Thirty Things I Did Before Turning 30

As I write this, I’m staring down the big 3-0. As much as it sucks to put the final nail in the coffin of my youth, I’m a little bit excited for everything real adulthood has to offer (because God knows your twenties are a trial run). I’m looking to start a family in the next few years. I’ll finally have the degree and career I’ve wanted since high school. I’ve heard from several trustworthy sources that your thirties are superior to your twenties in every way. I mean, my band even has a song called “I Fucking Hate My Twenties.” It has to get better from here, right?

But these first 30 years haven’t been wasted. I wanted to take a look back at 30 things I’ve accomplished before age 30. If you’re reading this, maybe you’ve been there with me through some of it. It’s been a wild adventure so far, and, God willing, there will be many more adventures to come.

So without further ado, let’s look back at 30 years of cool things I’ve done!

1. Led a college newspaper as editor-in-chief: Before I was even legally able to drink, mind you. I couldn’t drown my sorrows in whiskey like the EICs of yore. I’m still shocked I got picked over a more mature editor, but I learned so much about leadership and responsibility during that time.

2. Toured with a band: This had been my dream since I was a kid! Although the band imploded shortly thereafter in the absolute worst way, I have no regrets about the experience.

3. Served as senior class president: Albeit I was the only one who ran, but it was still pretty awesome to call myself senior class president after being the school pariah for most of my childhood.

4. Ran for homecoming queen: My future wife and I didn’t make it to the finals, but I had a ton of fun campaigning to be royalty. I mean, our platform was Pokémon.

5. Lived in another state: Well, Florida is basically just tropical Michigan, and it was only for a brief time, but I did experience what it was like to leave the mitten for a minute.

6. Won a speech contest: I’ll never forget winning the senior high school speech contest. I kind of ruled as a senior, to be honest. Maybe I’m one of those “peaked in high school” assholes, but I mean, that year was heckin’ dope.

7. Made it to the finals of a dance tournament: Also a senior year thing. I got to dress like Lady Gaga and choreograph a badass dance routine with a bunch of friends. There exists video of this somewhere on the interwebs, actually.

8. Won a prestigious scholarship: I was awarded the Brehm fellowship for music therapy, which is amazing considering I had to drop out of the program not once, but twice. Hard work and taking care of yourself really does pay off.

9. Sang the national anthem for a sporting event: Well, many sporting events. I was the voice of my high school!

10. Acted in a play: My only foray into theatre was a mediocre school play about a soap opera star, but I had so much fun with it. I basically played the stereotypical dumb blonde, which, if you knew me in high school, was my persona.

11. Starred in a student film: My only other acting credit was a student film about sex addiction, and I was the embodiment of lust. And no, it was not a porno. Trust me, I tried OnlyFans, and I had only one fan.

12. Met a long-lost cousin from another country: The only drunk purchase I don’t regret is the 23 and Me test kit I bought while inebriated one night. It connected me to my family in Britain, including a cousin I became penpals with.

13. Got sober: Speaking of being inebriated, I decided that life was no longer for me and, as of writing, I’ve been clean for about a year. Did you know they make nonalcoholic beer, and it kind of slaps? Why did I ever bother poisoning my body with that alcoholic shit?

14. Tried pole-dancing: And ballet. And a million other things I ended up not being good at. But what matters is that I tried.

15. Started a blog: You’re reading it right now!

16. Produced a four-song EP: Fueled by caffeine and nicotine, my first release under the name Wake Up Jamie, Oceanography, was recorded solely by me. I literally locked myself in my office over spring break and did not allow myself to leave until the thing was finished! You can still find it if you search for us on Bandcamp!

17. Graduated magna cum laude: Or as my wife calls it, “mega cum load.” It’s Latin for “Surprise, I’m actually smart!”

18. Found my furry soulmate: I never thought I could love a creature as much as I love Krubby. I found him wandering around my parents’ neighborhood and we’ve been inseparable ever since.

19. Got married: To my best friend, which has been my dream since I was little. Was I expecting her to be a girl? Not at all. Am I okay with it? Heck yeah!

20. Maintained a beauty & fashion column: When I signed onto my college’s newspaper, I was almost immediately given my own column, which is really freakin’ dope. Naturally, they wanted me to write about looking fabulous because, well, it’s me.

21. Left a toxic church environment: And my relationship with God has never been better.

22. Served as colorguard captain: Basically “cheer captain but make it nerdy.”

23. Got to be Beyoncé: I took over the annual music and dance dinner theatre that year. I was in practically every act, including one where I got to be Beyoncé and sing “Single Ladies” in a unitard.

24. Saw all my favorite bands: Queen, Heart, RHCP, Jimmy Eat World, Bon Jovi, The Maine…I honestly can’t think of any all-time favorites I haven’t seen.

25. Worked with a professional producer: This was a cool experience! My former bandmate knows a guy with Nashville connections, and he produced Wake Up Jamie’s first three songs as a band.

26. Ran a 5k: I didn’t exactly set any records, but I did it.

27. Performed at Arts, Beats, & Eats: Ever since one of the two people in the world I don’t like performed one year, I had a goal to get my own band on that stage. And we actually did it! (She was in someone’s backing band anyways, so I automatically win. Hah.)

28. Became briefly internet-famous with an article about poop: This was the most viewed piece of writing I ever did, and it even spawned similar articles at other colleges. It’s still online, miraculously!

29. Began a fitness journey: I enlisted the help of a personal trainer to get back into shape, and so far, it’s going well. My goal is to get into the best shape of my life in my thirties, and I think I’m off to a good start.

30. Survived!: Seriously, I have so many mental illnesses, I could slap my name on the DSM-V and call it my autobiography. There were so many times I felt like giving up, and yet, here I am, all these years later. I think that’s enough of a win.

Cyrus vs. Shapiro (and Why I Actually Find Myself Siding With Benny This Time)

Ah, Ben Shapiro. Enemy of wet pussies everywhere. Surely you’ve heard of him. When he’s not busy clearly not getting his wife off, he’s writing some astute observation on popular culture and denouncing how “woke” we’ve become as a society. And by woke, he means committing the heinous crime of, uh, acknowledging queer people exist. As if we have some kind of big gay agenda.

The real gay agenda is just a planner with every day labelled “nap cutely with girlfriend” in purple sparkly gel pen.

While I typically do not ascribe to his politics, they say a stopped clock is right twice a day. Here’s one such example:

Although “calling out literal Nazism” is such a low bar, it might as well be a honky tonk in hell.

And here’s the other:

If you didn’t catch the reference, he’s critiquing “Flowers” by Miley Cyrus, which is a veritable bop. Now typically, in a Cyrus vs. Shapiro battle, I’d be firmly on the side of Miley. I love Miley. And why wouldn’t I? She’s a raspy-voiced pansexual icon who can write a decent song. She’s basically me if I were way cooler.

And I would 100 percent wear this outfit.

But I think there’s some truth to what Shapiro is saying, as much as typing that makes me want to rip off my head with my bare hands and hurl it from the nearest window. I think there’s a serious toxic independence problem among young left-wing folks like me. Let me explain.

For a long time, people like me who were assigned female at birth had a single expectation in life — get married and start a family. We were essentially forced into being wives and mothers throughout most of history. Thankfully, the tide has turned and women are allowed to follow their passions outside of the home. We’re no longer limited by societal expectations.

But in freeing ourselves from the historical pressure to marry and reproduce, we’ve lost sight of the importance of love and family. Now I’m not talking about the traditional nuclear family of one man, one woman, two and a half kids, and maybe a dog. Families come in all shapes and sizes, and maybe blood isn’t what ties you to your loved ones. But in our effort to eschew these norms, I feel like we’ve swung too far to the other side, where we feel like we don’t need anyone anymore. And that’s such a lonely life to live.

Personally, I love being married. I love the idea of having children someday. I love the idea of raising them alongside the people I care about most, my chosen family (cue Rina Sawayama — again). And yet, a lot of folks my age will never get to experience that kind of unconditional love. They’ll mindlessly bounce from one shallow friendship or fling to another. I don’t think it’s healthy to live like that.

Maybe “family” is a dirty word to a lot of young queer and progressive-minded people. Our blood families may have disowned us for our beliefs or identities. But we’re adults now, and this is our chance to take back what should have been our birthright — a family who loves us relentlessly and unconditionally. The concept of family isn’t a liberal vs. conservative thing. It’s a human right.

I’m not saying I don’t get Miley’s side of the story either. Breakups suck, and one of the most cathartic things you can do is write a song about it (something I obviously know nothing about). But after your tears have dried, dust yourself off, get back out there, and love again. Go meet your future spouse(s), best friends, chosen family. Don’t let getting hurt keep you from the beauty that is having meaningful relationships. Let me say that again, in fancy letters:

Don’t let getting hurt keep you from the beauty that is having meaningful relationships.

As human beings, we were made to love. We’re not lone hunters. We are like lions, and we need the support of our pride to live the most fulfilling lives. Sure, Shapiro went on a bit of a tangent that’s not entirely related to Miley’s song (which is mostly just a fluffy heartbreak song, to be honest), but I think he has a valid point, as much as it pains me to admit it.

(The bass in “Flowers” still slaps, though.)

Who is Jessa Joyce?

In short, me!

In long, well…

It’s been a long time coming. Anyone who knows me in person knows I balance my writing with my music, and up until recently, I’ve kept the two separate. My blogs, articles, etc. had all been published under the Jess J. Salisbury moniker, while anything music-related has been released as Jess Joyce. I’ve always maintained a certain degree of separation between the two. I assumed anyone who was interested in the crap I blog about wouldn’t care about my band.

Something struck me, though, as I was thinking of things to write about. Musician-me is such a huge part of my identity, and I’ve kind of been hiding it on here. It’s something I mention in passing at best. But here’s the thing — I’m trying to reach as many people with my music as I can. And I’m trying to reach as many people with my blog as I can. And right now, I have two very distinct audiences for the two without much overlap. Wouldn’t it be more efficient to just combine the Jess Joyce music brand and the Jess J. Salisbury writing brand into one cohesive online identity?

So that’s what I’m doing.

Why Jessa, though? A few reasons. It was my former stage name when I was touring with my old band, and while that stage of life left a sour taste in my mouth, I still feel very attached to the name and want to redeem it in some way. I’ve always pictured Jessa as this badass rock star version of myself, the same way Yami Yugi is looks like a more badass version of Yugi. (Were y’all expecting a Yu-Gi-Oh reference here?) She’s what would happen if I became possessed by the spirit of an ancient pharaoh.

How else would you explain my taste in hair and makeup? #cleopatrachic

I thought about switching everything over to “Jess Joyce,” since that tends to be the name I use most publicly, and because “Salisbury” is the name I wanted to reserve for more academic pursuits, like when I start publishing research. I don’t want colleagues and students to go searching for studies I’ve conducted on music and autism or queer music therapy, only to instead be greeted by my inane ramblings about whatever it is I blog about on here.

The problem with that, however, is that there is already a Jess Joyce online, and she’s a search engine optimisation expert. I can’t make this up. Basically, barring my music and writing becoming Taylor Swift levels of popular, the Jess Joyce that is me would likely never, ever be the first thing to pop up when you Google me. And if you want to make it as figure in the entertainment business, you have to at least be Googleable. So I adopted my former stage name as a pseudonym for my internet presence.

What does this mean for the blog? Aside from the name change, not a lot. Now that I’m integrating my music into my writing and my writing into my music, expect to see a few more music-related posts on here. I’d love to be more open and transparent about the music business and what being in a band is really like. But I’m not going to stop posting about philosophy, mental health, and wellness. It’s all part of what makes me, well, me.

I know I’ve rebranded several times throughout the years (thanks, ADHD), but I have a feeling this change will stick. I needed a fresh start in both writing and music without entirely erasing everything I’ve done so far. With me turning 30 in less than a week, this feels like the perfect time to adopt a new persona of sorts, although still one that’s unequivocally myself. One of my favorite daily affirmations is “Imagine the best possible version of yourself — then start showing up as her.” That version of myself is Jessa, and in this new stage of life, I want to embrace that side of me.

If you still call me Jess, that’s fine! I won’t be offended. In fact, if you already know me in person, it would be weird if I started having you call me by a different name. Like in 7th grade when I tried to get everyone to start calling me Sophitia like the Soul Calibur character, and only my dad went along with it until my mom made him stop.

And my best friend’s little brother, who called me “So-eat-my-feet-ia.”

Jessa and Jess aren’t different people, and I’m comfortable with people calling me whatever they feel most comfortable calling me. I just wanted a cohesive online presence, and consolidating my music and writing identities into a new identity felt overwhelmingly right. So, welcome to the new jessajoyce.com and a fresh chapter of my story. I’m glad you’re along for the ride.

An Open Letter to Friends and Family

I wrote this out as a sort of explanation to my family about my unique situation, because it’s definitely not a conventional one. But I’ve never been a conventional person, so it shouldn’t come as a shock. Still, folks tend to get all weird and squirrelly when you mention any kind of relationship outside of the cishet monogamous norm, and I owe it to my loved ones to be open and honest with them.

When my wife and I first officially got together, I had my hesitations because we weren’t compatible in some ways. See, she’s likely something called ace (short for asexual), which means she isn’t interested in the physical aspects of a typical romantic relationship. She’s not much of a romantic either, while I’m probably a lot more romantic than I’d like to admit. But I still love her and want to start a family with her, so she proposed an idea to me — an open relationship. I could date other people, and even ceremonially marry someone else if I got close enough to someone.

I was a little hesitant because of the stigma. People don’t really understand polyamory yet, and I don’t even know if it’ll ever be truly normalized in my lifetime. Jealousy is still lauded as romantic and the idea of finding “the one” is so pervasive that suggesting the existence of more than one “the ones” sounds as foreign to our ears as the idea of people laying eggs, to the point where accommodating for it would require changing the entire societal paradigm. But I want to be more open about it because I love my partners too much to hide them, and because society is never going to change until someone speaks up about it.

I met my girlfriend at a Valentine’s Day show last year while she was on tour, and I felt immediately drawn to her. With my wife’s blessing, I pursued a long-distance relationship with her. And it has honestly been such a magical year with her by my side. She means the world to me, and so does my wife. The same way a mother can love her two children, or a child can love both their parents, I love them both. And I’ve never been happier.

This past weekend, I had the honor of meeting my girlfriend’s family, which really cemented the feelings I already knew I had for her. I also knew her friends and family would eventually start following me on social media and notice I’m married. I guess I wrote this as a letter to them, too. Just know that I have every intention of having a future with her, unconventional as it may be, and perhaps even starting a family. I want to provide for her, be her soft place to land, and let her know every day how special she is to me. The way I see it, she is my stars and my wife is my moon, and I have enough love to fill the night sky, and beyond.

I know it’s not going to be easy. I know being openly polyamorous comes with risks, doubly so for my wife (who is black) and my girlfriend (who is trans). People can react violently when presented with things they don’t understand. But it’s a chance I’m willing to take, and if push comes to shove, I’d happily lay down my life for either of my partners. Love conquers all, and all that sappy stuff.

It might not make sense to everyone, but it makes all the sense in the world to me.

Pieces of Myself: Learning to Love Past-Jess

Full disclosure: I started using the good ol’ Mary Joanna to help me sleep at night. Yeah yeah, I know that technically means I’m not sober by the broadest definition of the term, despite being alcohol-free for about a year new (hell yeah). But I use it medicinally to help with my constant waking up in the middle of the night, and honestly, it does help me get a more restful sleep

Sometimes after I smoke, I don’t immediately fall asleep, and when that happens, I either get horny, paranoid, or philosophical. It’s kind of a crapshoot every time which of my high personalities shows up. It’s usually the one I don’t want at the time, which means using it as an aphrodisiac is a gamble.

“Jess, this is *not* the time to ramble about how we’re living in a simulation.”

Last night, though, I had a strange experience. My wife was giving me a pep talk regarding my mental health, which has been pretty bad as of late. Nothing concerning, just the usual “What if life is meaningless and everything I do will eventually be forgotten?” Which is pretty heavy stuff to think about literally every second of the day, and I’ve been in this mindset for most of my life. Yay, anxiety!

But, in my high, pseudo-intellectual stupor, something my wife said really itched a part of me I didn’t know I needed to reach — the past Jesses (is that the proper plural of Jess?).

I haven’t been nice to past me. Not any of them. I tend to think of my past selves as different people, instead of a cohesive part of who I became. I look at Child Jess through my adult eyes and judge her unfairly for being, well, an outcast. A pariah. The weird autistic little girl who stims by spinning around in the back of the classroom and making bird sounds. I get mad at my younger self for having the nerve to not fit in and be popular. And as my wife said, that little girl is a part of me still, and every time I resent my childhood eccentricities, I bully her the same way I was bullied by other people.

Then I think of College Jess. The me who was skinny and outgoing and optimistic and popular and excelled at school despite barely trying. Although she’s a part of me as well, I resent her for being all the things I wish I was now. I’m jealous of a past version of me! It makes no sense when I really think about it — at that time, my mental illnesses were worse than they’d ever been before, and I’d sooner saw off my own pinky toe with a nail file before I’d willingly deal with my OCD at its worst again. But I only see this rose-tinted version of the past, with this girl who is infuriatingly everything I want to be. Everything I was.

The thing is, these aren’t two different people. They’re all me, and they’ve taken me to where I am now. And honestly, where I am now isn’t that bad. I have a wife and a girlfriend I love dearly (that poly life, I’m tellin’ ya). I’m back in school for music therapy, and I’m closer than ever to getting this degree. I even won a scholarship for it! I’m about to be debt-free, and I’m working on getting back in shape. And despite my depression being ever-present, my mental health has never been better. Everything is falling into place for once, and I owe it all to my past selves for bringing me to this place. I started thinking of these past selves as an Inside Out-type of inner council that influences my day to day decisions and emotions.

It’s going to be a process, but I’ve started making peace with my past. I want to continue to honor and integrate these past versions of Jess into myself as a whole. Writing this out was my first step in healing these broken pieces of me. If your brain works at all like mine, I hope this little blog post helps you, too.

The Jacket Potato Gospel

(This one’s for all the Christians who read this blog. If you’re not into that, this post will probably not be applicable to you.)

Yay! Another musical episode! You’ll need to watch this video for any of this to make sense — and at the end it still might not make sense, I dunno.

If you’ve never heard of The Masked Singer, it’s this TV show where a bunch of celebrities put on fursuits and other ridiculous costumes and sing. The judges are tasked with guessing who each singer really is. As you can see in this video, Jacket Potato is assumed by the judges to be a number of different dudes.

But in the comments, one name is mentioned more than all of the celebrities put forth by the judges combined — Richie Sambora.

And if you don’t know who Richie Sambora is, you clearly haven’t spent enough time on my blog.

These judges have to be insane to not realize that Jacket Potato is Richie Sambora. Seriously, just listen to any of his solo works and compare the voices. Even if you just compare the second “wanted!” in the chorus of Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead Or Alive” to the vocals of Jacket Potato, it’s obvious, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that this spud is Richie incognito.

Fine, here’s all the proof you need:

Do you ever feel like the people in the comments? Like you’re screaming “For Christ’s sake (literally), Jesus is the way!” to a world that just isn’t listening? I mean, we were told to share the Gospel with everyone, right? We know the way to God, and it’s through knowing His Son.

The problem is, historically, people didn’t just leave YouTube comments yelling about how Richie Sambora is definitely Jacket Potato. They broke into the judges’ houses, murdered their families, and made them declare that Richie Sambora was Jacket Potato. And this is absolutely not what Richie Sambora would want.

“Please do not kill people for me.” – Richie Sambora, probably

And it’s not what God wants His people to do, either

We should want to share the good news, but not because we want to hurt or exert power over others. Instead, we should do it because we know peace and unconditional love unlike anything we can find on this planet, and we should want other people to feel that good too! It’s the same as how I want everyone to know who the singing potato really is. I want the world to know Richie Sambora’s name because I know people are missing out by not hearing his soulful singing voice or exquisite guitar playing. That’s how we should feel about the name of Jesus.

Part of this involves humility and admitting we don’t have all the answers. I could get to Heaven someday and be greeted by Anubis. I could die and become reincarnated as something else entirely. Or maybe there’s nothing else after death, and we go back into the same darkness we felt before we were born. But I believe what I believe because I’ve felt it myself. And of course I want to talk about that feeling, because it’s a huge part of my lived experience.

In that same vein, they could take off Jacket Potato’s mask and it could be any number of the dudes the judges named, or somebody else entirely. But in my heart, I know that voice. I know it well, because I heard it many times throughout my life. Jesus is my King and Richie Sambora is my Jacket Potato, and if those beliefs encourage me to live my life with purpose and love, so be it. I could be wrong about everything, but it’s enough for me to know I could be right.

And it feels *really good* to find out you’re right.

Two Girls, One Objective Truth

I want to start this blog post with a song. This is the musical episode.

It’s a beautiful piano piece, and one I happen to really like. It’s a simple, melodic piano composition titled “Lover’s Theme,” penned by a contemporary French composer, Hervé Roy (1943-2009). Take a moment. Close your eyes and let your mind wander. What mental images come to mind when listening to this piece?

I’ve been studying music therapy research methods and philosophies. Or rather, my program is making me study music therapy research methods and philosophies, but I’m a big enough nerd-in-an-unfun-way that I probably would study this topic unprovoked.

In formulating our capstone project, we’ve been asked to self-assess and analyze our ways of thinking when it comes to this stuff. See, there’s several schools of thought in music therapy research, but two stood out to me as polar opposites — positivism and constructivism. Positivism is essentially the belief that there is an absolute truth that can be measured, while constructivism tends to believe that many things can be true at once and often depends on a person’s lived experience. Neither of these ways of thinking are superior, but it helps to know which side of the coin you’re on before embarking in a research activity.

Most of my classmates leaned toward constructivism. Me? I was the weirdo positivist.

Maybe it’s because I come from an evangelical background that always preached that there was the way, the truth, and the life, and that was Jesus, and there was absolutely no other way to God, do not pass go, do not collect $200. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m autistic and tend to think more literally than a lot of people. I like facts, and proof, and facts that I can prove in some quantitative way.

Maybe there’s more than one answer to the big questions of the universe, but one thing has to be truer than everything else, right?

I really want to think I could play a song like the one above and everyone would have a universal and measurable experience. Like, the sound of a pretty piano piece increases serotonin in the brain by an average of 45 percent in all subjects of the study.

Unfortunately, serotonin is not the bodily fluid most associated with that piece.

You see, several years ago, a video went viral on ye olde interwebs. An absolutely putrid, disgusting video of two women enjoying each other’s…company. I’m not going to name it here, but if you haven’t gleaned what video it is by now, congratulations! You haven’t been corrupted by the internet!

This bowl of ice cream has no relevance to this post. Carry on.

Unfortunately (and probably to the chagrin of Mr. Roy), the piano piece you just heard was used as background music for the aforementioned shock video. So if you’re like me and had sadistic friends, you were probably tricked into watching this monstrosity. And chances are, you were traumatized.

You see, positivism doesn’t account for people’s unique experiences. If you’ve never heard the song in the context of that video, you’d probably have a very different reaction than someone who has. This is why learning to see things from other perspectives and accepting that there’s no one “correct” perspective is so important in music therapy. Music doesn’t exist in a vacuum. A song might evoke a positive emotion for you, but to someone else, that song was performed by their abuser’s favorite band. Or perhaps someone in that band was an abuser: I can’t listen to Brand New or All Time Low the same way anymore, which means half of the music I liked in high school is ruined forever. Thankfully I’ve still got Jimmy Eat World.

I never got why music therapy, especially certain listening experiences, were contraindicated for particular patients. Music evokes a lot of emotions, and they’re not always positive. That’s the danger of a strictly positivist philosophy. Emotion is not easy to quantify, and it’s even more difficult to predict.

My perspectives are changing all the time, and the older I get, the more I’m realizing that everyone has a different version of reality. Maybe humans are more complicated than can be described with numbers. Maybe I need to learn to be okay with that. I always sought solace in certainty, in knowing there was an answer. Perhaps no one can know the answers, because there are none. Or conversely, there’s a zillion correct answers.

I may never know for sure, and I need to accept that.

In Search of the “Genesis Week” and the Innately Human Act of Creation

If you didn’t grow up in the church, the idea of a “Genesis week” is probably foreign to you. If you did grow up in the church, you probably heard it told a zillion times in Sunday school, but maybe never heard it phrased that way. Basically, it’s the creation story of the Abrahamic faiths — God spoke, and in seven days, the universe was formed.

These days, in my post-evangelical philosophy, I don’t believe the world was formed in seven 24-hour days, but over several eras, in accordance to what we now know from scientific discoveries. This ideology is known as old-earth creationism, and seeks to reconcile the concepts of evolution and the text of the holy scriptures. In fact, the Hebrew word for “day,” yom, can mean a period of time, not just 24-hours, which implies the creation “week” was actually millions upon billions of years.

This is tangentially related to the topic at hand, kind of (I hope).

I’ve been a little creatively stifled as of late, mostly owing to my own dumb brain. I’ve been meaning to post the entire first part of my story (not just the intro), but I keep chickening out and not doing it. At the same time, my band is in the midst of recording its debut album, and of course, that’s progressing at a snail’s pace too. I want to write and play music and draw and dance and do all of the things that have been on my heart, but I just can’t seem to shake this mental block.

I revisited Psalm 51, the emo poetry King David wrote after being called out by the prophet Nathan for thinking with his dick. (I need to be a biblical scholar with these descriptions, I swear.) I’ve always related to this passage as someone who’s also slutted too close to the sun and ended up hurting people I care about (although I never, you know, had a dude killed in war so I could sleep with his wife). A lot of the time, when reading through this psalm, I’d reflect on the whole “I suck and need God’s grace” aspect of it, but there’s a sneaky little part that I’ve always overlooked. I discovered it when I switched over to The Message version of the Bible, which is basically the translated scripture disguised as John Mayer lyrics.

God, make a fresh start in me,
shape a Genesis week from the chaos of my life.
-Psalm 51 (MSG)

There it is! The Genesis week!

The intention of this verse, I’m assuming, is that we need God to take a Genesis week to work on us, but my first instinct was to apply this to my own life as well. Do I need a Genesis week — a week (or an entire era) of intense creation?

Humans are innately creative, but I feel like sometimes we suppress that part of ourselves. As children, we were always playing make-believe and acting out stories we made up. The fact that we’re born like this is no accident — we were made in the image of God, and so the power and desire to create is rooted in the very depths of the human spirit. It’s the one thing that makes us different from the rest of Animalia. Even if my cat had opposable thumbs, he still wouldn’t be able to paint a picture, or write a story, or dance in a ballet production (as hilarious as that would be). That’s a uniquely human characteristic.

Basically, when God created humans, He gifted us with His own special ability to imagine, to create. Think about it — the power that created the entire universe is inside you! And yet, we take that for granted. Our society tries to beat the imagination out of you before you have the change to do something revolutionary with it, and sadly, it often succeeds. It reduces us to little more than lazy housecats content to eat, sleep, and poop all day. We were built to be like God, but spend most of our time being like Garfield.

I think we all need a Genesis week. Imagine what would happen if we all stepped back for a while and did what made our hearts happy. What would happen if we threw ourselves into our creations and stopped caring what other people think? What if we wrote, sang, danced with abandon? What if instead of being so divided, we united over music and art and storytelling, the way we were intended to be? I think that would spark more than just a revolution. It would create a new Eden, a place of peace and contentment.

There’s a reason I study music therapy, and it’s because I feel there’s nothing closer to God than the act of creation. Nothing heals and changes people quite like creating music — or creating anything for that matter! Throw yourself into your creative endeavours, and if you don’t have one yet, find your passion. Maybe it’s baking. Maybe it’s knitting cat sweaters. It doesn’t matter.

Just create.

I’m Autistic (And Why That Matters)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Our products have been shown to eradicate autism.”

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

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

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

No, I don’t owe anyone a damn thing.

Phantom of Me

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

I swear this woman lives rent free in my head.

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

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

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

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

What changed?

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

—that Jess was dead. And I killed her.

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

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

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

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