Sing our love for alma mater

Today I've been cleaning up and rearranging and trying to put my life back together again after moving out of East Lansing. And I found my acceptance letter. When I got it, I didn't know that I was about to embark on the four most exciting (and confusing) years of my life so far.

In 2010, when I seriously started considering college, I swore up and down I was going to go to Penn State. And my father and I drove there, and we visited, and we got lost on campus, and I fell in love. But no one in my family fell in love with the out of state tuition that was double and then some what I would be paying if I were to stay a little closer to home.

So I was angry and annoyed, because there went my dream school. The dream school that I never even ended up applying to in the end.

My parents and I toured Grand Valley, and I swore I was going to go there. Why? Because I wasn't going to be one of those kids that either went to UMich or MSU. And let me tell you a little something about GVSU: I fucking hated it. 

I hated the weird modern-ish atmosphere. I hated the buildings. I hated how small it was. I hated the people giving us the tour. I hated the tour. (Sorry, GVSU friends.) I was still so in love with PSU. But I was going to tough it out. I was going to go to a school that I hated, just for the sake of not going to Michigan or Michigan State.

Until my parents literally dragged me to MSU. We got lost. We fell in love. 

Michigan State was the only school I applied to. Michigan State was the only school I got into. Michigan State was the only school I was going to attend.

Freshman year I stayed on campus with some fucking weird suite mates. I became a ballroom dancer. I fell hard for a guy that I don't even speak to anymore. I drank tequila for the first time. I no longer drink tequila. I traveled. I made friends. I came out of the shell I had built myself into in high school. 

Sophomore year I moved off campus. I got a job. I danced for half a year and then I stopped. I saw a therapist. My parents got divorced. I photographed hockey for the first time. I kissed the first boy I would ever kiss. His name was Scotty, and I was singing "Scotty Doesn't Know" and picturing Matt Damon the whole time. I fell for a different boy.

Junior year I stayed off campus in the same apartment. I continued working at the newspaper. A lot. Like 7 days a week. I really didn't have much of a life junior year, but that was okay. I loved the people I worked with. I enjoyed myself.  I covered football and an entire hockey season and baseball and I traveled. I covered a B1G tournament. I worked at the Joe Louis.

Senior year. My last year. I found the relationships I wanted to keep and the relationships I didn't want to keep. I switched jobs and learned editorial design. I met new people. I covered hockey again, for a reprise tour of Munn and a last hurrah at The Joe. I fell for another boy that I almost didn't want to be with. He inspired my thesis. I wrote a senior thesis that I liked (!!!). I read it in front of people. I turned 21. I fucking GRADUATED. In four years!

tl;dr? 

I didn't have a traditional MSU experience. I didn't have a traditional college experience. I'm so far in debt I'm swimming.

BUT. I met the best people and made the best memories. People I want to be with and talk to for the rest of my life. I had a job for three years that allowed me to do so much in so little time.  Everything was so new and exciting, everyone was so different. I've done so much in so little time and been with so many amazing people. And I don't know how to properly express it.

So here's to all the people that made Michigan State University the best fucking university in the United States. Even the UMich kids that lost football games for us. And threw dildos at Sparty (really guys?) Everyone made every minute, every melt down, every tear, every all nighter worth it. So. #GoGreen #GoWhite 

And still. The best part? I managed to avoid stepping foot in Rick's for all four years.

Okay, good, great? Better.

It was recently brought to my attention that I use the word "okay" too often. Apparently I rarely use "good" or "great" or any combination of adjectives to describe either a feeling or a situation or what have you. I won't deny that accusation.

"Okay" was always the word that was the most fitting.

Things haven't really been "good" or "great" for a long while. My first year of college was pretty rough emotionally, and then my parents got divorced out of the gate for my sophomore year. It was then that I decided to subject myself to the terror of The State News. It was good for me, because I was unable to really stop and think about what my life was really like. I didn't have time to dwell.

That summer, and the year following, things slowed down pretty considerably. But it was still okay. I was okay. I had survived. I was older and supposedly wiser, but I didn't feel any better than "just okay."

Okay is acceptance, only satisfactory, not exceptional. Okay is approval. Okay doesn't necessarily mean change or anything great. It isn't an optimistic word, but for those of you that know me, I'm not necessarily an optimistic person. I take things as they are.

I saw a therapist as a junior. We talked once a week, and then once every other week. We talked about balancing my life, and letting go, and moving on. Every time we met he would ask me "How are you feeling today?"

My answer was typically 'okay.' Whether it's because my appointments were at 9 in the morning or because I truly was only accepting my life as it was, I couldn't say. But that was okay (see what I did there?).

I stopped going to a therapist for a while, and then the panic attacks started again senior year. I couldn't breathe. I thought I had pneumonia. I thought I was having a heart attack at 20. It lasted well over an hour.

Now, I'm no stranger to panic attacks. The sudden onset of "hey, ass hole, you're going to die" has been something I've been dealing with since high school. Just like a lot of other people.

After therapy, there were several months in between them. Senior year, they were happening every other day. I went back to group. I was on several different antidepressants and anti-anxiety pills. The first set made me worse. The second set made me feel a little better.

I've been on pills for, come August, almost a year. I'm not a person that's fond of being on medication for a long time, which is why I put it off for so long.

And it's also why, as of today, I'm no longer on medication.

School is over, I'm no longer working for a newspaper, I've let go of people that were causing me more damage than good, and I've accepted a lot of things in my life that I was previously unable to accept.

I've move past just mild acceptance of my current life. I'm looking to move forward.

I'm doing better.

I feel great.

For the "I'm not good enoughs"

If only I could stop measuring my worth

in the teaspoons of your approval.

In light of the recent Dove campaigns, and a bunch of conversations I've been having, and sort of the way I've been feeling lately, I wanted to talk about the ever-loathed subject of body image.

What? The skinny white girl that hasn't changed her hair length since she was born, supposedly doesn't care about what she wears, and only shaves when she absolutely has to? That's me, but that's me on the exterior.

On the exterior I'm always telling people how beautiful they look, how strong they are, how nothing is stopping them, that they're powerful individuals.

On the inside, I'm always telling myself that I'm average-looking at best, on my worst days I'm bordering on extremely unattractive. I'm telling myself that I'm weak, that I can only control myself with medication and alcohol. I'm telling myself that everything I do sucks, that I'm a "good-for-nothing."

I hate my body.

I hate my skin complexion and how I seem to always have acne on my face, and I hate the way my hair grows, and I hate the hair that covers my body and the way my legs move when I run, and I hate that I'm not actually in-shape enough to go running, and I hate the size of my boobs and the size of my feet and the scars on my knees.

There's just so much hatred.

Maybe society is constantly telling me I'm "not pretty enough" or "not good enough." 

But I'm also telling myself that.

A couple weeks ago I was involved on a conversation about "hot girls." The hot girls with big breasts and long blond hair. And I found myself thinking "Wow, I'm not good enough for him. My boobs aren't big enough, my hair isn't the right color, it's not long enough, I'm not tall enough."

My mind just kept saying "not enough, not enough" over and over and over again until I went home and cried while I showered, wondering who I would be enough for. If I would ever be enough for anyone, even myself.

The point that I'm trying to make is that there is no limit on hatred of yourself.

You don't have to be over a certain weight or under it.

You don't have to be x tall or boob-size z.

You don't need a certain skin or hair color to be disappointed with the way you look.

All you need is that one person to say "you're not good enough," and more times than not, it's yourself.

**

But no matter what you think of yourself, someone thinks you're beautiful. It's the little things that matter.

Every day I try to find one thing about myself that I can be happy with. Maybe my hair looks good. Maybe my butt looks really great in this dress. Maybe my bra actually makes it look like I have real boobs. Sometimes that's a lot easier said than done. Sometimes it works. 

Every day I try to tell someone they look great or beautiful, or that I love what they're doing. Because chances are, if they're like me, they're too busy telling themselves they look ugly or they're good-for-nothing to do it for themselves.

You have 21 days to confess your love to me.

But please don't actually do that if you don't want to.

As we once again approach my absolute favorite holiday of the year, let's take a moment to reflect upon why I actually hate Valentine's day.

And it isn't because I'm single.

The ever dreaded "single's awareness day," or my personal favorite "shallow attempt to buy affection day" is the essence of commercialization. This is ultimately the reason I don't care for it.

Don't get me wrong. I love a classic RomCom as much as the next person, and think Love Actually is probably one of the greatest movies, closely followed by Pride & Prejudice. I'm a hopeless romantic that dreams of maybe one day falling in love with the cute guy I see every day, or the secretly romantic guy that pretends not to have emotions, or the secret millionaire that has been promised away to his cousin. Okay, let's be real, I'm talking about a combination of Love Actually and P&P. I don't actually want any of these things (???).

The point that I'm trying to make, however, is that I don't hate love, or the idea of it. I hate the exploitation of such a sentiment, so that companies can make a shit-ton of money by raising the price of chocolate and roses for about a week.

I'm in favor of exactly one Valentine's day celebration with your significant other. Everyone should experience just one. Dinner and a movie and a bouquet of flowers. Some fancy restaurant. Rose petals and wine. Wander the streets naked, couldn't care less to be honest. Do something special that might be unforgettable. Do it once.

And then just stop. For the love of God.

Maybe it's that hopeless romantic in me, telling myself that "love is sacred" and should't be something that's bought or sold. Maybe I'm old fashioned.

But I'm right.

Setting aside one day as the day to say "I love you" is like setting aside one minute every now and then to say "hey, guess what lungs, you're breathing! Congrats!" If you love someone you don't need a calendar day to profess it.

As Bryan Adams (and every other love song) says, "When you love someone you'll feel it deep inside / And nothing else could ever change your mind / When you want someone, when you need someone / When you love someone..."

I don't need a fancy dinner or a ridiculously adorable date night to know I'm in a relationship with someone. All I need is to sit on the couch in a stolen sweater playing Call of Duty or watching Netflix all day. Being alone with someone that you care about, and someone that cares about you, is much better than a flashy thing surrounded by hundreds of other couples trying to somehow prove that they have the greatest love since not-Romeo-and-Juliet.

So if you don't feel like going out on Valentine's Day to be surrounded by hundreds of other couples, I'll steal one of your sweaters and play Call of Duty with you.

I'll even let you win.