Live Hard Day Two: Becoming Steak

When I was in junior high, I briefly had the nickname Bubbles, before my classmates latched onto “Salisbury Steak” and later, simply “Steak.” If you knew me at all in high school, you’d know why a meat-inspired moniker was hilariously weird for a girl like me. I wasn’t particularly muscly or threatening or beefy. I was the Ute and wholesome little blonde-haired church girl who would probably cry if someone said something remotely mean to her. I would have considered myself more of a marshmallow than a steak.

But I digress. The point is, for a very brief time, I was nicknamed Bubbles, after the Powerpuff Girl, natch.

You could have put this picture in the yearbook under my name and no one would have questioned it.

In a lot of ways, I was Bubbles. I was always the adorable, innocent, naive one. I liked cute things and candy and stuffed animals. I had the blonde-hair blue-eyed ingenue look. I could talk to animals (although they seldom talked back to me). And when flanked by my two wildly badass siblings, I looked like an absolute creampuff.

A lot has changed since then. I’ve been through a lot. I’m not innocent by any measure. My style has shifted through the years, but I’m certainly not the tiny blonde Precious Moments figurine I used to be.

Unless that Precious Moments figurine had a late-20s big titty goth gf phase.

Still, I find myself feeling like Bubbles quite often. Even though I’ve been hardened by age, I’m still quite sensitive and wishy-washy and admittedly kind of a crybaby. Perhaps it’s the Pisces in me. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m the youngest. All I know is I don’t want to be that way anymore. I know I have badass potential. Enter my Bubblevicious moment. If you don’t remember that particular episode, let this jog your memory:

Sometimes you need to decide to be badass, and that’s where I am. I know what I’m doing isn’t working for me. I don’t have the mental or physical strength I want to have.

Enter the Live Hard challenge.

I’ve said in my previous post that I’m not a huge fan of Andy Frisella for reasons that should be pretty obvious, but I’m also not a huge fan of throwing the baby out with the bath water. And frankly, his Live Hard program is legit. I’m on my second day of following the 75 Hard ruleset, and I already fee significantly better. Because I am ADHD as all hell and need to keep myself accountable somehow, I decided to post my updates on here. Here are my observations so far:

1. Stick to a diet.

This is probably the hardest one for me, because the diet I chose is intermittent fasting, and I work weird hours. I decided on noon to 8 p.m. for my eating window, and I’m just going to pray every night that my coworkers didn’t bring in a pizza to share. So far though, I’m doing alright. I got a little antsy toward the end of my fast earlier today, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Plus, my Adderall makes me crave food less. I’m allowing unsweetened coffee and tea during my fasting hours as well, so that’s helping a bit, although I didn’t realize consuming caffeine on an empty stomach wreaks this much havoc on your digestive system.

As in, this entire post so far has been written on the toilet.

2. No alcohol.

This is probably the easiest one because I quit drinking a few months back. In fact, I’m officially almost four months sober. Small victories, y’all.

3. Two 45 minute workouts a day, one being outside.

This has been probably deceptively easy so far, and I’m no doubt going to eat my words in a few days when DOMS sets in.

Not the kind of doms I’m referring to, but you could argue that it, too, hurts so good.

I’m already starting to feel some of the delayed soreness in my arms, so I’m trying to keep my vision of Badass Jess in my head. This pain will eventually become muscle, and then I too can become an intimidating dominatrix— I mean, a completely wholesome but buff woman that definitely does not engage in BDSM.

Except my Bible Study/Discussion Meetings.

My workouts so far have been a half hour of biking following by fifteen minutes of weight training for the indoor portion, and a 45 minute walk around the neighborhood for the outdoor portion. My wife has been very much on board with taking daily walks, and our talks during these lengthy walks have been doing wonders for both of our mental health issues and our relationship as a whole. I’ll probably want to up the ante in a while to something a bit more strenuous, like biking or jogging, but I’m kind of loving these little walks with my girl.

4. Read 10 pages of nonfiction/self-help/something that will make you suck less as a person.

Ah, yes, my favorite part of the challenge, and a big reason I decided to take it on. I love this idea, and I went above and beyond assembling a set of books to navigate through in the next few months. I’m starting by alternating between two titles that are relevant to my struggles with ADHD — Decluttering at the Speed of Life by Dana K. White, and You Need a Budget by Jesse Mecham. So far, I’ve been killing this part of the challenge, reading more than required daily just because I’m hooked. Honestly, I forgot how much I love reading, especially nonfiction books, and these particular titles are helping quite a bit already. I’ll probably review them on here once I’m finished with them. Next up on my list is How to Win Friends and Influence People in the Digital Age by Dale Carnegie and The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, although I admit I cheated a bit and parsed through parts of them already. I guess it’s better to read too much than not enough.

5. Drink a gallon of water.

I lied. This is probably the easiest part of the challenge for me, and strangely enough, it seems to be the hardest for everyone else. I don’t know why I just drink so much water naturally. Was I a camel in a past life? Who knows.

6. Take a progress pic daily.

I’ve taken my pictures, and I’m not gonna lie, I always remember to do this when I’m about to jump in the bath and have already disrobed. So my first two days are a bit NSFW. I’ve already exceeded my spicy limit for this post, so I won’t be sharing them here. That’s for my OnlyFans.

I’ll take a clothed progress pic tomorrow probably and share it here eventually. But the official first and second day pics are for my eyes only. Gotta leave something to the imagination, ya know?

So that’s a quick rundown of how things are going. I’ll continue updating everyone on my progress, if only to keep myself accountable. But honestly, I’m excited to become less of a Bubbles and more of a Steak, and I think I’m off to a good start on my journey to beefy goodness.

Hold the Girl (Or, How I’m Going to Make Teenage Me Proud)

Sometimes I wonder if wide-eyed 17-year-old me would be happy with the direction my life has taken. After all, at that point, I was in the best shape of my life, earning straight A’s, serving as colorguard captain AND class president, and full of ambition to become the best version of myself. In fact, I remember how I was so determined to become the best performer in my dance class, I’d practice for an hour in front of the mirror every night. I had so much motivation, so much drive. I had every intention of bursting through those high school doors and jumping into a life as a music therapist, professor, creator, and business owner.

Without going into too much of a “woe is me” spiel, things haven’t exactly turned out the way I wanted. After changing my major, dropping out of college twice due to then-undiagnosed ADHD, and letting my mental and physical health slip farther than ever, I feel like teenage me would cry if she met present me.

Something needs to change.

Rina Sawayama’s “Hold the Girl” is a love letter to her younger self, and I remember the first time I heard the lyrics. REALLY heard them. I felt little Jess looking back at me sadly as Rina sang the lines “Sometimes I get down with guilt/For the promises I’ve broken to my younger self.” I’ve let myself fall so far from where I was.

That’s why I’m taking action. I’m not letting myself sink any further. I want little Jess to be proud of me. I want her to be excited to grow into this woman I’ve become. So I’m deciding to be better.

Here’s my plan, inspired by Andy Frisella’s 75 Hard challenge. Despite him kind of being a dumbass (like, Trumper and antivax-level dumbassery), his challenge has a lot of substance. Follow a diet (I’m choosing intermittent fasting), two 45 minute workouts a day, no alcohol, one gallon of water a day, and read ten pages of nonfiction or self-improvement literature daily. I need a holistic plan of action like this one to get me out of this rut I’m in, and I’m sharing this plan and my progress on my blog to keep me accountable.

In short, I’m not going to sit back and be content to suck anymore. She wouldn’t want me to.

Today, I choose to hold the girl.

Do the Damn Thing

2022 so far has been a year of releasing things that no longer serve me. I started by giving up vaping, then alcohol. Next on the shit list is overeating, which will be a lot easier to address after we move to an apartment that isn’t surrounded by every fast food establishment known to man.

But perhaps my biggest vice isn’t something I do, but something I don’t do — the damn thing. As in, the stuff I actually want to do with this life.

I’ve grown so complacent with numbing myself with video games and YouTube binges that I’ve let go of a lot of my creative endeavors. To be fair to myself, I hide away in these frivolous things to escape from the stresses of work and school, and it’s healthy to indulge in mindless fun every now and then, but it’s still not an excuse to let my projects languish. Someday when I’m dead, my long-abandoned Sims or virtual farm won’t matter. What will matter is the work I leave behind, and right now, that output is pretty abysmal.

I’ve had part one of my story — THE story — finished for about half a year now. I’ve been working to get this out for more than a decade, and I finally finished it, only to wuss out and not actually publish it. Why? Part of the problem is I’m scared it’s no one’s going to like my story or even care enough to read it, but to be honest, an even bigger part of the problem is how I’m just to lazy to do much of anything.

WHO’S THAT POKÉMON? IT’S PROCRASTINATION!

So I’m resolving to keep writing, even when it’s hard. Even when I don’t feel like it. Because I don’t want to leave this planet someday without putting my stories out there. The saddest stories are the ones that never get told.

That being said, keep checking back here, because I’m going to post what I write on this very site. You may have noticed I switched the name of the blog again, this time to my own name. That’s because I’m intending this blog to be a repository of all my writing from now on, fiction and nonfiction alike. If you follow me for my posts on mental health and spirituality, don’t fret — I’m still going to post things on those topics from time to time. But I’m especially excited to share my story with everyone, once and for all. It’s been a part of me and my imagination for so long, and I’m ready to see it come to fruition.

It’s scary to put my writing out there, and it’ll take a lot of dedication and hard work, but I know I need to finally do the damn thing.

Under a Leo Moon (A Ritual for Creative Success)

A few nights ago was the new moon, which apparently is a great time to like, do intention setting rituals and whatnot. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again — I’m pretty skeptical when it comes to this stuff, but choosing a goal or vision to work on for a month does tickle the science part of my brain. Besides, I have ADHD. This is the kind of structure I need in my life.

“Jess getting her shit together for once” will take all the magic in the universe.

The new moon is in Leo, which is a thing I don’t know a lot about, but I guess it’s a good time to do creative things. There’s supposed to be a lot of big, bombastic energy surrounding this moon, which is perfect for the average glam rock frontwoman trying to manifest her band’s success. Additionally, I found out when I was researching my birth chart that my moon sign is Leo. Coincidence? Realistically, yes. But I’d like to believe there’s something special there. I’m a frickin’ lion baby, and you’re gonna hear me roar.

My lovely wife, Crass, has been mostly supportive of my magical endeavors (albeit she’s a bit annoyed with how many essential oils and herbs I’ve accumulated in the past few weeks). Although she’s Jewish by birth and generally agnostic, she’s always felt drawn to the witchy side of life. So for this new moon, she decided to join me for an intention setting ritual.

Here’s what all was involved:

– “road opener” candle I got from this dope metaphysical store downtown (supposedly opens new opportunities)

– bay leaves

– citrine crystal necklace

– cedar smudge stick

– a black Sharpie

We started by assembling a makeshift altar on the balcony and smudging the air around it. It was a beautiful summer night, and considering it was dark out, we decided to go out naked as the day we were born. I didn’t bother to look up whether nudity affected the magic at all. Once we were settled in, we light the candle and said a few words. Our incantation was as follows:

Holy powers that be
Ignite a spark in me
Bring success to my art
And creativity to my heart

After reciting the incantation, we scribbled the names of our artistic projects — my band’s name and her art business’s name — on a pair of bay leaves using the marker. We then placed the leaves into the flame, envisioning our prayers being sent up to the heavens along with the smoke. Around that time, I took her hand, and we started daydreaming aloud about what our hopes and visions were for our respective endeavors. It felt nice, dreaming about the future with her. Somehow, it made the evening even more magical. At the end, we brought the candle inside and let it burn on the kitchen table, but not before holding the necklace we had in the smoke. The plan was for her to wear the necklace to art shows and me to wear it to my band’s gigs, as a reminder of our intentions.

It feels silly at times, but I really do get a sense of peace from performing rituals like this, like I have a sense of control over my destiny. Suddenly, my dreams of making it in music don’t seem so lofty. It gives me perspective. Perhaps this magic stuff is baloney, but I think there’s some substance to it after all. It’s retraining your brain to see your full potential and focus on achieving what you need to achieve. Maybe it just takes burning a couple of leaves to finally tame my ADHD. So mote it be.

Good News, Everyone: WE’RE REBRANDING!

You might have noticed the domain name and blog title have changed. Don’t worry, it’s still me! I wanted to rebrand this blog into something that gives hope, something that can serve you — yes, you! — as an anchor in the storm we call life. Here, you’ll find my personal observations on topics like spirituality and mental health, (eventually daily) devotionals, and things that have helped me through my sometimes turbulent journey.

My perspective is a Christian one, albeit a more progressive version than you’re likely used to. If you have an established faith, or don’t really believe in anything, don’t fret! I’m not here to convert anyone. Instead, I want to be a voice for those who may have been burned by the traditional Church, people who are neurodiverse, queer, or who maybe just don’t fit the “churchy” norm. I know what it’s like to feel excluded from my own faith tradition, but God never abandons His kids, and I’m still learning from Him every day. That’s why I want to share what I’ve learned with you all. Because if I can help just one person reading this feel less alone, everything I’ve been through will be worth it.

So here’s to setting sail on this new adventure. And you are absolutely welcome along for the ride.

The Three Words That Made Me Hate My Own Body

I remember the first time I became aware of the male gaze.

I was twelve.

It was at a Rite Aid with my mom getting some film developed (which definitely just dated me). I saw a pair of older guys talking about something, and laughing, but I didn’t know what was happening. My mom shot them a look and pulled me away quickly.

“Those creeps were looking at you,” she said.

I was twelve. Twelve. Like, all I cared about was Pokemon and my stuffed animals. But I didn’t look it.

The film wasn’t the only thing that was developed.

If you follow literally anyone in the exvangelical community, you’ve probably heard of “Modest is Hottest,” the Matthew West track that’s been setting the Christian music scene ablaze. It’s a silly tongue-in-cheek song — I’m not too cool to admit that I laughed at “a sensible pair of slacks.” But after taking a moment to consider the culture that birthed this tune, it left a sour taste in my mouth. And judging by the backlash it’s received, I’m not alone in that sentiment.

My family never pushed purity culture onto me; rather, it was the churches I attended. The modesty talks were ubiquitous, at least among female leaders. Judging by the gendered sermons we sometimes had to endure, girls had two main problems — not feeling pretty enough, and not wearing enough. I never cared too much about the former as a kid, but as my own body made me painfully aware, I had to care about the latter, lest I get embarrassing lectures from youth leaders and mocking chants of “modest is hottest” from other girls. Yup, there’s that phrase again.

Here’s the thing — I never intentionally dressed to, as these talks put it, “cause my brothers to stumble.” I was just wearing what all of my friends were wearing. But because of the way I was built, my body was inherently dirty, inherently sexual. And people behaved differently because of this. I’d be groped by other students at my school because they thought my reactions were funny (which is doubly fucked up considering I was on the autism spectrum). When swimming with others, I’d be given the “t-shirt of shame” for exposing too much of my breasts, even though I was wearing the same kinds of bathing suits as other girls my age. And of course, I was made to feel like I was this filthy sinner for garnering looks from guys, because hey, it’s the girl’s job to keep guys from stumbling. Even when that girl is — let me reiterate — twelve.

It honestly messed me up for a while. At first, I tried to run away from my sexuality, playing the part of the innocent, virginal ingenue. When I inevitably couldn’t keep up that facade, I learned into my own sex appeal, feeling it was the only real thing I had to offer. No one cared about my intelligence or creativity. I was a walking pair of double D’s.

If you’re in a similar place to me, I’m here to tell you that there is nothing dirty or shameful about your body. Your body is a beautiful gift, every single bone and tendon and nerve and glob of fat! 1 Corinthians 6:19-20 says “Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies.” Conversely, should we not honor other people’s bodies by respecting them, no matter what shape or size they are, if they are indeed temples of the Holy Spirit?

I don’t think modesty is necessarily a bad thing. My philosophy had always been “if it brings you closer to God and hurts no one else, you do you.” My point is that someone’s inherent worth doesn’t come from how much skin is exposed. Forcing modesty on girls as if their worth depends on it isn’t healthy. Rather, we should be teaching young men to honor and respect women whether they’re cloaked in Amish garb or doing their best Cardi B.

When God Sends Your Hogwarts Letter

Let’s make one thing clear: I despise Harry Potter. Absolutely loathe it. I can’t follow it to save my life, the creator sucks, and Pokémon is the superior millennial franchise in every way. But sometimes I fondly remember a sermon I saw many years ago talking about it. No, they didn’t go on a rant about how it’s Satanic and all that crap (surprisingly). Instead, they viewed it as an allegory for the way God calls us to certain things in our lives, and the absolute ridiculous lengths He’ll go to in order to owl-airdrop that Hogwarts acceptable letter to your front step. I think about that scene with the with all the letters flying around a lot still, even though I’m not a huge fan of my old church and certainly not a fan of Harry Potter.

From a young age, I always imagined that Hogwarts letter to be an acceptance into a doctoral program. My joke is that I refuse to die before adding the letters “Dr.” in front of my name. It just made sense. I was (almost) top of my class and had a passion for learning and academia like none other. And full disclosure, a good part of why I wanted this so badly was to prove to everyone I was actually smart! To be honest, it was more than a little vain — I craved the status that came with the title.

So I decided there was no way around it. I was going to become a doctor of something or other. Medicine, psychology — trust me, I’ve cycled through all the aspirations. But every time I try to commit to something, life gets in the way. Too much money, mental health issues, parents convincing me to pursue classical guitar instead of premed (no regrets; music school was the time of my life).

Maybe it’s not in this season of life to pursue such things. Or perhaps — even scarier — I’m not supposed to pursue them at all.

Jesus Himself said to deny yourself and take up your cross (Matthew 16:24). What does that even mean for my own life though? Do I really have to give up on my futile attempts to glorify myself, to add a little pizzazz to my own name, to hold the coveted title of “doctor” I’ve dreamed about my entire life? And it hit me.

Maybe I’m supposed to be Pastor Jess instead of Dr. Jess.

It’s perfect. I get to learn theology (which I’m already a huge nerd about), play music, write, interact with and help people on a personal level, and perhaps most importantly, further the Kingdom of God. I keep going back to a certain phrase: “Be the change you want to see in the world.” I keep complaining that there are so few affirming churches, but what am I doing to change that? I personally know so many queer folks who feel disenfranchised by their churches and the Christian community at large. Maybe it’s my job here on this little blue planet to help give them a community who loves and accepts them as they are while leading them home to a God who loves and accepts them as they are. I know I’m not a perfect person by any means, but God uses imperfect people all the time. I’ve prayed about this for a while now and all signs seem to point in this direction. I feel like I finally got my Hogwarts letter.

Maybe being a pastor isn’t as glamorous as being a professor or doctor. But if I can help just just one gay or trans kid feel like God hasn’t abandoned them, it will all be worth it.

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do it for Connie.

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

The Pen is Mightier

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

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

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

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

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

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

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