I’m The Crazy Grandma Lady

So I’m really social. And by social, I mean I run errands on Friday nights because I run into the least amount of people that way.

This past Friday, I went to Bed Bath and Beyond to get a present for a friend. It was really fun. I had a gift card. I got some makeup.

Yes, there is a point to this.

When I was in high school, all the cool kids would hang out in the parking lot of the local Kroger (or “Krogers,” as many Southerners would say). I was never invited to hang out there. I’ve decided it’s because I was so beautiful that no one wanted me around to take their boyfriends. (Let’s just ignore the fact that I had a unibrow….)

Well, in fancy-pants Franklin, Tennessee, it is apparently no different. At exactly 9pm, I walk out to my car from the store and was greeted by THIS.

Ok, so the picture doesn’t do it much justice, but it shows a glimmer into the amount of lil’ whippersnappers that were surrounding my car.

If I were to guess, I’d say around 10 million high schoolers were there.

OKAY, I’m exaggerating. More like 200. But seriously. 200 teenagers is approximately 199 too many teenagers.

They were EVERYWHERE. And they were doing lots of things that The United States and Tennessee laws have deemed slightly illegal in nature, like drinking and smoking and… cuddling.

Then all of a sudden, I turned into Crazy Grandma. I picked up my proverbial walking stick and started yelling.

“Where are you parents?! When I was your age, blah blah blah… YOUNG LADY, YOUR SKIRT IS TOO SHORT!”

Gosh, I am so old.

My Little Contribution

Source: youmakemewannatakeabackroad.tumblr.com via Jessie on Pinterest

“You have no clue who you are,” my therapist told me.

“Yes I do!” I fired back.

“No, you don’t,” she said again.

“Well who am I, then?” I asked.

“I can’t answer that for you. You have to go figure it out for yourself.”

Say WHAT?!

I HATE not knowing the answer to things.

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This week is National Eating Disorders Awareness Week. In honor of it, I’ve written a piece of my story.

4 years ago, I chose to begin treatment for an eating disorder that I had lived with for 9-ish years before that. The little exchange written above was a moment that happened during my treatment, and it became a source of contention, frustration, and an over-arching theme for the rest of my recovery.

I was 23 when I started seeing a therapist and nutritionist again. I say ‘again’ because I had been once before as a teenager, but we’ll get to that part later. I mainly went as a 23-year-old because I started developing panic attacks, I was feeling depressed, and I was feeling very panicky about my weight. I thought it was because of work problems (ha).

I didn’t really think I had an eating disorder. I knew I had had one as a teen, but I thought that was a phase of my life that was over. I was underweight back then, and it was easy to see that I had a stereotypical eating disorder. By my 20s, though, I was physically “healthy-looking.” In other words, people didn’t look at me and think, “ooo, she needs a hamburger.” And because of that, I thought I didn’t have an eating disorder.

Sure, I panicked every time I put my clothes on in the morning. Sure, I puked a little. Sure, I felt worthless. Sure, I ate weird foods and in weird ways so I could feel in control of my life. Sure, I exercised and cried at the same time. Sure, I looked to others to define me because I was so hollow inside. But I didn’t have an eating disorder.

I wasn’t skinny enough to have one of those.

Now, let me back up a little more….

I pretty much came out of the womb criticizing my body. I had a keen awareness when my body didn’t look like other people’s. And I didn’t like that. I am a curvy body type, through and through, even from a young age. Instead of loving the fact that I was a hottie patottie just as I was, I wanted to be a stick.

When I was 14, I had seen my share of fashion magazines and tv shows, and I didn’t look like those ladies. I had muscular thighs. I had beautiful, thick, dark brown hair that I didn’t know how to style. I had bad acne. And kids are mean. And the girls who were celebrated were so, so thin, and I felt like they were telling me that I had to be thin, too.

So, I decided to get skinny. I was going to go on a diet and that was that. Easy peasy.

NOT.

It was horrible. I kept “failing” at it. I remember it was Christmas, and I wanted a piece of chocolate so badly. But I wanted to lose weight. And people on diets don’t eat a piece of chocolate.

So I ate 10 and cried my eyes out.

The more I “failed” at dieting, the more obsessed with it I became. I treated my body like a dirty rug, trying to beat it into submission. I beat and beat and beat on myself. I only thought about food and exercise. I only cared about those two things. I HAD to control them, or I was a failure. And I was a failure a LOT.

I wanted to be approved of so badly. So, so badly. I wanted impress people with a magazine-worthy outward appearance. I wanted to prove how “strong” I was. I wanted to prove my worth to people, because inside I felt completely worthless.

Eventually, I obsessed enough about it, and by my 10th grade year of high school, I was visibly very thin.

…And I was a basket case.

It didn’t make me happier like I thought it would. It made me miserable. I just wanted some dang food, but I wanted to be approved of more. Food became a horrible burden. It took on a life and power over me that governed where I would go, who I would speak to, and how I would feel. I would sneak out of my classrooms for a “bathroom break,” and scrutinize my body in the mirror. I would lift my shirt and grab at my stomach and cry and plan my next meal.

And forget caring about anyone else. I had no space in my brain for anyone but me, myself, and I.

I was starrrrrrrrving. My body rebelled against me. Cranky would be an understatement about my personality at that point in time. Once, I FBI-style interrogated a guy for “stealing my gum,” when I had simply forgotten I had placed it in my purse. I still apologize to him for that one. (Sorry again, Andrew!) My hair was falling out. I was freezing all the time. I grew hairs on my arms called “lanugo.” Look it up. (ew.) I had no period. I developed hypothyroidism and now have to take a little pill the rest of my life.

I was DYING, and I had no concept of that.

After a series of events, including a family beach trip where family members realized my unhealthy habits and moods, my parents began taking me to therapy and a nutritionist. Very expensive therapy. Two hours away (because my dad wanted the best for me. I’ll always thank him for that) in the big city. I was 16, I was hungry, and I was completely lost.

During that time, I regained a lot of my physical health, which made me feel better. But shortly after that, my treatment with them ended. It was just too far and too expensive. My parents began seeking a cheaper option for therapy in my hometown.

Boy, that was fun.

There was no one. No one who specialized in eating disorders, no one who knew anything about my struggles.

We visited one therapist who, when he found out that I had an eating disorder, said to me, “I do not take eating disorder clients due to their low success rate.”

Seriously. He said that.

We eventually found a therapist that was good enough. A strange bird, but good enough.

But then, the problem was me. Since I had started eating more again, I had developed a little bingeing habit. And by little, I mean big-ish. I was so ashamed of it, and so confused as to why I would want to eat lots of food like that, that I just kept it to myself. I’d go into therapy and tell the lady how good I was feeling, all the while I was hiding cereal boxes and bread bags under my bed and eating when no one was watching.

By my senior year of high school, I had given up on therapy, and instead told everyone I was “healed from an eating disorder!”

I was a hot mess. And not the endearing, cute kind. I was the mangy, alley cat kind.

We went off to college, me and my eating disorder. It’s all a bit of a blur. I felt so lost. I felt ashamed and guilty all of the time. I just kind of swayed with the wind and let things happen to me, if that makes sense. I wasn’t very present. I let people come in and out of my life, not caring if they were good people or bad people. I was a grown-up-sized child, with a big, ugly gash that never healed up quite right.

By the time I graduated college, I looked pretty “normal.” I had some friends, a job, and music career ambitions. But I still exercised unhealthily, hated my appearance, and if the smallest amount of stress entered my life, forget it – I was done. Toast. Anxiety out the wah-zoo.

After some music career disappointments and an engagement on the fritz, I got in a really deep funk. I started exercising even more, tried  to control my food intake more, and I could see myself slipping back to what I was in high school. And I knew I didn’t want to relapse again. It’s so funny how I thought I was so “recovered” from this stuff. N00b alert.

Anyways… that was my bottom.

I finally sought out a counselor. On my own. Like an adult.

Which brings us back to 4 years ago.

That is when EVERYTHING changed. And when I say everything, I. Mean. Everything.

Healing from my wounds was torture for me. Not because I couldn’t follow the rules, but because there no longer WERE any rules.

There was no method or step-by-step format to get me better. It was something I had to feel, experience, and just be with. I hated that at first. I was obsessed with rules and black and white and wrong and right. But this was gray. Very, very gray.

I then started seeing a nutritionist. Surely, a DIETICIAN would give me some rules that I can fail at, I thought. Then I’d go in there, and she would just tell me to find joy in food again, and to allow my physical body to tell me what it needs. Those were the “rules.” She commanded me to eat and to like it. 

I started unpacking a lot of my proverbial baggage in counseling. I started crying a lot. I broke up with my fiancé. I would randomly well up with so much emotion, I’d have to punch pillows to calm back down.

Eventually, I started feeling relief. I started embracing this new way of being. I started tasting foods for taste value and seeing what I liked and disliked. My feelings of bingeing completely subsided. I started craving vegetables, fruits, well-made foods, and chocolate! Beautiful, sweet, chocolate. I stopped the madness that is calorie-counting. I started voicing my thoughts more. I started taking ownership of my recovery. And the more I owned my recovery, the more I owned my own life. I got out more, tried new things, figured out my likes, my dislikes, my passions, my beliefs. I saw people in a much different light, too. I became far less black and white, and much more forgiving. I am continuing to become more and more comfortable living in the gray.

When I faced my demons, it was then and only then that I was able to grow. It was then and only then that was able to love on myself.

So what does all this look like today? I am thankfully considered “in recovery” now.

HOOORRRAAAAYYYY!!!!!! Oh, how sweet it is.

I’ll never claim that I’m “recovered,” though. I’ll always have to watch my surroundings, be careful of “triggers,” and practice self-love through prayer, meditation, and a positive environment. And I don’t always do this. I’ll skip it sometimes and get all pissy and weird and have to jump back on the bandwagon again. And it’s awesome that I do that, because I’m only human, and there is no rule book. Gosh, it feels good to say that.

I hope that my messy, imperfect story can speak to you in some way. I hope that it shows that eating disorders affect many different types of people, in many different ways, and that they should be taken seriously. And recovery may have a “low success rate,” but it is extremely doable. Especially when you tap in to your stubbornness that got you into the mess in the first place. 😉

If I could write a one-sentence take-away from this part of my life, it would be:

Feel the pain, love yourself through the pain, ignore society ideals, and never, EVER give up.

Thank you, NEDAwareness Week, for inspiring me to write my story.

“Talking About Music is Like Dancing About Architecture.”

Elvis Costello said that. I have come to the conclusion that this should be in the Constitution. Okay, that’s a little overboard. But still…

I could tell you how much I write, what my songs sound like, brag to you about “all the ideas that float through my head” (I’ve heard this too many times from artists, as if they’re the only ones whose brain works.). I could tell you what my music sounds like ’til you’re blue in the face, and you’re still not going to REALLY know until you hear it.

I can tell you that this album will be swampy, soulful, southern music. But I’m sure most of you don’t even really know what that means. Of course you don’t! You haven’t HEARD it yet. Heck, I don’t completely know what it’s going to sound like yet! I have to RECORD it first. (In April. 2013. Shameless plug. I digress….)

So… If someone asks me again to describe my music, I won’t be upset, and I will understand their wondering, but I think I’m just going to say, “you’ll have to wait and hear it.” Because there is no way I can answer that question to the satisfaction of the questioner. Plus, we all have different interpretations of a song anyways. Am I right? Yes. I am.

So, I’ll write about funny stuff and about pursuing dreams and such on this blog, but you won’t hear me talk much about the music. You’ll have to just wait to HEAR that.

Sweet Fantasy, Baby

I have a place in my little brain that is just for me. It’s filled with so much ridiculousness happiness.

At night, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and dream…

I dream that I’m off in Europe somewhere, it’s cold and cloudy, and I’m wearing an extra large matching sweat suit cashmere loungewear, sipping Earl Grey tea next to a fire, cuddling up next to the love of my life, as he whispers this into my ear…

Bliss.

Then I make my way to the workout room, where my personal trainer leads me in a rigorous yoga practice, and I remain beautiful and desirable at all times. And it’s not hard at all!

I proceed to the master suite where I read an educational, slightly pretentious novel atop my Tempur-Pedic-Cloud-Supreme-Gold-Woven- Diamond-Dusted mattress, whilst high-fiving a million angels.

Winning.

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Then, with the cursed sun ball of morning, I wake up. And reality sets in.

I start the day with a bowl of pure energy. Off-brand Frosted Mini-Wheats…

Then I feed the @$%#@ cat…

I write a really bad song…

Butt-kiss all the music venues I can possibly find…

Try and come up with my own Zumba moves at the apartment for my cheaper-than-a-gym workout…

Babysit some kids…

And end the day with writing an epic blog post that is sure to inspire millions, if not billions of people.

Thank you, thank you, I’ll be here all night folks, try the veal.

Holimusidays!

I hope your holidays were glaaahrious. I hope you were able to rest and laugh and get lots of hugs.

I had the privilege of playing for a good many Christmas parties this year. And then I spent actual Christmas with my in-laws at a lake. It was fun. I ate some turkey. I slept a lot. I even read a book. I forgot to take pictures. Got some pretty sweet gifts. Yep. That’s about it.

Wow, this blog post is really starting with a bang….

Well anyways, right after Christmas, my husband and I took a trip to Ft. Walton Beach, FL to get away and write some songs, thanks to my aunt and uncle’s gorgeous beachside condo. Good lord, it was heaven.

I really wanted to post pictures of the inside of the condo, but every picture I took looked like our suitcase exploded on it.

Aw, heck. We’re all friends here.

Woowee! What a treat we didn’t deserve in a million years. And we wrote new songs that you can hear at my shows!

So we drove back from Florida on New Years’ Eve, just in time to hang out with these n00bs:

We hung out, ate soup, drank some sherry (and by sherry, I mean I tried the sherry and then proceeded to cut it with a large amount of Mountain Dew), and then drove to downtown Nashville to “watch the music note drop.”

In the freezing rain.

And the chick on the left in the last picture wore her pajamas.

I love my friends.

So anyways, we stuffed ourselves onto Broadway like sardines, running into each others’ umbrellas, and feeling the water seep through our clothes. This picture really sums it up nicely.

I kid, I kid. Well, not about the rain part. I kid about the insinuation that it wasn’t fun – okay, so it wasn’t the BEST time I’ve ever had, but if it wasn’t for good company, I believe I would’ve been the cranky so-this-is-what-it-feels-like-to-live-in-an-ice-cube lady. Instead, I was the joyful mute, glaring at the intoxicated many who ran into me with my laser beam eyes. Wow, Jessie, you’re lame.  But I digress… how cute are my little friends?!

Yay, adventures. 🙂

Wardrobe Dysfunction

I looove clothes. And my mom thinks I’m super fashionable. I’m really good at finding the most cutting-edge clothes at Sears. I value buttons and pockets and hemlines and stuff. I’m also fantastic at styling my husband, if I do say so myself.

I decided to take a camera on my last shopping trip so I can teach my plethora of readers how to shop like a professional.

I started my day purchasing these well-tailored jeans.

The extra length at the bottom really makes me look taller, don’t you think?

Then I saw an ad for the movie, “The Hunger Games,” and got inspired.

Effie Trinket is my fashion hero.

Then, I heard The Rolling Stones over the loudspeaker and grabbed me this hot little number.

My advice to you: when finding the perfect fringe skirt, look for the tightest one – it’ll give so much dimension to your look. This one cuts the circulation off of my stomach – a must-have!

Then, it was my hubby’s turn. With Bradley, I really focused on his face and framing it with things that show off his spectacular bone structure.

I added chain mail to complete this ultra-sexy look.

Then, I wanted something vintage and regal, something that would make a statement onstage.

Sexy.

I completed his look with a full, vintage-inspired outfit handcrafted by the designers at “Colonial-Or-Bust-Dot-Com.”

I can’t wait for you to come to my next show, so I can dazzle you with my wardrobe. That’s what makes the music sound good, you know – the clothes.

At least that’s what Lady Gaga told me.

What do you DO All Day?!

This week, I’ve had a few people ask me the following question:

“Now that you’re ‘not working,’ what do you DO all day?!”

I go blank, every time. I get a little annoyed, a little hurt, and then I think, Man, I really need to blog about this. But all I say is,

“Um… you know… I just kinda, write and sing….”

I’ve never been the most quick-witted person. But if I was, here’s what I would say:

“Oh, you know, not too much, except risking my life to pursue my dreams, where it is required of me to not only sing and perform as perfectly as possible, but it also requires me to write not just good – but STELLAR songs, perform said songs as much as possible, learn that “stellar songs” is a very broad term and dang near impossible to meet, book all my own shows, find money to pay for said shows via odd jobs, keep up with every social media outlet that exists, find a producer, network, convince successful people to take a chance on me, beg prospective fans to take a chance on me, and best of all, be judged by all of you. What do YOU do all day?”

You tell ’em, Self!

Ok, that was a little harsh. And I realize I sound like I’m complaining. I’m not. I am letting folks know that I ain’t just sitting around the apartment, luring fans into a web of beautiful melodies via a crystal ball or something. I’m trying so, so hard. I’m scared on a regular basis. I’m overjoyed on a regular basis. I’m discouraged, too. I’m on a roller coaster of adventure, and I am choosing every hard second of it. It’s worth every hard second of it.

Here are some quotes I live by these days. I found them on Pinterest, glorious Pinterest. They’re great reminders for those of us pursuing great goals.

Source: happyserendipity.com via Jessie on Pinterest

Source: venspired.com via Jessie on Pinterest

Source: beautifulcarolinasun.tumblr.com via Jessie on Pinterest

Source: thatonerule.com via Jessie on Pinterest

Source: overcoming-obstacles.tumblr.com via Jessie on Pinterest

Source: tealcheesecake.tumblr.com via Jessie on Pinterest

Source: imgfave.com via Jessie on Pinterest

Source: iwastesomuchtime.com via Jessie on Pinterest

Just kidding on that last one. 😛

Oh But For A Chance…

…to be on THE AMAZING RACE, that is!

My sister and I have sent in an audition video to be on The Amazing Race. To say we love this show would be an understatement!

Dear Lord, please let us be on this show. Amen.

Hear, Hear

 

Bullying in schools is getting a lot of press these days. Thank goodness. But bullying one’s self is just as detrimental.

 

May this be my mantra, always.

Teaching That Guy A Lesson

I did something awful today. I have certainly never done this before. And I don’t regret it for a second.

I like to stay out of drama. I like being an “upstanding citizen” (at least in public, ha). I am quite a people-pleaser at heart. But today, that all went out the window with one single, disgusting comment.

While walking into Macy’s today, a trio of sorely misguided thugs walked past me in the parking lot. One of the fools pipes up and says, “heeey babyyy, you got a nice body.”

Strike 1.

I started walking faster and pretending like I didn’t hear him. Then, he says something so vile, so disgusting, so disrespectful, I refuse to say or type what it was. Right there in front of a crowd of people.

Strike 2 and 3. And 4 and 5 and 6 and infinity.

My blood was boiling. I began walking towards him. “HEY!” I yelled. Then I flipped him off, called him an a-hole and ran inside.

hehe. I’m so proud of myself.