UNC 20

I got accepted into Chapel Hill about 20 days ago. I read the decision and cried on my living room floor. I was ugly crying and shaking, and my parents were very concerned. As a Catholic family, they thought I was possessed and needed an exorcism. After a good 10 minutes, I finally told them the reason behind my sudden breakdown. I showed them the letter and I cried again. I ugly cried, like Viola Davis in Fences, on my living room floor. Meanwhile, my mom was hugging and kissing me in congratulations and my dad was rereading the letter over and over again. “I can’t believe it. I have a kid going to Chapel Hill,” he said, rereading the later. I kept crying. It was a very  . . . emotional moment.

Today I finally got the packet. It took 20 days, but I finally got it. Part of me wanted to be humble and keep it within my group of friends and family. The other part of me wanted to post that FB/IG pic with their acceptance letter like my former classmates did my senior year. I like having my private life, but I wanted to share this moment. I posted on Facebook and waited for the likes, I mean instant gratification and just more validation that I worked hard and deserve this, but then I started crying again. I had my former teachers congratulating me and giving me kind words of when I was their student. It just struck something in me. Sure there’s me who worked hard for this, but it was also them who helped me. I could read it in their voices and I knew how proud they are of me.

I got to celebrate with my family and cry with them. And now I’m crying over the other half of my support system that have helped me get this far. I’ve loved most of my teachers, but have learned something from each of them. I got to share it with the people I care and it just makes this so much more for me.


nice for what

I don’t know how to write. I don’t know how to have a voice that portrays me. Every time I write on here, I sound like a phony and it discourages me. I write only a side of me I want to share, and that part I’m pretty good at. But this side of me sounds like a phony. I don’t sound like a liar, but always writing in this direction sounds insincere.

There’s this girl I know on Facebook that’s very real. She shares the good of her relationship and raising her kids then she’s open about sharing the bad. She’s unashamed of sharing the good and bad, and maybe oversharing the bad, but I see it as being real.

For a while I ridiculed this idea of oversharing on Facebook. Why would anyone want to share every bad thing on social media? It was dumb. Everyone saw how messy you were and how you could be. However, she explained why she did as she did as letting herself be very open and honest with her life.

Sometimes I think it’s dumb that she overshares her life, but I do think it is a good reminder that life is good and bad. It sounds cliche, but with Instagram pictures of perfect vacations and beautiful outfits and faces and filtered life updates on Facebooks, these social interactions have allowed us to think this is the normal. But it isn’t. Life is messy, grey, and unpredictable. But that girl on Facebook sharing the birth of her next child and how her baby daddy is in jail reminded me how life can be: unfiltered and raw.

This is sounding more like those Facebook posts that your mom shares about another mom raising awareness or having some little epiphany, but can’t blame myself for what I am. I’m raising two little chicks now and it has made me develop these motherly instincts for these dumb birds. But hopefully, I’ll get to my point.

I could blame social media for my disingenuous actions and motivations, but that’s the easy way out. I got caught up in being picture perfect. Everyone does it. They edit and control their image. Beyonce does it and my best friend does with his acne and blemish editing app before he post on Instagram. It’s easy to edit your story. I know I could just step away, but I feel like I really got caught up in being picture perfect. My ego got the best of me.

I didn’t just want to portray I was picture perfect, but just simply be picture perfect. I know what started this obsession and I know that I encouraged this obsession. I made a 4.0 GPA, got a job with good benefits, made good money to indulge, and the best company. For a while I became everything I had always prayed for and was happy. I had finally reached that point of accomplishment and my vision of success. I was really happy, I really was, but it didn’t satisfy obsession. It wasn’t enough that I was successful, but now that others failed. I hated how long I pretended to care and fake support people I didn’t give a shit about as long as I was still the best. I really hate how my success wasn’t what I thought it would be. I hated how strange and dishonest I had become with myself. It just hated seeing pictures of myself smiling and knowing how unhappy I was, but I wanted to prove I was perfect, better than you, more successful.

I wasn’t a liar, but felt like one. This was a part of me I didn’t always know or show, but regardless a part of me. These movements and thoughts of mine were strange. I was unfamiliar in this body. I didn’t know if I could be true and keep my rules again. I had labelled myself as this and tried so hard to prove it, but fell short and got mad at anyone who tried to prove me wrong. During this time, I found myself identifying more with a closeted Republican who exclaimed support for conversion therapy. My life wasn’t matching with my perfection anymore. I felt like this was my broken mirror piece stabbed in my side.

I didn’t find God or anything, but I quit my job. I was depressed and very anxious. It got to a point where it was causing physical pain. So I quit my job. On my last day, I was kind of happy to know that my coworkers enjoyed my presence and companionship. They got me a cookie cake and bid me farewell with another gift. They brought me two baby chicks and I was shocked. Regardless of everything that told me not to take them, I took them home and have cared for them. I wanted to give them up many times, but I think it’s best to give a depressed person something to do. I wake up and give them food and water and talk to them a bit. It keeps me busy.

After I quit, I really just spent time at home, with my mom and caring for my chickens. I wasn’t in school and didn’t have anything else to do. I spent a lot of time with my chickens. I didn’t know a lot about chickens and I had never raised them. They’re funny little birds. I kind of went off the grid like how I always wanted to. I spent more time with my chicks and tried to keep myself busy. I’m taking this time for myself.

Part of me wants to end this on how I healed and grew up from being obsessed and unhappy, then part of me wants to end it about how social media makes you less social and connected so I could give some “thought provoking insight” that makes me more intellect and emotionally developed, but what a phony ending. I would honestly write more about my chickens and my new life as a chicken mom.

But in the end, I still admire that girl on Facebook for keeping it real. From getting a new job to fighting with her baby daddy, she keeps me grounded by reminding me how life is messy and how out of touch I was with this obsession of perfection. I realize everyone has their own path, own little happy, own idea of success. It’s yours, entirely yours, own it. Editing is easy, life is hard.

I could edit this post a hundred different times to make it look easy, some I overcame story, or milk & honey, but this post is the first time I’ve been real.

This is how I feel, what I think, and what I’m up to; my voice.