I had a realization a while back — one of the reasons I pursued music therapy was because it looked “good.” It seemed like a noble profession, using music to improve people’s lives in a meaningful, measurable way. I’d tell people I was studying music therapy and it was an instant “Ah yes, I can trust her, as she is clearly a good person.” All my boyfriends’ moms loved me for it, and strangers would tell me what I’m doing is so beautiful, so kind. It may just be playing guitar for some kid in a hospital, but to that kid, you’re a hero! And who doesn’t want to be a hero, you know?
I think I have a hero complex, and I think that’s what’s prevented me from jumping headfirst into performance instead. I always wanted to be a hero. I wanted to help people. And if I became a rock star, who would I be helping except my own selfish desires?
The typical perception of pretty much everybody is that performing and the arts are just little “extras.” They’re nothing but fun little distractions, right? No one needs a movie or a comic book or music to live.
QUICK! GET HIM THE LATEST TAYLOR SWIFT ALBUM!
What I’m slowly realizing is that, while we don’t need the arts to live, we absolutely need the arts to really live.
When I moved to Kalamazoo, I searched frantically for work. I would have taken damn near anything, but I wanted to try finding a job involving music. And lo and behold, a trivia company was looking for a music bingo host in my area. And I mean, getting to essentially be part-DJ, part-game show host every night?
What is “the ideal job for Jessa”?
I love what I do. It’s a great gig. But for a while, I was feeling like what I did didn’t really matter in the long run. People come into the bar, play music bingo, and leave, going on to live their own lives. I imagine there are probably nurses and firefighters in the audience, and what I do must seem so inconsequential compared to what they deal with every day. And I think those thoughts were starting to wear on me, because I got complaints from one of the bars I work at that I wasn’t “engaging enough.” At first I was angry, because what do you mean I’m not good enough?! But then I realized maybe I’m not giving it my all, and maybe that was because I felt like my job wasn’t important.
So I determined that this show would be my best show yet. I dressed just short of a full drag queen getup, picked some banger categories, and drank enough caffeine to kill a horse. I promised myself I’d socialize the whole time, even if I wanted to sit down. I even moved the chair so I wouldn’t be tempted to just sit down. I was going to give this show my all.
Then, something amazing happened. Sometimes, when you put good vibes out into the universe, the stars align and give you exactly what you need in that moment. What I needed was a glimmer.
No, not the She-Ra character.
Everyone knows what triggers are, but I recently saw that someone coined a term for the opposite phenomenon — glimmers. These are the tiny moments that make life worth living. I experience a glimmer every time I laugh with my wife, or hug my girlfriend, or hear my parents say they’re proud of me. They’re what being alive is all about. They’re little moments of pure joy, which was exactly what I needed.
No, not her either.
I walked into the bar to an array of balloons. It was an older couple’s 55th anniversary, and I was going to be hosting music bingo smack dab in the middle of it. Thankfully, the couple was cool about me coming to blast disco at them and even joined in the game, along with many of the other folks in attendance. The older woman who was celebrating her anniversary came up to me and told me that her and her husband’s song was “You’re Still the One” by Shania Twain. And anyone who knows me knows I never miss an opportunity to play Shania Twain.
Tangentially related fact: I was so obsessed with her as a small child, I’d draw pictures of her and not my mom. (Yes, my mom was a little jealous.)
When intermission came, the bar dimmed the lights, leaving only the hanging Christmas lights to illuminate the room. I cued up the song and introduced the couple to the entire bar. Then, everyone gathered around the couple with their phone flashlights. Seeing all of their friends and family surround them in a sea of twinkling lights actually made me tear up a little. The family would remember this moment for the rest of their lives.
A moment I helped make happen.
It’s easy to dismiss entertainment as an opium of the masses, even more so than religion, as Marx famously said. But I’d argue that entertainment is as important as the STEM fields, just in a completely different way. Sure, a particular song may be insignificant to you, but that song could have been the one thing that stopped someone from taking their own life. There’s a reason for this album’s existence. I know people who stay alive because they want to see what happens next in their favorite video game franchise. The arts and media provide those small glimmers that keep people going.
So maybe I will go all-in on being an entertainer and creator. Because someone somewhere needs my music. Someone somewhere needs a fun game night at the local bar. Someone somewhere is reading my writings about mental health and my own personal journey and feels less alone because of it. Artists, writers, musicians, video game developers, game show hosts — they’re all heroes in a unique but important way. Entertainment and art communicate ideas, and more than that, hope.
As of writing, we are halfway through December, which means the new year is lurking. As everyone prepares to sing “Auld Lang Syne” and kiss a stranger, now is the optimal time to look back at the previous year and reflect on how things went.
And damn, did they go awry this year.
My year in a photograph.
2024 was a trash-fire year for me, rivalling 2015 for the title of Worst Year of Jessa’s Life. 2015, of course, was the year I simultaneously got my heart broken by my crush of four years, graduated and realized I wasn’t going to find a job in my field and would probably never find success, and also dealt with some familial and health issues. But this year was honestly worse in every way. Like, this has literally been the worst one.
To think of how optimistic I was at the start of the year too. I was getting ready to begin the internship I’d been working toward for over a decade. I had just moved to Fort Wayne and was expecting an adventure. And what I got was a soul-crushing internship experience that I had to leave for the sake of my own mental health. I was going to drive my car into the fucking river if I cried one more time at that godforsaken clinic. I couldn’t handle the pressure. I failed.
Tail between our legs, we retreated to Niles, MI, where I could at least be close to my girlfriend. But we had trouble finding paid work in the area, our savings were dwindling, and we couldn’t afford to keep living out of AirBNBs. So my wife decided we should check out Kalamazoo instead, as we’d previously talked about it and decided it was a good central location between our family in Detroit, our new friends in Fort Wayne, and my girlfriend in South Bend.
Moving to Kalamazoo was the best decision we could have made, as the only good things to happen this year happened because of the move. My wife and I got involved in the local karaoke scene and made a lot of friends, which is new for us. We’d been shut-ins for most of our marriage. I decided that since music therapy was off the table, I’d pursue a different dream, one of becoming a producer and audio engineer. So I applied to the local university and actually made it into the competitive multimedia arts technology program. And I got back into doing what I love for a living — teaching music.
I realize I started this blog post very doom-and-gloom, but the more I write, the more I realize this year wasn’t so heck. Sure, we’re still broke and I still wasted so much time and money on a career that will never happen. Then there’s all the political unrest and the fact that the jabronis who won the election want to make my marriage illegal. But if there’s anything I’ve learned this year about myself, it’s that I’m resilient as fuck. When shit hits the fan, I’ll figure something else out. That’s what I do best.
Looking back at 2024, I don’t know how I could have survived without the people I’ve met this year in Fort Wayne and Kalamazoo. I never realized how empty my life was without my own little “tribe” of sorts. We’re social creatures by nature and we need each other. Maybe I’ll never be a music therapist. Maybe I’ll be broke for the rest of my life. But when I’m surrounded by the amazing folks I’ve met this year, well, you can’t buy that feeling. My Little Pony had it right — friendship is magic.
The real music therapy degree was the friends we made along the way.
I don’t know what awaits me in 2025, but I’m confident I can face anything now. This year absolutely took the wind out of my sails, but I’m going to keep persisting. I’m ready.
This post isn’t just an excuse to share a picture of me looking like an absolute baddie. You see, I made this very weird, very cool realization when I scrolled through recent pics to find this particular one.
That woman in the picture? I invented her.
When I was a kid, I had a lot of original characters. They were kind of my only friends when I didn’t have any to speak of. It’s easy to forget that I was ever uncool, but I very much was for most of my early life. I’ve talked about how I had to eat lunch in the library to avoid being pelted with ranch dressing packets, but that was really the tip of the iceberg. It got a lot worse than that at times. I scarcely remember a day in middle school where I didn’t come home from school crying. So I made up these imaginary people, usually rock stars, who’d be my friends, and on occasion, I’d make one whom I wanted to be.
That was Anne…I can’t remember her last name. It was Greek. She was Greek, as I had a brief Greek mythology phase (every teenage girl has one, I swear) and I’m pretty sure I made her to be the modern incarnation of Aphrodite. But I distinctly remember almost everything else about her. She had long dark hair, wore sort of gothy clothes, including fishnet stockings and gloves, and impossibly high black boots. She was the lead singer and guitarist of a rock band called Valentÿne (the umlaut is v important), and she had a teenaged little sister named Sophie of whom she’d become caregiver. She was an amalgamation of women I looked up to at the time — the Wilson sisters of Heart, other rocker chicks I admired, my own older sister, even. She was very much a wish-fulfillment OC, as I wanted nothing more to be a bad bitch with a soft side who wore cool-ass clothes and had confidence.
And I think I’m finally there. I’m not a rock star by any means, but I have people who follow my music career and love what I do, and that’s enough. I’ve got the looks now — dyeing my hair dark for my 30s was a good move. And in a way, I do feel like I’m the caregiver of a smaller, more innocent me. Sophie was always sort of my “inner child” in a way. I’ve become this character I invented as a little girl, and it’s so cool to see realized.
I keep drawing the Queen of Wands when I ask my tarot decks questions about myself, and I think that’s telling. I’m not superstitious, but I’m a little “-stitious,” so to speak, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence I keep getting this card.
She even has a cat!
The Queen of Wands represents a fiery, sexy, confident, vivacious woman who knows what she wants and knows how to get it. She is everything I created Anne to be, and I feel like I’m finally seeing those things in myself too.
It took me long enough, but I’m happy with who I am today. In fact, I think that might be a small reason why I’ve had trouble coming up with characters and stories as of late — I’m actually content with who I am and who’s in my life. That’s never happened to me before. It makes me want to hide inside my imagination less. Which is honestly not a good thing for a creative, so I should probably address that sooner rather than later. But in the meantime, I’ll enjoy this contentment.
It’s hard to believe I manifested this version of myself as a lonely 13-year-old girl with a sketchpad and big dreams, but stranger things have happened, ya know? I remember a time when I hated being me, so I feel like I’ve earned this feeling. I hope I continue to evolve into even greater versions of myself as I continue through life, and I’m excited to share that journey with you here.
As you could probably infer by the fact that I am a queer woman, I am not thrilled with the results. I feel betrayed by everyone who voted for the Orange Menace, and even more betrayed by the leftists who “protest voted” against Kamala for her stance on Israel. As if Trump isn’t going to level Palestine the first chance he gets. Now, we’re stuck with the consequences. The Supreme Court will be stacked with conservative judges for decades to come, and if Roe v. Wade being overturned is any indication, they’re coming for gay marriage next. It was cool having a wife while it lasted, I guess. Not to mention the fact that I’m probably only going to be able to conceive with my girlfriend, who is trans and saved some of her baby-making material, via IVF. If these clowns come for reproductive rights, I’ll probably never get to be a mom. Which is fucking heartbreaking and I might never get over it.
Those are not the things that scare me most about this election cycle. I think there’s something far more sinister going on.
We have an empathy problem.
I wrote a while back about how humanity is dead, and empathy is close behind. I’ve lost so much faith in humanity beings these past few days. People really don’t care about others. I see so much pain and heartache amongst those who will be most affected by the new regime, and these fucking insensitive maggots are gloating in their faces over it. It’s sick. Literally, I posted about my frustration with the results and the overwhelming response I received on social media was “suck it up, homo.”
And charming replies like this one from the aptly named johnpoophead.
I don’t think we’ll ever be okay again. I’ve lost so much hope. And people left and right are trying to gaslight me into thinking things will be fine, that Trump is the “most pro-LGBTQ president ever” and none of the terrible things I fear happening will come to fruition. I hope they’re right, for my sake. I’d rather hear “I told you so” than “get in the gas chambers.”
The results of this election have proven to society that bullying pays, that people who do things like, well, everything listed here, are acceptable leaders. And if Trump were to drop dead of natural causes tomorrow, none of this would disappear. The hate and ignorance are too strong now. I’ve even heard reports from folks in other countries saying their politics are turning far-right as well. Even if I could flee the country, where could I go? Nowhere is safe anymore.
My heart hurts. I didn’t want to believe people could be this terrible, but here we are. I’ll never trust anyone again, not when there’s a chance they could have voted against my right to have a family of my own. I want to believe humanity is good and that most folks are decent, but then…
I was on That God-Forsaken Platform That Shall Not Be Named when I saw someone share this status:
Everyone is cringy at 14, but I was a special kind of cringe. You see, at age 14, I was a very different Jessa (or shall I say, Jessie, as I was going by back then). I was in a sort of state of transition, as most people are at that age. For me personally, that transition was between shy, awkward me and cool, confident me.
I remember the catalyst for that transition being my seventh grade obsession with this cool guy named Kyle Kelley, who I was definitely going to marry someday. Suddenly, I wasn’t content to stay in the corner doodling pictures of Richie Sambora and imagining what Pokémon I wanted to add to my team when I got home. I desperately wanted to be one of the popular girls, like Kyle Kelley’s cheerleader girlfriend.
But that would involve me — gasp — talking to other kids!
Nightmare fuel.
I’ve touched on my autism before. I will admit I’m not officially diagnosed yet — it’s damn near impossible to get a proper diagnosis as an adult AFAB person. Because of the sheer amount of gatekeeping when it comes to diagnosis, most autistic folks accept self-diagnosis as valid. And believe me, the signs were all there. I was sensitive to loud sounds, hiding whenever I heard the neighbor girl’s loud bass from her car or the sound of the vacuum cleaner. I’d hyperfocus on things like Bon Jovi and parakeets, learning everything I possibly could about them and talking incessantly about them to anyone who’d humor me. I’d stim by making bird sounds and running around randomly. I would finish my homework quickly so I could spin around in the back of the classroom (okay, that one might be on you, ADHD). And I was garbage at socializing. Talk to people? You might as well have asked me to build a rocket to the moon, because that was not happening.
Then, of course, I met Kyle Kelley and suddenly, I had this burning passion to become “cool,” whatever that even meant. I studied meticulously the mannerisms and interests and the clothing of the girls I thought were cooler than me. It was almost like a science project, observing the “cool girls” in their natural habitats and trying to emulate them. Looking back, it was just baby-me learning how to mask, and I was absolutely terrible at it at first.
Somebody stop me, indeed.
Which led to me being labeled something of a bimbo, despite me being one of the smartest kids in my class.
I didn’t know how to speak to people properly, and I’d often clam up when confronted with an actual conversation. And so I’d say the first dumb thing that came to my head in my desperate attempt to say anything. I honestly didn’t know how to interact with other folks my age. I figured it was better to be considered dumb than be an outcast, and the kids in my grade thought I was funny and silly because of it. So I went along with the “dumb blonde” label, because at least it wasn’t “weird kid.” It was such a pervasive label, I even got typecast in the school play as the stereotypical bimbo. Like, this character was soap-eating levels of dumb. At least I didn’t have to actually eat soap for the bit (it was white chocolate).
And thankfully their chocolate tastes much better than their soap.
At some point between high school and university, socializing became more natural to me and I was able to shed the “dumb blonde” label. I certainly shed the “blonde” label when I dyed my hair dark (bleaching was starting to take a toll on my hair, and I wanted to emulate my hero, Ann Wilson). But I still have some empathy for the little girl who thought popularity was more important than being viewed as smart or deep. It wasn’t her fault people didn’t take the time to get to know her as anything else.
When I was a kid, I kept magazines by the family dinner table. I couldn’t eat unless I was reading something — anything! Usually I’d read about video games I was into, but sometimes I’d read about music. One of the features I always enjoyed in the music magazines was a featured artist’s list of their favorite albums of all time. Maybe it’s because I enjoy lists, I don’t know. Is that an autism thing? It might be an autism thing.
Anyways, I liked to imagine I was a famous musician being interviewed by one of those magazines, and I liked to consider what my answers would be. Now that I’m much older and have a platform of my own, I can just, you know, make my own list. I mean, what’s stopping me? So here’s my official top ten albums of all time. It’s not going to look like a lot of music critics’ top ten albums, as my taste in music is notoriously bad. I mean, Bon Jovi of all bands was my obsession for much of my life. But taste is subjective, am I right? And for better or worse, these are the albums that shaped me as a musician.
1. Bon Jovi – Slippery When Wet
I already mentioned Bon Jovi, so why don’t we start with there?
I remember the first time I heard this album. It was shortly after I discovered Bon Jovi due to the everywhere-ness of “It’s My Life” in 2000. I was very little at the time, but I loved that song. My much-older sister was a teenager in the ‘80s, so she remembered Bon Jovi’s initial run, and she still had her favorite cassette tape from back then. Starting up the tape and hearing synth intro of “Let It Rock” for the first time was nothing short of euphoric. I’d never heard anything like it. And then the bombastic vocals and heavy guitar came in, and I was absolutely in love.
Slippery When Wet also contained “Livin’ on a Prayer,” which was an immediate favorite of mine. I wasn’t sure what the hell a talk box was, but I knew I liked it. And how singable the chorus was! It would become my blueprint for creating earworms as a songwriter. There’s magic in that “woah-oh,” I’m telling you.
2. Def Leppard – Hysteria
After my mom confirmed her daughter’s bizarre interest in hair metal by giving her a Bon Jovi tape, she passed down even more of her and my sister’s music. Among the albums I received was Hysteria by Def Leppard. I was never as obsessed with Def Leppard as I was with Bon Jovi (and no one was as obsessed with Bon Jovi as me), but they still ranked high on my list of bands for that era. I loved the melodic nature of their music. You’d have this big, in-your-face chorus followed by some of the most captivating melodies. “Animal” is a great example of that.
My favorite from this album is “Run Riot,” which has the singability that I enjoy in a song. And the harmonies are glorious, owing in part to the amazing production of Robert John “Mutt” Lange, one of my favorite producers of all time. He knew just how to layer vocals and really create a lush soundscape with them. And speaking of Mr. Lange, he had a pretty big hand in the third album on my list as well.
3. Shania Twain – Come On Over
Before there was Bon Jovi, there was Shania.
Shania Twain was my idol. I loved her so much as a toddler. My own mother would get jealous because I’d draw pictures of Shania and not her (sorry Mom). I wanted a horse because I saw a picture of Shania with a horse. And of course, I listened to this album on repeat. I’m shocked I didn’t wear out the tape!
It would be easier to name the songs that weren’t bops on this album, because nearly all of them slap. (Wasn’t a huge fan of the title track, but everything else is a gem.) My burgeoning sense of humor really appreciated “That Don’t And Impress Me Much,” and I’d often quote it. “So what, you think you’re Elvis or something?” “Black Eyes, Blue Tears” was another favorite, albeit a pretty dark song for a three-year-old to truly grasp (it’s about domestic abuse). I loved the use of the talk box (again!) on it. And of course, Mutt’s penchant for strong harmonies is all over this album — he was the producer (and Shania’s husband), after all.
4. Taylor Swift – evermore
I’m skipping ahead quite a bit chronologically, but Taylor felt natural to bring up next. After all, Shania walked so Taylor could run. evermore came during the pandemic, when everyone was in a weird place already. Its sister album, folklore, was released less than five months prior, but aside from “this is me trying” (my neurodivergent millennial burnout anthem), none of the songs on that release resonated with me as much as the songs on evermore. Something about evermore just hit me hard.
Nothing comes close to the heartbreak of “tolerate it” or “happiness,” and the sweet tribute to Swift’s late grandmother, “marjorie,” is sure to leave you weeping, especially when the long-deceased woman’s ethereal voice echoes throughout the end of the song. One of my favorite bands, HAIM, features on “no body, no crime,” the catchiest murder ballad since The Chicks’ infamous “Goodbye Earl.” I’m also rather fond of “ivy,” with lyrics telling the story of a married woman’s tryst with another person who I am convinced is another woman. (She never said the song was autobiographical. I’m not a Gaylor, I swear.)
5. Jimmy Eat World – Futures
Confession: prior to about 2009, I didn’t listen to modern music. Anything made before 2000 didn’t really appeal to me, which meant I missed out on all the good emo bands. But a good friend’s then-husband was cleaning out his house and had a stack of CDs to give me, and Futures was among them. I remember the first time I listened to it en route to Chicago for a marching band field trip. I was absolutely blown away. The music, the lyrics, the entire vibe of the album — it completely flipped my perspective on 21st century music. Suddenly, I had a thirst for discovering other alternative and emo bands, which lead me to artists like Brand New, Weezer, and the neon pop-punk bands of the late 2000s.
The album itself is almost a concept album of sorts, dealing with addiction and longing. I couldn’t yet relate to the addiction part, although that would come later on in my personal story. But the longing was something I related to as an angsty teenager. I could listen to songs like “Kill” and “The World You Love” and cry about the fact that Dylan Martin from my church’s youth group would never love me back. I still love this album though, and Dylan and I are good friends now, so it all worked out in the end.
6. Weezer – Pinkerton
In making this list, I nearly forgot about Pinkerton. I’m sure Rivers Cuomo would rather me forget about it, as he was famously embarrassed of it. But it was a crucial part of my lovesick, sexually frustrated teen years. Looking back, the album is essentially Incel: The Musical, but I related to the lyrics quite a bit at the time, as someone who often found myself falling for guys who were less than interested in me. The songwriting on this album made me feel less alone.
“Why Bother” could have been the theme song to my failed teenage crushes. “Why bother, it’s gonna hurt me; it’s gonna kill when you desert me.” And the simple acoustic track “Butterfly” is possibly one of the most beautiful songs ever written. It evokes the image of catching a butterfly only to watch it wither in captivity. It’s a poignant metaphor for holding onto a love that is ultimately bad for the other person. Sometimes it’s better to let go, which was a painful lesson for me to learn. Rivers was there too, and that’s why I love Pinkerton. It’s so real and raw in the way it handles interpersonal relationships.
7. Heart – Bad Animals
This was another cassette tape given to me by my mom, who I credit for my taste in music. I remembered hearing Carrie Underwood cover “Alone” as part of an American Idol performance, and my dear mother was like “You’ve got to hear the original.” She pulled out this tape and my mind was instantaneously blown. I’d never heard a voice like Ann Wilson’s in my life. The sheer power behind her vocals gave me shivers. And to learn that the rhythm guitarist of the band was also a woman — that changed everything for me. It was the first time I’d seen another female guitarist. Suddenly, I had someone to look up to in music who looked like me! Representation frickin’ matters.
“Alone” is obviously the standout track from this album, the power ballad that made me fall in love with power ballads. I recorded the music video onto a tape, which my autistic ass watched every single morning before school. I wanted to be like the Ann and Nancy Wilson. They were so beautiful and talented and effortlessly cool, unlike me at the time. I’m not as famous as the Wilson sisters, and I probably never will be, but I’d like to think I made that little girl proud. I’m certain the sheer amount of comparisons I get to Ann Wilson whenever I sing Heart at karaoke would make younger me beyond happy, and that’s what matters.
8. John Frusciante – Shadows Collide With People
I’ll admit I was a little torn between including this album versus one of the Red Hot Chili Peppers albums that has influenced me. I discovered John Frusciante through his work with RHCP — I still remember hearing “Dosed” from their album By The Way for the first time and being mesmerized by the beautiful guitar work. It made me want to further explore Frusciante’s work, which lead me to this particular solo album, which I found in a record store or a Goodwill or somewhere. I don’t remember exactly how I happened upon it, but it was quite serendipitous that I did. It ended up becoming my favorite album of all time, carrying me through one of the hardest years of my life.
“Carvel” is an absolute gem of an opener and the reason I pestered my old band to buy me a Carvel cake while we were on tour. The “Carvel cake” in the song is meant to represent drugs, and as someone who very nearly averted an addiction to alcohol, I found myself relating to a lot of the lyrics. The instrumental tracks on the album are eerie and unsettling in the best way, and the ending track, “The Slaughter,” is one of my favorite songs of all time, closing the album on an optimistic note. “I know my pain’s a life away,” Frusciante croons, and I feel it. The worst is over.
9. Chappell Roan – The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess
This is easily the most recent album on this list, as Chappell Roan’s meteoric rise to fame was only within the past few months. But this album gives me so much hope for the future of pop music. I was in a musical rut for a long time, and I was starting to become worried that, like many thirtysomethings, my taste in music had solidified. I wasn’t sure if it was my getting older or new music getting more boring that made me give up on discovering new artists. After all, I remember going to karaoke at a bar full of Gen Z college students, and their song choices were decidedly overwhelmingly subdued. The younger generation grew up on the likes of Lorde and Billie Eilish, who, while very talented, mostly make bummers, not bangers. What we needed was someone to inject pop music with a bit of fun. What we needed was a femininomenon.
I have a hard time picking one or two favorites from this album chiefly because they’re all incredible. “Casual” is ethereal and heartbreaking, culminating in Chappell screaming at her would-be lover “You can go to hell!” in the final line. The sheer passion in that delivery gave me goosebumps the first time I heard it. And the horny lesbian anthem “Red Wine Supernova” is an obvious standout, with candid lyrics and witty references to “wands” and “rabbits” (if you know, you know). It’s such a bop, even Melissa Etheridge referenced it at one of her recent shows. Melissa walked so Chappell could run.
10. Jessa Joyce – The Oceanography EP
And finally…me! It’s probably an unusual choice to put your own album on a list of albums that changed your life, but I can’t think of an album that changed my life more. Sure, it didn’t take off or become as successful as I would have liked, but it proved to me that I could do it. I could record an album! My 2013 spring break was spent locked in my office at the newspaper I worked for at the time, utilizing the Mac desktops there for the GarageBand feature. I had a shitty Blue Snowball mic and a whole lot of caffeine and nicotine in my system (as I hadn’t yet been diagnosed with ADHD and that was my form of self-medication). It was released to Bandcamp with little fanfare, but I felt accomplished. Ten years later, using the knowledge I’d built up about music production and improved equipment (and Adderall), I re-recorded the entire project and released it to Spotify and, well, everywhere else.
“Oceanography” was a song about my longing for a particular guitar-playing guy to like me. It’s about that feeling of wanting to know everything about someone because you’re just that fascinated by them. The folksy “Smiles & Anchors” was dedicated to another guitarist, the title of the song taking its name from his band. The angsty alt-rock “Off the Deep End” was about a completely different guitarist and how I shouldn’t like him, and “Song of the Sea” was about a breakup with a fourth guitarist whom I dated in college. The album could have been called Songs About Guys Who Play Guitar Better Than Me. But they’re all part of my story, and I still love the songs to death, even if those guys aren’t in my life anymore. That’s the beauty of music I think. It’s a snapshot of a time in your life, and Oceanography represents so much of my history. That’s why it’s on this list. I am who I am today because of my lived experiences, and songwriting is my humble way of documenting those experiences. It’s my way of screaming into the void — I was here. Isn’t that what music is all about?
Here’s the short answer: so I don’t lose my freakin’ mind.
The long answer is a bit more complicated.
I started this blog back in 2018 (I think). At the time, I was married to someone I wasn’t truly in love with and stuck in a conservative church that increasingly came to represent everything I didn’t want to stand for. I was still fresh out of college with a journalism degree I knew I was never going to use, but I still had the itch to write something. Anything. So my blog, which at the time was titled “I’m sorry I mean it,” simply became me screaming my displeasure with my current life into the void. “I’m sorry I mean it” was a double meaning — “I’m sorry and I mean it,” and “I’m sorry, but I mean what I’m saying.”
Writing has always been a catharsis for me, though, dating back to elementary school. When I was teased mercilessly and ostracized by nearly everyone, I made up characters to serve as “friends” for me. I didn’t have imaginary friends in the traditional sense of the word — I knew these characters were make-believe — but they were real enough to me to fill a void. My long school days were spent daydreaming about these fictional characters, and eventually, their stories spilled onto paper. I’d hurry up and finish my work for the day, then spend the rest of my time fleshing out these characters in stories I dreamed up, usually inspired by whatever I was into at the time. I had a whole series based around three pets trying to get home and the grand adventures they would go on.
My writing is nothing if not derivative, but it’s cool.
That’s part of why I find it harder to write these days. For the first time, I’m genuinely pretty happy. I don’t have to rely on my inner world to satiate my desire for human interaction. I have two amazing partners, a wildly supportive family, and more friends than I know what to do with. But I still love writing to clear my mind on the bad days. It’s how I handle negative emotions, as evidenced by the everything on this blog. If I couldn’t write about my music therapy journey on here, for example, I probably would have lost my mind. The entire experience was so traumatic, I needed to vent about it somehow. Just the act of hitting “publish” on a blog post gives me a sense of relief. As painful as it is to put these emotions down into words, once it’s over, it’s no longer stuck inside me. In a way, it’s emotional bloodletting.
There are other reasons I write too. I realize I have a unique lived experience as a queer polyamorous Christian woman, and I have a platform where I can tell my side of the story. In a world that’s become increasingly hostile to folks breaking the norm, I feel like my words give a voice to a lot of people who aren’t represented in media. I know this from private messages I’ve received. My blog makes people feel seen, and I love it for that reason. My mom always encouraged me to write about socio-political issues — the pen is mightier than the sword, as she would say.
I know I’ve made this joke before, but it bears repeating. It’s what Mom would’ve wanted.
Writing, to me, is my biggest catharsis aside from music, and the two often go hand-in-hand. I’ve written some of my best lyrics as a result of emotional turmoil. “Ladies Don’t Start Fights (But They Can Finish Them)” was written about a feud with a former best friend who betrayed my trust. “Queen” was written during a time when my bipolar swung into a deep depression as a way to lift my own spirits. My newest song, “Fake Nice,” is my way of coping with criticism from my partner’s mother, someone whose opinion of me I valued. If I couldn’t write about the things that bother me, I don’t think I would have made it this far in life.
If you’ve been following my blog for any amount of time, I want to personally thank you for being with me through the highs and lows. It hasn’t been an easy few years, and this blog has seen me through some of my worst days. I appreciate the time you’ve taken to read my words and take them to heart. I do this not just for me, but for you, too! This is my way of screaming to the world, “Hey! You’re not alone!” I just want to be a light on someone else’s darkest times. I want people to read this blog and know that they’re in good company, that things will eventually turn out okay with time.
Fun fact: I was a journalism major. I have the degree, actually! Did I ever do anything with it? Not particularly, save for a few human interest pieces for local papers. It was a largely useless degree, a $60000 piece of paper. But I know way more than anyone needs to about the news and how it works. And sometimes, just for funsies, I put my journalist hat back on and study the field again. You know, for the lulz.
Which led me to a book on political journalism by notable reporter and former Rolling Stone editor Matt Taibbi called Hate, Inc.
It goes in depth about the way modern journalism has devolved back into the party press era in recent years, with news outlets turning into cheerleading platforms for their preferred political party. And no small part of this “cheerleading” involves turning Americans against each other, right vs. left, conservative vs. liberal/leftist, red vs. blue. We don’t have a common enemy anymore — the enemy is our Trump-supporting neighbor or the left-leaning lesbians down the street, depending on which news site you’ve sold your soul to.
There is a reason for this, and it has nothing to do with politics.
It’s all sweet, sweet cash.
You see, according to Taibbi, news outlets sell a product. Why else would Fox and MSNBC run commercials? We’re being sold at the expense of peace of mind, constantly being told that the “other side” is out to get us. Outrage is addictive, and it’s good for business. If the news can find a boogieman for us to hate, we’ll be invested, more so than if the news ran stories on all the good stuff happening in the world. Hate is simply more profitable.
Taibbi didn’t go very far into social media, but that’s a factor in this too. Look at statuses like this:
…what?
No sane person would write this incoherent dribble. But it presses the right buttons. People who are scared of immigration are going to read this and type “amen” or “nailed it,” and people who support awful things (like other people coming to the US for a better life) will rage-share it. I know, I’m guilty of this too. It doesn’t matter what side of the aisle you’re on. We are all guilty. And the person who articulated this nonsense will go on to get views and engagement, which, in the social media world, is king. Who cares if any of it actually makes sense?
We need to be more vigilant about what we share and who we share from, because we’re becoming addicted to hate. You experience a little adrenaline rush every time someone says something that pisses you off, and just like watching a scary movie, you get that thrill. Then, you start to feel self-righteous. “I’m better than these people, because these people believe this.” This line of thinking gives you the worst kind of power trip.
Friends, remember that your fellow Americans are just people. Yes, even the ones you disagree with. If we’re going to have a peaceful transition of power this election season, we’re going to need to relearn that as a society. Trans people are not the enemy. Childless cat ladies are not the enemy. Hell, Trumpers aren’t the enemy. The enemy is our hatred, and if we let it fester, we’re in for a terrible time. Just shut off the news and Facebook. You’ll be a better person for it.
I have a confession: I’m fascinated by the worst people. It’s probably detrimental to my mental health, but I often find myself looking in the comments section of absolute cesspools on the internet for hours on end.
In my more naive years, I’d often debate people like this. I’d craft some well-written argument about how yes, trans folks are valid, gay folks should have a right to be with who they please, and black folks should, ya know, exist. This is usually followed by guys with profile pictures that look like a frostbitten toe laugh reacting the post to hell. I’ve since stopped because it’s no use arguing with people who look like this:
Apologies to this man for using him as an example but like, do better bro.
I consider it a matter of knowing my enemy. I want to know what these asshats’ talking points are so I can watch for signs of that shit in everyday conversation. The second someone brings up TERF rhetoric or starts talking about how we need a “straight white pride” month, I know to run in the opposite direction as fast as humanly possible. But also, it’s just kind of fascinating to me. Like, what leads a person to that level of hate? What makes one devolve into posting bullshit like this?
Ahh yes, the worst thing a woman can be, the mother to a biracial child.
It costs zero dollars to not suck. Imagine if people just minded their own business and didn’t brigade random people’s posts because they shared a picture of a queer person having fun? The other day, I had to put one of my own posts on private because it kept getting shared to hate groups. Like, why though? What are people getting out of this? I wasn’t even that mad — haters make me famous and all that — but the notifications were annoying as hell, and I was tired of seeing Greg’s thumb-looking ass popping up on my feed every few minutes.
I guess to me, it’s a reminder of what I fight for everyday. I use my platform on here to humanize the queer experience. I realize a lot of these folks have probably never met someone who isn’t exactly like them. I was similar when I first went off to university. I repeated the whole “Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve” BS because my high school friends would say it — God knows I’d never admit to being bisexual in front of them. But a funny thing happened when I moved to my college town. I met other queer folks and even came to terms with my own queerness, and I changed. But these people have never left their hometowns. They’re in a white, cishet circle-jerk forever, and it’s actually pretty sad. There’s a lot of beauty in human diversity and the way we connect with one another. We’re just people, and we want to live and love too.
Imagine seeing something this precious and being like “wow, I hope they all die.”
I should probably cut back on my “patrolling” these ugly spaces though. Even reporting doesn’t do any good — the comments never get taken down (thanks, Zucc!). Maybe I should look more toward the beautiful things in life and focus my energies there instead. Even the Bible says so:
Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.
This past weekend, my beautiful partner and I attended a “sleepover” hosted by a South Bend-based company that puts on little dances and other fun events. No one actually slept over, but it was structured to give the feeling of a real teenage sleepover, only for adult women. The company rented out a huge fancy-ass Airbnb for the shindig, and we all piled into the enormous living room for typical slumber party activities. It was silly. It was fun. But most of all, it was strangely healing.
I didn’t grow up with a lot of friends. I had one friend, Shanna, who didn’t go to school with me. Otherwise, I was completely on my own. I remember watching the other girls do those handclap things that little girls do with each other on the bus and wishing I had someone to do them with. I’d replicate the motions with the seat back in front of me and pretend it was another girl. I never got to do the “steal mom’s makeup and do each other’s faces” thing. I remember eating lunch in the library because sitting next to ugly awkward Jessica Salisbury was a social death sentence (and also to avoid being pelted with ranch dressing packets). Needless to say, I didn’t have a lot of female friends to live out youthful rites of passage with.
Like starting a cult.
Things got a little better with my friend Chelsea in middle school, but even then, I was still largely the pariah. I didn’t get invited to things. I was last to be picked for, well, anything. In high school, I went to a few sleepovers, only to get my underwear frozen in a block of water. I was the butt monkey of my “friend” group, usually only brought around to make fun of. My friendships with other girls tended to be toxic and life-sucking.
So being surrounded by positive feminine energy at this silly little slumber party event was, somehow, a way for me to process my unresolved bitter feelings about girlhood. I wasn’t the only one — my partner, being trans, was socialized as a boy, so she never got to experience the magic of sleepovers with other girls either. Toward the end of the night, we held each other and cried happy tears, both having reconciled with parts of our childhoods and teenhoods we missed out on.
Including our friends doodling on our faces while we slept.
There’s something magical about coming together with a group of other like-minded girls and living your best lives together. We humans are meant to be in relationship with one another — no man (or woman) is an island. Connecting with each other is such a healing experience, especially after you’ve experienced the trauma that comes with bullying and ostracism. I wish I could tell little-me that she’d find her people eventually, and that the pain doesn’t last forever.
Me and my partner as kids. I’d like to think we would have been friends ❤️
