Another Shot of Depresso

Hi! I’m sure you’re wondering where I’ve been. After all, it’s been an unusually long time since I’ve posted anything on this blog. I typically try to post something a few times a week, but it’s been crickets here lately. I wish I had a good reason for my silence, and I guess I do, in a way.

Depression. It’s weighing on me, hard.

This week has already been terrible. I’ve been beaten around like a piñata at the universe’s birthday party, mostly due to work issues. I’m working thirteen hours a day between my two jobs, and it has not been a walk in the park. Everything that could go wrong has gone wrong this week, and I’m scrambling to keep it together at both places of employment. This, on top of preparing for our annual Halloween party this weekend and playing piano for my dear friend’s show and getting ready to literally uproot my life in January for my internship. It would be a lot for anyone, but tack on a heap of depression, and it’s a wonder I’m still breathing. I should have been suffocated by the weight of it all a long time ago.

I have bipolar. It’s not a secret. Historically, I’ve tended toward mania, which manifests in me drinking all the alcohol and having all the sex and eating all the food and buying all the worthless shit and basically being an overall bad decision machine. I’ve had bouts of depression, but they’ve never lingered for very long. But this depression has been harsher for some reason. I’m feeling so much existential dread, like I’m just this tiny flea in the grand scheme of the universe and someday I’ll be forgotten and it’ll be like I never existed. I ruminate on these things until my brain goes numb and all I want to do is tend my little make-believe farm because that’s the one damn thing I can control in this life.

I know a lot of people turn to me and my blog for hope. My words reach people, and that alone means so much to me. I sincerely pray I will have the drive to continue this blog soon, because right now I’m feeling burned the fuck out. I want to be an inspiration to others, the person they look to like “Hey, Jessa survived bipolar, and so can I!” Maybe that’s why I’ve been dealt this hand, in the grand scheme of things. But I won’t lie and say it’s an easy cross to bear.

I have faith that I’ll come out the other side of this. I always have. It’s just going to be an uphill battle.

Dear Cadence, Part Nine: The Path to Your Dreams is Not Always Linear

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

I found out what music therapy was from one of my grandma’s nurses when she was dying. She found out I played music and encouraged me to bring in my guitar to play for my grandma and the other old folks at the nursing home. She told me there were people who get paid to do this kind of thing, and that they actually go to school to study the ways music can be used to help people.

I wasn’t sold entirely. My long term plan was to attend Eastern as a pre-med student and eventually go to the more prestigious (and expensive) University of Michigan for medical school. I’d minor in music, but it wouldn’t be my main thing. I wanted to be a cardiologist or a pediatrician or even a neurosurgeon, something that could legitimately help people, instead of wasting my time selfishly playing music for my own ego (this was before the “Jacob”’arc).

I’d already signed up for all of my freshman year bio classes when my parents overheard me singing and playing in my room.

“Remember what that nurse said about music therapy?” they said, implying that they wanted to become the first parents in human history to encourage their child to go to music school instead of becoming a doctor.

So I went back up to the university right away and auditioned for the music therapy program. I already knew my way around a guitar and I could sing circles around most of the other freshmen trying out, so I was a shoo-in.

Despite being less than a half hour from my hometown, life at the university seemed a world away from life in high school. Not only was I living in an artsy fartsy college town, it was also the point in time when the “quirky weird girl” trope was at its most popular. The days when no one wanted to associate with me seemed like another life. Everyone wanted a piece of the guitar-slingin’ manic pixie dream girl, and I was happy to oblige. I started playing house shows and cafe gigs, and I made a name for myself as the Taylor Swift of Ypsilanti, Michigan.

But the cracks began to show as I struggled to stay awake and focused during my classes, to the point where I’d gotten referred to the university counselors by my professors. To top it off, the anxieties that had plagued me my entire life were coming to a head, to a near debilitating degree, and I had no choice but to consult with a psychiatrist at a local clinic for young adults. It was there that I was prescribed Prozac, which I do credit with saving my life, but it wasn’t nearly enough to save my academic attempts. Music therapy school was brutal, and I found myself fighting hard just to stay on top of my coursework.

I’d signed up for the school newspaper on a whim, and that seemed to be working well for me, at least. I was a naturally skilled writer. I didn’t even have to try to crank out article after article for the paper — I would sit down at my laptop and the words would just flow through my fingertips. I even got awarded the title of editor for the arts and culture section of the paper less than a year into me working there (we’ll revisit that in the next chapter). I did some research on the journalism major and it seemed significantly easier than music therapy, which was becoming increasingly difficult to even find the motivation to study for. As my mental health declined, I wondered how I’d ever be a therapist when I couldn’t even help myself. At least newspaper editors didn’t have to help other people figure their shit out. I could just do my thing and pretend I was okay.

So I made the decision to switch my major to journalism and forego music therapy altogether.

Still, even after I graduated, it felt like something was missing from my life. I tried finding writing jobs but nothing ever stuck. This was around the time I was still reeling from the breakup of my first real band (which we’ll get to) and the crumbling of my first marriage (which we’ll also get to). Nothing was working out, and I needed to regroup and figure something else out. That’s when Coco happened.

Coco was a Disney movie about a little Mexican boy who plays guitar against his family’s wishes. I won’t spoil it, although I’m certain I’ve played it for you at some point in your childhood. (What kind of a mother would I be if I didn’t make you watch all my favorite Disney movies?) But the climax of the movie, where music helps the protagonist’s grandmother momentarily regain her precious memories, made me realize I’d made the wrong decision when I switched majors. I was meant to — destined to — use music to heal people. No, I wasn’t too messed up to be a music therapist. That was a damn lie I told myself and believed to the point it became the truth. I drove straight up to that university myself and told the professors I’d be joining them once again that fall.

And…I failed once more. This time, it wasn’t my choice. I had a strong start. That school year began with me trying my very best. I was doing everything in my power to succeed this time, taking notes and staying alert and keeping organized. Then, something happened at that year’s music therapy conference that derailed all my plans.

I was raped.

The assailant was a total stranger, and I should have known better than to trust him when I met him at the rooftop bar at my hotel. But I was lonely, and it was my first time traveling alone, no friends, no parents, no husband. And he was charming. He said he loved how I was using music to help people.

All before everything went dark, in the absolute worst way possible.

After the incident, my mental health took a nosedive. I couldn’t concentrate for shit. I started drinking myself sick every night. I was making rash decisions and doing everything I could to drown out the ever-present feeling of disgust. I eventually snapped and found myself crying in the office of one of my professors. I couldn’t do this anymore.

And so I dropped out of the music therapy program for a second time.

This is a depressing chapter, right? I promise it has a happy ending.

Another few years passed and I found myself drifting aimlessly once again. I was in a slightly better place — I was married to someone I actually wanted to be married to, and my mental health was finally on the up-and-up. I even got a proper ADHD diagnosis, which explained some of the inattentiveness that made my previous attempts at the degree more difficult. But I didn’t have a job I actually liked. I knew I was meant for more than wiping people’s butts or slinging prescription pills. (Legally. As a pharmacy technician. Your mother was never a drug dealer.)

So, tail tucked between my legs, I whimpered pathetically at the professors one last time, begging for one last shot at that music therapy degree.

And this time, it worked! While finishing those last two years of schooling, I managed to earn a prestigious scholarship and even presented on autism for the university’s undergraduate research symposium. In 2023, I completed the coursework necessary to become a music therapist. As of writing, I’m waiting to hear back from my internship site. After completing the internship, I have to take a test, and then I’ll be certified. In other words, I still have a long road ahead of me, but the worst is over.

Sometimes I wonder where I’d be if I’d just stayed the course and finished my music therapy degree years ago. The truth is, I probably would have crashed and burned. I needed to learn to take care of myself first; otherwise, I probably wouldn’t have been focused and motivated enough to earn that scholarship or present in that symposium. I would have gotten meh grades and probably would have landed a meh job I would have given up on as soon as things got hard. But my place in music therapy is now fire-forged. I’ve been through the worst, and now I’m better equipped and prepared to face whatever comes next. The twelve years it took me to get this far weren’t a waste of time. Rather, it was time spent figuring out for sure that this is where I belong. I don’t think I would have made it this far had I not taken all the time I needed to reevaluate my core values and recover from, well, everything.

Often, the path to your dreams isn’t linear. It’s a road with many forks, pitfalls, and distractions. If you ever lose your way, though, just remember this chapter. When you discover what it is you’re meant to be in this world, it will chase you down, and no amount of obstacles will keep you from what it is you need to do. You are stronger than everything that will ever try to hold you back. You’re a force of nature unlike anything anyone’s ever seen, and I’m so excited to see where life takes you.

Your Song Saved My Life: The Motion City Soundtrack Effect

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even If It Kills Me

TW: sexual assault

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.

Even if it kills me.

What I’m Leaving Behind in My Twenties

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.”

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.

Get Out of That Box!

I feel bad for leaving everyone on a sad note with my last post, so this one is more optimistic, I swear!

My wife and I stopped drinking earlier this year. Officially, for real this time. We haven’t had as much as a drop in the last several months. And frankly, I’m pretty okay with that. Sure, there’s some FOMO when my friends are sipping on a nice craft beer or mixed drink, but for the most part, I don’t miss it. I’ve lost weight, I don’t have no-reason hives nearly as often, and I’m not constantly in a daze from being drunk or hungover almost every day.

We were paying money to have a bad time.

Something peculiar happened when we stopped drinking though. We found ourselves unable to relate to a lot of our friends who did drink a lot or rely on drugs to have fun. Suddenly, sobriety was lonely as hell. I call these growing pains, though. As in, we’re finally growing up, but the people around us are stagnating. It’s a good problem, although it doesn’t feel good in the moment.

My old church and pastor are problematic for a lot of reasons, and if you’ve snooped long enough through my blog, you’d know why. But my former pastor did have a lot of wisdom I still love by to this day. One of his sayings was “show me your friends, and I’ll show you your future.” As 90s sitcom “special episode” as it is to admit, the people you surround yourself with influence you more than you think.

Think of it this way. If someone’s standing on a table for some ungodly reason, it would be hard for them to pull another person up onto the table with them. It would be much easier for someone on the ground to pull the person on the table down to their level. It’s best to climb onto the table alone. That doesn’t mean you can’t have any friends when you’re working on yourself, though. Maybe people will see that what you’re doing is weird and different and better, and they might even climb onto a table as well.

The point is, the road to getting better is lonely, but it doesn’t have to be. Instead of hanging out at bars and partying your life away, meet new people at gyms or church. Learn a new hobby and join a local group for it. Even online groups like r/decidingtobebetter on Reddit can be helpful. It sucks distancing yourself from old friends, but holding onto habits that hurt you in order to still relate to them is not worth it. You can’t keep breaking your own bones to fit into someone else’s box.

Get out of that box!

A Letter

Note: ENORMOUS content warning for this one. If sexual assault is a trigger for you, you can skip this one. Take care of yourself.

It started with an Adderall-fueled spring cleaning of my laptop’s documents, some dating back to when I’d bought it several years back. There in the word documents, between old college assignments and a smattering of first chapters of stories I’ll never finish, was a file simply titled “A Letter.” Opening it made my blood freeze in my veins as I remembered the whens and whys of the letter’s existence.

I never intended the letter to be read by its addressee, frankly because I wished to never see him again. It was a catharsis, a pouring out of emotions I thought I’d come to terms with. In retrospect, it affected me more than I thought. Following the incident that sparked the writing of this letter, I found myself seeking comfort in things like alcohol. I gained more weight than I ever had. My depression and anxiety overtook me to a point where my grades suffered and I needed to drop out of school — and I’d seldom gotten anything lower than an A- before.

I never intended the letter to be read by its addressee — or anyone else — but it’s been two years almost to the day since it happened. And I’m ready to talk about it. This is the letter, exactly as I wrote it the day I was raped.

It was my first time traveling alone. No family, no friend, no significant other. Maybe I was asking for it. I’ve lived enough life to not be naive about these sorts of things, but in general, I’d like to think most people are good. The handsome, friendly man you’re having lively conversation with over some craft beer won’t hurt you, right? Wrong. So wrong. So fucking wrong.

It was my last night in Ohio. The people I were staying with were all asleep. I was lonely. The extrovert in me wanted to meet people, to make memories, not just sit on my laptop in the dark. So I went to the bar on the top floor. The view was spectacular. I had one, two, several drinks. I’m no stranger to alcohol. I don’t get black-out drunk easily. I still remember all of my time up in the bar, chatting with you.

But I don’t remember how I got to your room. The rest of the night comes to me like a movie montage. I was sitting on the ledge of the window, looking out over the Cincinnati lights. Your friend was rolling a joint. Next scene. I can’t make out much, but you were on top of me. Next scene. I wake up, somehow in my hotel room. My friends were petrified I got hurt somehow. As the memories flood back to me, I realize I had been. I check my phone. You’ve messaged me. “I hope you never forget our night together.” I can barely remember it, but no, I won’t forget.

My friends leave for the music therapy conference. I need to head out to play a gig in my hometown. Wanting to take a hot shower and scrub off the uncomfortable feeling on my body, I lift my hideous rainbow grandma sweater over my head. There’s no bra. I left my bra in your room. I see I have another message. You want to see me before I leave. I don’t want to see you, but I want my bra back. So I give you the room number — stupidly — and ask you to bring it to me.

Oh, but you love me. You love how I heal people with music. You want a future with me. You’d do anything for me. You stand in the doorway, blocking me with your body. I tell you I need to leave, I need to go home. I’m cornered in the bathroom. You want to show me how much I mean to you. Your hands meet my high-waisted jeans — who the fuck gets raped in an ugly sweater and mom jeans? You begin to pull them down. I protest and pull them back up. You say fine, okay. Just one kiss. One kiss and you’ll leave me alone. Right? Wrong again.

I kiss you, timidly. You pull me in. I smell you. You lift me up over your shoulder like a ragdoll. You put me on the bed. I’m scared. I tell you I don’t want this. I say no. I said no. You should have left me alone. But you didn’t. You’re between my legs. You take off my pants. Your mouth is where it shouldn’t be. I’m shaking, struggling to breathe. I’m so dehydrated I can’t even cry. I feel sick. And then you take your dick out. You fuck me as I tell you to stop. I don’t want this. Frustrated with my whining, you pull out after a minute or two. And eventually, you leave. Finally.

But you’re still with me. I’m sore. There’s blood. I’m shaking. You keep messaging me, telling me you’re thinking of me. You call me. I don’t answer. I can’t answer. All I want is to get the hell out of Ohio. I’ve never sped so fast on the highway, crying as I tell my two closest friends what happened and hoping the sweet, sweet voice of Freddie Mercury will drown out the voices telling me this is all my fault.

But it’s not. I remind myself. You picked me up. You pinned me down. Even if — playing devil’s advocate — that previous night was my fault, for getting drunk and letting myself be taken advantage of, what you did the next morning was textbook rape. The last thing I did before I blocked you on Facebook was go through your photos. You have a daughter. How the fuck are you going to justify what you did when you have a little girl of your own? Would you want a man to do to her what you did to me? I sure as hell hope not.

I’m conflicted. Part of me wants to believe you’re good, that this was all just a big misunderstanding. That somehow I tempted fate by drinking in a strange place with strange people. That I tempted you with my ugly sweater and mom jeans. Maybe no one ever taught you about the concept of consent. And then I think about how, in less than 48 hours, you have completely destroyed my trust in people. I’m scared. I don’t know if the next guy I hang out with is going to take advantage of me. How many of the men I talk to every day or the men I admire have done what you did? It seems like every woman I’ve gotten close enough to to talk about this subject has some kind of story. And you happen to be mine.

And I hope I never, ever meet you again.

This is probably the most difficult, personal thing I’ve ever shared on here, but stories like these, like mine, need to be told. Chances are, it’s happened to someone you love. Maybe it’s happened to you. And I’m sharing this for the same reason I’ve shared a lot of my deepest struggles in my writing — because someone out there needs to know they’re not alone in this. To all the survivors out there reading this, you are strong and valuable and loved, and what someone else did to you does not define you. Take care of yourselves and be good to one another.

There is help if you need it. You can reach the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 800.656.HOPE or online at online.rainn.org