You’re 100. At least, hopefully you live that long. Or rather, we live that long. I’m you, only 30! Remember those days? When we were living in Clawson with Krubby, who is now probably a faded tattoo on your saggy thigh skin. When our parents were alive and you had Crass and Livvy and so many friends who are probably all gone now. God, I’m making myself cry just writing this. But I’m slowly learning that nothing lasts forever except love, and it’s better to have loved someone and lost them than to have never loved at all. It’s a hard truth to swallow, but I’m coming to terms with it.
I don’t know exactly what to say to a 100-year-old me, except that I hope we accomplished everything we set out to do. I hope we got to start that family and get those degrees and write the songs that changed the world. I hope when we’re gone, our legacy lingers long afterward. I hope you never lost your childlike wonder and big dreams, even after shouldering the weight of a century of life. I hope you still have imaginary friends who live in the universes you created in your head. I hope you finally got that “Dr.” in front of your name, which is definitely still Salisbury (we’re not making that mistake again). I hope you dyed your white hair pink and wear all the tattoos of memories we made with pride.
I hope you can look back and be proud of me.
It hasn’t been an easy journey, making it to 30 years, and I’m sure it hasn’t been easy making it to 100. I know so much has changed — change is the only certainty in life. But we’re strong enough and brave enough to weather whatever storm we may face. We made it through mental illness, betrayal, loss, regret, and more hurt than one should have to bear, and yet, we’re still here. We made it. Hell, at the time of writing this, I’m staring down the music therapy degree we’ve been working toward for twelve years. I did that. You did that. And who knows what else you’ve accomplished in the time since I wrote this little post!
Maybe you’re reading this from a nursing home, where you’re definitely the little old lady everyone wants to befriend. Or maybe you have that lake house you’ve always wished for, and you spend long evenings looking out on the water reminiscing with Cadence about all our adventures when she was little. Maybe global warming made the planet uninhabitable and we’re like, on the moon or dead or something. There’s no way to know for sure, and that’s both the scary and exciting part. I don’t know how the story ends, but as long as you lived your life to the fullest, I know it will be a happy ending.
There will only ever be one Jessica Joyce Salisbury, and as her story comes to an end, rest easy knowing that she’s content with the way it was written. Relish that feeling of completion.
May the rest of your days be filled with joy and happiness.
I write this from my hotel room at GLR, the annual music therapy conference for the Midwest-based students, practitioners, and academics. It’s hard to believe the last time I was at GLR, I was still legally married to my ex and COVID hadn’t yet happened.
So much has changed.
The last GLR I attended was in Cincinnati. I remember all too well. You might remember too, if you remember this post (HUGE FUCKING TRIGGER WARNING ON THAT ONE). That was the year my dream of becoming a music therapist was stolen from me, when the aftermath of the rape I experienced on that trip tainted the very field I longed to be part of. Suddenly, everything related to music therapy reminded me of the person who violated me. My mental health got worse. I started drinking heavily. Soon, I wasn’t able to keep up with the coursework, and I dropped all my classes.
I’d already left the music therapy program once, due to my mental health, but this seemed insurmountable. And reentering the program after that felt like pushing a boulder up a mountain with a toothpick. I’d already given up twice. Surely I was too damaged to ever be a real music therapist.
But I’m here. I’m still here.
As of writing this, I’m not only at the conference, but I’m gearing up for the prestigious Undergraduate Symposium, where I’ll be giving a presentation on music therapy and autism. All of my current grades are, by some miracle of God, in the A range. I’m meeting with my professor to discuss internships in a week, and I won a research fellowship that paid for my entire senior year, and then some.
It doesn’t seem real. I shouldn’t be here, but I am. And I owe it all to the people who have helped me through recovery — my wife, my family, my professors. And to myself. I fought like hell to get to a place where I’m staring down graduation at last, where I’m finally on the cusp of claiming the title of MT-BC for myself.
This GLR feels almost poetic. I’m back at a hotel not unlike the one I was assaulted at, but I feel safe. I feel whole. Everything has come full circle, and my dream of becoming a music therapist feels not only within reach, but no longer tainted by the hands that hurt me. I’m not going to let trauma steal the very reason I was put on this planet — to heal through music. I am not too damaged.
On my 30th birthday a few weeks back, dad said something that made me tear up a little. When he briefly died on the operating table after a massive heart attack, he said my then-very-young niece appeared to him and said he couldn’t die yet. But he finally told me the rest of the story.
She said he couldn’t die because he had to see me graduate.
I’m not turning back because this time, it’s personal. I love my dad — and myself — more than I hate my rapist. I’m going to get this degree and this certification in spite of everything. In the words of Motion City Soundtrack, I so wanna get back on track. I’ll do whatever it takes.
Strap in, guys, gals, and enby pals. We’re in for an emotional roller coaster with this one.
This is your last warning. You will cry.
I think every thirteen-year-old girl has a chosen name. Think back to when you were thirteen and you wanted to be called, I don’t know, Renesmee or something. It was definitely inspired by something cringy like that. Me? I tried to get everyone to call me Sophitia, like the badass Greek sword-wielding action mom from the Soul Calibur series.
Definitely not a MILF (mother I’d like to fight)
No one called me Sophitia, of course, save for my dad (until my mom made him stop). Well, him and Chelsea. Or, shall I say, Helena.
Her cringy thirteen-year-old chosen name was Helena, like the My Chemical Romance song. She insisted it was pronounced “huh-lay-nah,” not “hel-en-uh.” True to the girl in the music video of the emo standard, she had pale skin and a tall but slight frame and dark hair and piercing blue eyes, all of which she took pride in. She was gorgeous and she knew, but you couldn’t help but love her nonetheless.
I don’t remember exactly how Chelsea and I met, but I remember her as an absolute spitfire who hurled herself into my life with the intensity of a tigress. She was spirited, witty, and strong-willed, the kind of girl who stood up for me in the face of notoriously cruel grade school bullies. For a solid two years, we were practically inseparable. Those years were filled with memories I’ll never forget. Like Thursday nights at my church’s youth group, getting all giddy over which cute guy talked to us. Or staying up late during sleepovers on my bedroom floor, telling each other stories until we fell asleep. Or editing our MySpaces together on my family’s computer, and the one time I got interrogated because my mom found “emo boys kissing” in my search history. Thanks for that, Chels.
Music was an integral part of our friendship. One of our favorite activities was dressing up like our favorite rock stars and putting on shows for ourselves. Being obsessed with Bon Jovi, I had us dress up like Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora. She was Richie because her hair was darker, even though I always liked him more. She’s the one who introduced me to the emo genre that defined my taste in music as I grew older. She loved this song called “Fer Sure” by The Medic Droid, and in the car she’d always sing “Kick off your stilettos and THROW THEM IN THE BACKSEAT” loud enough to obscure the fact that the actual lyrics were “fuck me in the backseat.” And of course, there was Helena and Sophitia, our cringy chosen names that doubled as our stage names. We would have these big dreams about someday starting a band together, and she wrote a little song with a melody that still gets stuck in my head to this day.
Something changed after a trip up north together, though. I asked if she had the sunscreen we bought while there and she accused me of accusing her of stealing it. What transpired was a platonic breakup worse than any of my romantic breakups have been. It’s such a stupid thing to ruin what was one of the most important friendships of my life. A girl’s BFF-ship at that transitional age of late preteendom is so important, and just like that, I lost her.
What followed was radio silence for years. I watched her grow up from afar. She joined the military, married, and had a son. Me, I went to college and had a couple of rock bands that didn’t work out. But as adults, she reached out to me and extended the olive branch, and we reconnected over our shared spiritual goals and, of course, music.
We were never as close as we were as kids, though, because shortly after we reconnected, a little global health crisis called COVID-19 happened, and all our plans to meet up fell through.
She then had a private health crisis of her own. On the warmest Christmas morning in memory, I got a text from one of our old mutual friends.
“Hey Jess, I’m so sorry to hear about Chelsea.”
I couldn’t even cry. I was numb. All these memories came flooding back like a tidal wave. I ran to my guitar and immediately started strumming the old song she wrote, and suddenly, I knew what I had to do. That day, I turned her melody into a full song she’d be proud of.
My only regret is she’ll never get to hear it.
Life is so short, and we take moments with our loved ones for granted. The next time you hang out with your best friend could be your last, and you wouldn’t even know. So cherish every memory you get, because in the end, that’s all we can carry with us through life, and those memories are what carry us through life.
So long and goodnight, my dearest friend. I’m a better person for having known you.
I don’t even have a witty title for this. I’m so fucking beyond done with the alt-right, conservative Christendom, and their stranglehold on American politics. I don’t like getting political on here — I’d rather write about music and life hacks and inspiring things — but I can’t be silent about this shit.
There are calls to eradicate trans people. I wish I was exaggerating, but let’s hear the actual words of Michael Knowles, who spoke at the Conservative Political Action Conference on Saturday.
“For the good of society … transgenderism must be eradicated from public life entirely — the whole preposterous ideology, at every level.”
Oh, he can’t literally mean that, right? He just wants to ban drag shows. Never mind that the child beauty pageant world is a helluva lot more exploitative (and full of…dare I say…groomers). Or that more priests have molested children than drag queens. Masculine bodies in dresses are so scary, though.
That’s not what this fuckwad is talking about, though. Let him clarify.
“I called to ban transgenderism entirely … They said that I was calling for the extermination of transgender people. They said I was calling for a genocide … One, I don’t know how you could have a genocide of transgender people because genocide refers to genes, it refers to genetics, it refers to biology.”
So it’s not a genocide…because you’re not trying to eliminate a particular gene? But you’re cool with literally erasing an entire group of people? That’s not the part you want to backtrack on? Let’s hear more from this wadded up Subway napkin of a human being.
“Nobody is calling to exterminate anybody, because the other problem with that statement is that transgender people is not a real ontological category — it’s not a legitimate category of being. There are people who think that they are the wrong sex, but they are mistaken. They’re laboring under a delusion. And so we need to correct that delusion.”
And so we need to correct that delusion. Do tell, how do you plan on correcting that delusion? Surely it’s not through conversion therapy, which is proven to be ineffective and harmful. What’s the other option, die? Because it’s starting to seem like that’s what you want. I’m not even going to link to the nasty transphobic shit I’ve seen on the internet. I’d rather not dignify the shitstains who comment “41 percent” on pictures of trans folks just living their lives. But it’s obvious. If they can’t shut the fuck up and live their lives as their assigned gender, you want them dead.
You might say I don’t have a horse in this race. I’m not trans. I’m a cisgender woman. And yet somehow, the majority of the people I associate with are trans. My girlfriend is a trans woman. My three closest friends are trans women. My spiritual mentor is a trans woman. And when you talk shit about hurting them, you hurt me. Maybe that doesn’t matter to you. I’m just some chick with a blog, whatever. But you don’t know which of your loved ones could still be in the closet. You don’t know if your kid or parent or sibling or best friend has been struggling with their gender identity, and why would they let you in on that information if they were? You’re an asshole.
I wish I could humanize trans people in a way that would make their lives matter to you. I wish you could hear Tegan’s obnoxious laugh, or experience Pippa’s warm hugs. I wish you could feel the way Livvy makes me feel when her hand is in mine. I wish you would realize that these people are just like you. They have dreams and unique talents and personalities. They’re not some boogeyman trying to sneak into your daughter’s locker room or beat her swimming record. (And God knows no one would intentionally be in women’s sports, which are notoriously underpublicized and underfunded.)
I don’t even know how to end this. I’m just tired. I’m tired of folks not caring that literal genocidal rhetoric is being spewed by the people in power. I’m tired of worrying about my loved ones becoming victims of hate crimes. I’m tired of this shit being normalized. I’m so, so fucking tired.
Well, today’s the day. I made it to thirty, an age I never imagined being as a kid. Mind you, I imagined being twenty-something and hot, and seventy-something and adorable, but thirty is such a weird in-between age. Too old to be cute in a childlike way, yet too young to be cute in a little old lady way. Thirty isn’t exactly an age you fantasize about being. When you think thirty, you think adult responsibilities and bills and oh God my biological clock is ticking and I still don’t have kids yet and holy shit is that a gray hair?!
…I say as if I’m not going to do something like this when I go gray.
But I’m kind of excited to turn thirty, to be honest. I’ve made my peace with getting older (mostly) and realized there are a lot of aspects of being young I’m ready to leave behind. Like I’ve said before, your twenties are kind of your free trial run of adulthood, your first playthrough on easy mode, where people still give you plenty of grace if you eff it up at first. But at thirty, the training wheels come off. You become a full-fledged person, and while that can be scary, it comes with some perks.
Here’s what I’m ready to leave in my twenties.
1. Irresponsibility
My twenties were marked by frivolous spending. Like, I impulse-bought a boat (which my first boyfriend hilariously predicted I would do someday). And I had to impulse-leave that boat by a dumpster with a “free – take me!” sign taped to it when we moved away from the lake. I rode that boat one magical time with my girlfriend when she came to visit—and never, ever again. That one boat ride basically costed me $500.
There were plenty of other things I impulse bought because it looked so cool in the Instagram advertisement. Like the two exercise machines I barely touched before realizing I can’t work out unless I’m at a gym with no distractions. If there is a couch available to nap on, lizard brain always picks couch. And don’t even get me started on clothes and makeup.
Cody, my financial advisor, gave me a stern talking to earlier. See, when we first starting working with him, he asked me and my wife our “whys” — why do we want to get out of debt and build our savings? My reason was simple. I wanted to start a family someday.
Of course, Cody took one look at my spending habits recently and said something that shook me.
“Do you actually want to start a family? Because you’re spending like your don’t actually want to.”
And it hit me. I haven’t been spending with the future in mind. Every time I buy some bullshit, I’m taking away from my future daughter’s college fund. Every Tim Horton’s donut I buy could have gone toward a new dance uniform for her instead. Or I could have used the money to help start my private music therapy practice, or buy a cute home on a big plot of land. I’m not a huge fan of my old pastor’s theology, but I will admit he had some good adages I still abide by to this day. One thing he’d always say was “What you spend your money on shows what you really care about.” And I think there’s a lot of truth to that. I don’t spend like I love my future daughter. I spend like I love material things more than her.
So I think this kind of frivolous spending is best left in my twenties.
2. Sloppiness
I have to admit, I never saw the point of making my bed. Like, you’re just going to get it all messed up again the next time you sleep, right? And still, nothing feels better than pulling down the sheets of a freshly made bed in preparation for a long night of slumber.
Imagine if we had the attitude I had about making my bed about everything. What if I never brushed my teeth because they’re just going to get gross again next time I eat something? My teeth would end up rotting out of my face! Brushing your teeth is an act of self-care, and so is keeping house.
A book I read recently, How to Keep House While Drowning by KC Davis, invited the reader to reframe daily chores as self-care tasks, rather than a duty that needs to be fulfilled for the sake of being fulfilled. We do these things because we deserve to have a clean, inviting home. We owe it to ourselves.
I recently got into the habit of putting away clothes after I launder them. It sounds like such a little thing to be proud of, but I am. I love walking into my bedroom and being able to make it to my bed without tripping over a pile of leggings. I love how it looks, being able to see the floor again. I feel at home in my home. What a freakin’ concept.
Sometimes, the change is as easy as making sure you have the right tools to clean with. I stocked up on some all-natural cleaners that smell nice and come in pretty bottles, and weirdly enough, that makes me want to do more around the house. It’s all about tricking lizard brain into doing what I want it to do, and turns out lizard brain likes shiny things that smell good.
This guy has an unsettling amount of influence over me.
In your twenties, everyone sucks, so you don’t go to other people’s houses expecting things to be perfectly in place and meticulously cleaned. But once you turn thirty, there’s this expectation that you’ll stop being a goblin and start keeping your home like a person. When I was younger, I’d probably say “Well, expectations are stupid anyways” and go back to living in squalor. But cleaning really is an act of self-care. It’s deciding you’re worthy of having a clean, habitable environment that reflects who you are, and gifting that to yourself.
3. Unhealthy Habits
I wish I remembered most of my twenties, but I spent a good deal of it drunk. Of course.
I didn’t have a drink until I was twenty, and I barely drank until I was legal, but after my 21st birthday, all hell broke loose. With the exception of the time I was briefly married to a very conservative, very Christian guy who’d never touched alcohol in his life, I spent the majority of my twenties with a drink in hand. Life was just hopping from one excuse to get trashed to the next.
I wasted a lot of time being wasted. I thought being intoxicated helped me be more creative, but it actually stifled me. I wasn’t writing or doing much of anything productive while drinking. I’d go to shows my own band was playing and get blackout drunk, looking like a fool at a time when I should have maintained a sense of professionalism.
As of writing, I’ve been sober about a year. Wild, I know. See, I’ve found healthier alternatives to alcohol to fill the hole in my heart. Like, did you know there are companies that make nonalcoholic beer? It tastes exactly the same! And I can be a snob about it — “Oh, just give me the Heineken 0.0”
“I try not to poison my body with that alcoholic shit, thanks.”
Snobbery is a kind of underrated motivator, and one of the reasons behind another life change I want to take into the next phase of my existence. I’ve started working out every weekday morning, no exceptions. This is partially because I have to take my wife to her gym job at the buttcrack of dawn, but it’s a good excuse to get moving. I love being one of those motivational assholes who are like “Ah yes, I get up at 5 am every day to do 45 minutes of cardio before work. It keeps me grounded.”
I’ll admit there are some areas of my life I have yet to earn bragging rights for. Like, my eating habits are still abysmal. But that’s the thing about progress. If you don’t have something you’re constantly working toward, you might as well be on your deathbed. Constantly aiming toward new highs is what keeps you young. And as hard as it is to say goodbye to young adulthood, I know it’s not the end of the journey. I have a good 30 more years at least — and that’s a conservative estimate. If I have my way, I’ll be around twice as long as that.
But even if I do make it to 90, as long as I still have dreams and ambitions and goals, I’ll never truly be “grown up.”
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.
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.
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 itbecause 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.
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.
PROTECT THIS CHILD.
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.
Yes, I was that bitch.
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.
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.
DON’T LET ME DOWN JIM ADKINS.
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.
JESSA JOYCE 