Alright, so to a lot of people getting into the University of Michigan’s Dearborn campus isn’t that big of a deal….but it really is to me. I’ve been told since middle school that college probably won’t be my thing, a counselor made us take some career test in 7th grade…..7TH GRADE, and it said I should be a vending machine attendant. That’s a pretty shitty thing to be told when you are 13, and I honestly believed them for a while. I was just some punk kid throughout high school and I barely graduated on time, I managed to squeeze out of high school with a 2.0 and a 20 on my ACT. No one thought I would be going to college at all, and if you would have told me then that I would be going to the University of Michigan I would have thought you were joking. UofM is honestly my dream school, it’s where I’ve wanted to go since I was little kid when I went to football games at the big house with my dad. I don’t give a damn that it’s the Dearborn campus, I’m still a wolverine.
Don’t give up on things you want to do, don’t listen to people when they say you can’t do something, prove everyone wrong. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you aren’t cut out for something because you can honestly do anything you want in this world. I’m so excited to get my teaching degree from this school and spread this message to every classroom I have the chance to be in.
So proud of my boyfriend.
Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.