whatever your passion is, indulge yourself in it daily for at least five minutes — and don’t stop yourself if you get lost in the sauce and want to keep going. Again, the trick is to overcome that executive dysfunction and get started, and once you’re in the zone, don’t fight it. Use your hyperfocusing powers to your advantage.

It’s crucial to do this every day if you can. Think of it in terms of identity. For a long time, I called myself a writer — but I barely wrote anything! What good is calling yourself a writer if you don’t, you know, write? Put your identity first. What do you want to be? A painter? A musician? A dancer? A chef? Once you establish who you are, be that kind of person, which means doing whatever it is that person does. Being and doing are intertwined. Ask yourself every day, “What would a real (insert whatever it is you want to be here) do with their free time?” Then do it!

My artist wife has a saying — “You gotta want it every day.” She makes it a point to draw at least one illustration a day, even when she’s having a creative block. Just doing something is better than nothing. It’s all about building those little habits.

5. Get Moving

This is another important one. It’s no secret that we ADHDers benefit from exercise. The CDC recommends 150 minutes of physical activity a week with two days of strength training. While that seems like a lot, it breaks down to less than a half hour a day if you do it every day.

Going to the gym might be a good idea for concentration purposes. If you try to work out at home, you’ll be fighting off every distraction imaginable, from video game console on your tv stand to the sweet siren call of your bed.

When choosing a gym, your number one consideration should be location, location, location. You want to remove as few obstacles as possible and make the habit as obvious as possible. If you’re torn between an LA Fitness you pass every day on your commute and a Planet Fitness that’s five minutes out of the way, drop that little extra for the LA Fitness. Speaking of making your exercise habit as easy as possible to maintain, keep some running shoes and workout clothes in your car at all times. If you have to run home to grab them, well…

Our natural ability to double task is useful for working out because we can easily get our cardio in while reading or watching Netflix. Also, music is a great reward for working out — listening to your favorite songs while putting in the work makes time go by faster. And if going to the gym is out of the question for whatever reason, just taking tiny steps to stay in shape still helps. Take the stairs, ride your bike, do some morning stretches, whatever gets you moving. As I always say, small victories are still victories.

Do you have any daily habits? Feel free to comment them below!

If you enjoy my writing and want to help support me and this site, you can donate via Venmo (@jessjsalisbury) or CashApp ($TheJessaJoyce). Every little bit is greatly appreciated! Thanks for taking the time to read my work, and don’t forget to check back every few days for new content!

Dear Cadence, Part Seven: You’ll Look Back and Laugh

This is the latest installment in my memoir project, written as a series of letters to my future daughter. Here are the previous entries: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, and Part Six

So Kyle Kelley didn’t work out, but I wasn’t too heartbroken, and part of that was because I already moved onto the next unattainable crush. And this one was scandalous.

But first, I want you to listen to a song called “Dear John” by Taylor Swift, an artist who is probably doing a nostalgic Vegas residency or farewell tour by the time you read this. To fully understand the situation, you need to put yourself in the shoes of a teenage me, crying on the swingset to this song sometime in 2010. Just like how Taylor had John Mayer (who’s probably dead by now), I had, well, let’s stick with John.

John was the anti-Kyle. He was this tall, dark, and handsome emo kid with long hair, skinny jeans, and a dangerous air about him, despite being a good little church boy on paper. He was one of the members of the worship team at the church I was going to. I remember every Sunday gazing up at him and his alpine white Les Paul hanging near his hips, his hands dancing over the fretboard like I could only dream of doing. I never paid him much mind until the worship team played a cover of “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey for an event. That guitar solo he played took me to another plane of existence. I had to have him.

Because he was technically a leader, it would have been frowned upon for him to pursue me, but that didn’t stop me from daydreaming about him constantly. I’d comb through his pictures on MySpace, where he was a bit of a minor celebrity, and look through all the comments from thirsty girls who wanted him as much as I did. But I was special — I played guitar too, and I loved Jesus too, and I knew I would understand him better than any one of those girls. I just needed to get his attention somehow, but at this point, I was still shy and awkward, despite having blossomed into a somewhat conventionally attractive young woman.

Then the crazy thing happened. He reached out to me!

I don’t remember exactly how it happened. I’m pretty sure he started a conversation with me on MySpace, then asked for my number. I was floored. John had finally noticed me, despite me having barely spoken to him in person (I think I asked him about his pedalboard once). We talked all night about everything — soup, favorite bands, his extensive hair care routine. And to my surprise, he continued to talk to me the next night, and the night after that. I was absolutely floored. Did he feel the same way for me that I felt for him?

Still, he never went as far as to ask me out or even talk to me in person. After this tango continued for several weeks with no moves being made, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I confessed my feelings toward him.

“I do like you a lot—“ he wrote back. “—as a friend.”

I was crushed. John meant everything to me. I’d gotten used to doodling my first name with his last name and imagining what our future children would look like. We were meant to be. I knew it. But I’d been — dare I say — friend-zoned by the love of my life. I realize I sound like an entirely unsympathetic “nice girl” at this point in the story, and John could have easily gotten away with looking like the good guy in this story, had he not done what he did next.

“Let’s play 20 questions,” he texted me one night, sometime around 2 a.m. “You go first.”

I was miraculously awake, despite having to get up in a few hours for school. “Favorite guitarist?”

“Jimmy Page.” Then came the message that changed everything. “Are you a virgin?”

A flutter of hope overtook me. Was he interested after all? “Yes,” I wrote back. “What do you look for in a girl.”

“A good heart and nice tits,” he responded.

It went back and forth like this for a while, getting increasingly steamy. I’m not going to gross you out with the details, but things got spicy, fast. Before I knew it, I had dropped any pretense of innocence and confessed all my filthiest desires to this guy, who had similarly dropped his facade of “respectable church leader.”

This went on for weeks. Every night, I’d fake going to bed and wait for the text from John. And every Sunday, I’d see him on stage, and he’d act as if he hadn’t told me how badly he wanted to touch my boobs the night before. When I did go to talk to him, he’d cut it short and go off to talk to someone else, almost like he didn’t want to be seen with me. It hurt so bad. I felt so close to him every night when he’d text me, yet he felt so far away in person.

Then my mom found out.

I remember her sitting me down to talk about it. She wasn’t mad at me, but at him for taking advantage of me.

“He doesn’t love you,” she told me. “He only wants your body.”

And it hit me like a truckload of hams. Of course he didn’t want to date me or even be seen with me. Socially I was below him — but he wasn’t above telling me all the nasty things he wanted to do to me. To me, he was my dream, my emo John Mayer in skinny jeans, everything I ever wanted. To him, I was little more than a piece of meat he could use when he was awake and horny in the middle of the night.

I left the church when I went off to college, but it wouldn’t be the last I heard of him. We eventually reconnected and had a short-lived fling, and I’d go on to marry someone else, but that never stopped him from continuing to pursue me. And the funniest thing happened. He fell in love with me! He’d tell me how he regretted what happened, how he wished he would have put a ring on it when he had the chance. By that time, though, I’d already long moved on.

As of writing, Taylor Swift just released a re-recorded version of “Dear John,” and it hits differently knowing how it ends. I wish I could go back and tell that heartsick teenager that she’d look back and laugh at the whole situation. Someday, John would realize what he missed out on. Sometimes I visit the Downriver area and drive past the places where I used to cry about him, like that old swingset. He could have had me. But now, I’m shining like fireworks over his sad empty town.

Small Towns Are Great! (If You Fit In)

So today’s Thing That Everyone’s Mad About is the Jason Aldean song “Try That in a Small Town.” It’s nothing special to be honest. The lyrics hit on every right-wing talking point that’s popular right now save for the tired (and deeply offensive) “all queers are child molesters” trope. You got gun lovin’, cop lovin’, flag lovin’, all that good stuff. Basically, it’s obvious MAGA-bait. Musically, it’s…a standard issue pop country song. You could rewrite every line as “Bernie Sanders rules!” and I still wouldn’t listen to it willingly. Hell, all politics aside, changing every word to “watermelon” wouldn’t save this song from being an absolute snoozefest. Why do people give this guy attention when like, Jason Isbell exists?

I’m not here to talk music or politics, though, as if anyone gives any weight to my opinions on either. I’m here to talk about the romanticization of small towns.

I grew up in Huron Charter Township, which consists of three small villages: New Boston, Waltz, and the smallest one, where I lived, Willow. Most people just called the whole township New Boston, after the largest village, but I knew the difference, dammit. We were about as far into the country as you could get and still call yourself a suburb of Detroit — most people consider the area part of the larger Downriver region. Still, for all intents and purposes, the area was rural as heck. I’m talking farms, barns, horses, and the like.

I liked some aspects of living there. I liked running rampant through the open fields, going muddin’ with my childhood friend, walking with my dad to the little party store by the train tracks and getting holographic Pokémon stickers. It was a quaint life, and it would have been perfect.

What people don’t realize is that living in a small town is hell when you’re the weird kid.

Small towns are tight knit and insular, and that works out well for people who are in the “in-group,” but things get real squirrelly when you break the norms of that in-group. I remember getting teased for everything from not being Catholic to hating ranch dressing to being supposed lesbians with my best friend, back when “lesbian” was an insult and not, well, just an accurate descriptor for me. I didn’t dress like the other kids either, or talk like them, or act like them, which I now realize was an autism thing, but this was also a time when girls were seldom considered autistic. You were just “the weird kid,” and if you were a small town weird kid, news travelled fast that you were to be avoided.

As I got older, the bullying escalated into sexual harassment — girls grabbing my ass and guys pretending to rub their boners on me, all because they knew it made me uncomfy and they thought my reaction was funny. I didn’t tell my parents the nature of the bullying, but they knew something was up. I was coming home from school crying and hibernating all evening. And when my dad went to the principal and the counselor? There was nothing they could do. My dad suspected their indifference to my predicament was partly due to my family being “low importance” in the small town hierarchy. We didn’t go to the local church or participate in the PTA. No one cared what happened to the Salisburys. We were outsiders.

It was so bad, the adults were bullies too. I still remember my Girl Scout troop leader, Mrs. Marsack, who resented me for making her troop look bad. She was so desperate to push me out of her gaggle of otherwise perfect little girls, she barred me from participating in the group camping trip because I wasn’t “mature” enough, despite getting good grades, staying out of trouble, and being more of an “old soul” than was probably healthy for me. I remember locking myself in the bathroom and crying inconsolably. It had never been more clear to me that I wasn’t wanted.

My saving grace was leaving my hometown. Moving to my college town was the best decision I could have made. The thing about larger cities is that more people equals more differences, and suddenly, I was running into weirdos like myself and befriending folks who weren’t like me, but still appreciated my quirks for what they were. Everyone was from somewhere else, and we were all just trying to find our place in the world. It was kind of a beautiful thing. Growing up in a small town, I had no idea there were places like this. It felt utopian.

Cities have their issues too — more people does tend to equate to more crime — but that’s just the nature of humanity. Nowhere is perfect as long as the people there are not perfect. I just know I’d rather live someplace where I can be myself and not have to hide pieces of who I am just to fit in. I’m glad I left my hometown for bigger and better things, and I hope all the other small town weirdos like me get a chance to as well.

Your Song Saved My Life: The Motion City Soundtrack Effect

My joke is that there are two kinds of emos — Jimmy Eat World emos, and My Chemical Romance emos. Like much of nature, however, emo can’t be contained into a binary system. Where do we categorize the Taking Back Sunday emos, or the poor, poor Brand New emos who have been languishing ever since it came out that Jesse Lacey kinda sucks? Another band that doesn’t fit cleanly in the JEW/MCR dichotomy is Motion City Soundtrack.

Musically, they’re probably happier sounding than most of their peers — lots of major keys, fast tempos, and cool ass synths. But their lyrics sound as if they’d been written by every one of my mental illnesses in a trench coat. I don’t even have to dig that deep to find songs that match whichever ailment is weighing me down at the moment. Like, their signature song is textbook obsessive compulsive disorder.

I’m sick of the things, I do when I’m nervous
Like cleaning the oven or checking my tires
Or counting the number of tiles on the ceiling
Head for the hills, the kitchen’s on fire
I used to rely on self-medication
I guess I still do that from time to time
-Motion City Soundtrack, “Everything is Alright”

I remember when my dad was in the hospital for a heart attack that nearly killed him, I discovered “Time Turned Fragile,” a song about cherishing the relationship you have with your father and realizing he’s not going to be around forever. “Son of a Gun” takes me back to the drunken tiffs I had with my wife before deciding to sober up, when my stupid antics were all about “pissing you off just for fun.” And “Even If It Kills Me” was the song I played on repeat as I put in my application to music therapy school for the third time, because I too was “so sick of making lists of things I’ll never finish.”

There’s something powerful about a lyricist that can write words that relate so uncannily to one’s life. That feeling when you realize a song is unmistakably written for you — I call it the Motion City Soundtrack Effect, because I can’t think of a band that does it better than them. Taylor Swift comes close at least.

It’s something I aspire to as a songwriter. The only feeling better than finding that song that you relate to so deeply is being the one to write that song for someone else. It’s why I write music in the first place. It’s more than just a catharsis for myself. I write everything in hopes that somebody out there will hear one of my songs and perhaps realize they’re not alone in whatever they’re going through. You know, the same way I realize I’m not alone in my struggles when I listen to MCS.

I’ve written about the power of music and its ability to affect people on a deep level before. I’ve written about discovering it in my own life. I’ve even written about the dark side of these parasocial relationships with musicians before. But it’s worth mentioning again and again — music is a powerful tool, probably the most powerful tool we as humans have, more powerful than bombs or guns or even words. I believe music has the power to change the world, which is why I chose to do it all those years ago, and why I still choose to do it after all this time. Songs can save a life.

I forgot to mention the final few lines of that verse I shared earlier.

But I’m getting better at fighting the future
Someday you’ll be fine
Yes, I’ll be just fine
-Motion City Soundtrack, “Everything is Alright”

I’ll admit I teared up a little when I heard this song played live last night, despite it being one of their happy-sounding uptempo numbers, because it reminded me of how far I’ve come in my own fight with mental illness and OCD. I remembered listening to those words and wishing for a day I’d be just fine, and now I’m finally in a place where my fears are (mostly) under control.

That song and this band have been with me through it all, and I owe a lot to them.

Do you have a band or a certain song that saved your life? I’d love to hear your stories in the comments! If you like what you read here, feel free to support the blog by donating via Venmo (@jessjsalisbury) or CashApp ($TheJessaJoyce). Thanks for all your support!

Music Reviews No One Asked For: The Same Five Songs That Play On the Radio at My Job

Welcome to the inaugural Music Review No One Asked For, where I give my opinions on popular (and unpopular) music. For this first installment, I wanted to dip into the songs I hear literally every day of my life, on repeat, forever. I don’t know what cursed Pandora station my coworkers have chosen to be the soundtrack of the urgent care I work at (shout-out to all my fellow healthcare workers, yo), but I swear I have every song it plays memorized at this point. That being said, while there are some songs I wish I could obliterate from existence, there are a few bops amongst the rubble. Let’s start with the queen herself…

Taylor Swift – “Karma”

This was one of my favorites from her Midnights album, and for good reason. It’s catchy as hell, and so deliciously bitchy. That being said, I feel like it loses its luster after 4735383729 listens, which isn’t to say it’s a bad song, just that it doesn’t have the same staying power as some of her stronger material (like “Hits Different,” which I’ve subjected myself to for almost an entire four hour car ride and I still can’t get enough of). The new version with Ice Spice does little to inject new life into the song, mostly because there’s a bazillion other female rappers out there who could do better. Now if Angel Haze was on a Taylor Swift remix, I don’t think I’d ever listen to anything else.

Luke Combs – “Fast Car”

When I first heard this song on the radio, I had to do a double take. It’s so true to the original by Tracy Chapman, I initially thought it was the original by Tracy Chapman (in my defense, the speakers at work are bad). It’s so true to the original, Combs didn’t even change the gender of the song’s protagonist, which I have to admire. Here’s this big, burly, bearded country boy, and yet for the sake of this song, he works at the market as a checkout girl. I actually don’t mind hearing this song when it comes on because it stands on its own. It’s a powerful example of storytelling in music — the girl in the song desperately wants to escape her life of poverty with her lover, but he eventually succumbs to the very vices that plagued her own father. It’s a sad song, and it’s even sadder that the most meaningful song on mainstream radio right now was actually written in the 80s.

Jax – “90s Kids”

Is there a Grammy for “Most Irritating Song”? Because Jax is seemingly gunning for it. “Victoria’s Secret” was bad enough, but this one makes me want to stick forks in my ears every time it comes on. The references all feel forced, and besides, we’re all too old to be pandered to. Go write something for the Zoomers.

Some Guy – “Sunroof”

I don’t know who performs this song. It’s not even on the album art. It could be anyone. All the guys on the radio kind of sound the same these days anyways. Like, if you put a gun to my head and asked me to point out Post Malone in a police lineup, I’d be screwed. And for the most part, they all sound the same to me. It’s like how all the post-grunge guys had a “sound.” Can you honestly tell Nickelback from Skillet? I mean, I can, but only because my ex-husband subjected me to more Skillet than anyone should have to hear in a lifetime. Anyways, I digress. This song is kind of good, if I’m honest. The little “da da, da da dada dah” part gets stuck in my head frequently. As a songwriter, I admire anyone who can write a good earworm. Would I go out of my way to listen to it? Probably not, but it’s a pleasant little ditty.

Miley Cyrus – “Jaded”

It’s easy to assume my favorite modern pop singer is Taylor Swift, but the truth is, while she’s my favorite songwriter, she’s not my favorite vocalist. That honor goes to Miley Cyrus. The woman can do it all — rock, rap, country — and all with the finesse Kid Rock can only dream of. That being said, I was a little disappointed with this single. I was hoping she’d lean a little more into the rock direction she’s been heading in, and the chorus is fairly forgettable. I’m only judging her harshly here because I know she’s capable of better. Come on, Miley. Hit us with the true bop we all need right now.

What do you think? Agree? Disagree? Let me know in the comments! If you like my content, feel free to donate to keep this blog going via Venmo (@JessJSalisbury) or Cashapp ($The JessaJoyce). Thanks for all the support!