Birds: The Kind You Flip

Warning. This post contains some bad language and four-letter words.

I first stumbled off to college just after effectively pouring a shit-ton of gasoline (is that even an amount? A "shit-ton"? Is it like, a regular ton, or is a shit-ton a different measurement?) on every single relationship I've had from the age of 10 and walking cooly away from the explosion like I was in some action movie with terrible acting and so-so special effects, my hair flowing awesomely behind me as I slipped my shades on like I didn't just didn't give a fuck. 

Because frankly, I didn't. 

My "friends" in high school all simultaneously turned their backs on me our senior year, but I failed to receive the memo that I was kicked out of the club. Stupid me, I tried over and over again to fit in only to get the cold shoulder or to feel like I was left out of the joke. By the time my 18th birthday came around, the fact that my friends hated me became so blatantly obvious that it left me in tears by the end of the night. I decided then that none of them mattered. I didn't need them because I was leaving for Richmond in a few months, where I could start over and make new friends. I left Bedford behind with a middle finger salute, and while I still stay partially connected through Facebook, and lately I've been missing the connections that I've lost, I have to say that I made the right decision. I've only been back about four or five times in the last three years, and I can only see that number dwindling as time goes by to just the few hour visits on Christmas Day. My life is in Richmond now, and I couldn't be happier.

As my English Professor says, "But I digress."

When I left home, I had my heart set on art. I loved art, and I thought this was going to be such a great thing, and I was going to be amazing and blah blah blah. It turns out, I'm not really that good at art. I mean, yeah, I can see why something is visually appealing and I've learned how to analyze art pieces with the best of them, but anything that I've produced has at best been mediocre.

So I decided that I would teach. I enjoyed my education classes, but I faltered trying to decide what subject and age level I wanted to focus on, and eventually I realized I wouldn't have time to complete the degree anyway. In the midst of all of this confusion, I registered for 20th Century American Literature the fall semester of my sophomore year just for the English requirement.

From day one, my professor blew. My. Mind. He was able to hold an entire hour and a half lecture on a single sentence, and the connections he made within the text made me realize there was an entire world of literature that I was missing. 

Was "Melanctha" the worst thing I have ever read? Most definitely. Did I learn a lot from it. Absolutely.

And still, I continued to deny it. I struggled to make myself fit into a mold that I thought I needed to be, and the harder I tried, the more of me that was left behind and I had all of these holes where my whole self used to be until finally, I stopped. I stopped trying. I stopped trying to force myself to be that same girl that I was my senior year when I was trying to be the girl that my friends would like again. Because it didn't work then, and it wasn't working now. So I flipped the bird once again at the end of the spring semester, and walked away.

By the time I got the letter that said I didn't get the financial aid I needed, and I was forced to withdraw from school, I was actually relieved. I was tired of pretending to be someone that I wasn't and everyday was becoming completely exhausting. I needed time to figure out who I was and what that meant for going back to school. So I began working with the most amazing family, being a part of a team to raise a pair of adorable twin boys. The work was different and it challenged me in entirely different ways. It became my saving grace, going to work every day and being happy to be with the boys. It washed away all of the pent up stress and anxiety I had over my future. 

One day, just about a week before Christmas, I had just put the twins down for a nap and while I sat on the couch, I suddenly thought, I should see what I need to do to go back to school. So I sent my dean an email.

Within half an hour, I got a reply. "I have no problem readmitting you," she said. "The deadline to be readmitted for next semester is today. Here is the application. Fill it out and I will have everything processed by the end of the business day."

It was insane. I freaked out, called Brian, emailed my bosses. I looked up possible classes, possible majors. By this point, I didn't know what I wanted to do, but I knew art wasn't it. The English Major was doable, and every single class I needed was available this semester. God was shining a flash-light and for once, the tiny little operator in my head was actually able to interpret the Morse Code. English Major, it beeped out.

So that's what I did. I quit my job, signed up for a bazillion classes, which are all English classes and it means I have a lot of reading and writing to do, but the weird thing is, I'm loving each and every second of it.

Every day in lecture, I'm left with that warm and fuzzy feeling in my chest that makes my face light up like someone just handed me a heart-shaped balloon and a candy bar and told me I was pretty. It's that good. I had my first paper due yesterday, and as I sat in Barnes and Noble (my go-to place for getting things accomplished), I planned, wrote, and revised the best paper I have ever written within two hours.

My semester break was the best thing I have ever done. I was able to take a breather, to think about what I wanted for myself, for my life, and for the first time, I realized it was okay to not have a plan. I have no idea what I want to do when I grow up, and I think that's okay, because it's part of the process. Instead of leaning on my own understanding, I've learned how to trust God to take care of me, and He has.