IT STARTED WITH A MISSING SPREADSHEET. A solitary missing Excel file that had me pulling my hair and pouting. The screen of my Dell was very unsympathetic as it glared back at me, and I began wishing with everything I had for that document.

I began wishing, but I didn’t stop there. I wished for more things, like perfect year round weather, wavy hair, more fluffy skirts, an alarm clock without a snooze button. I dreamed of confidence, motivation to finish school, determination to finish hanging the photos of my house. I hoped to one day have a custom blog layout, Photoshop and a nicer camera – or just better photography skills in general. I longed for the words to describe my life accurately, words that would enable readers to step into my shoes and see what I see, hear what I hear, feel what I feel.

It’s not so much feelings of inadequacy or unhappiness, because I’m confident in who I am and happy with how things are. It is simply just wanting to experience more out of life. I want to run, jump, dance, and sing when the mood hits me. I want to photograph and write about every single moment of this life. I don’t want to take the little things for granted.

And I’ll admit. I have a phrase that is mine.

Yes mine.

I Googled it.

And it is,

{If wishes were fishes, I’d need a bigger fish bowl}

It’s true you know. I could fill up an entire ten gallon tank with the aspirations I have for my family and friends alone. But it was in that moment when I was longing the most, the moment when my heart almost hurt with desire for all those dreams to come true, that I realized all I had to do was one of two things:

Invest in particular fish – as fish will grow to the size of the tank when given room.

Or…

Buy a bigger fish bowl.

Me? I think I’ll do both.

CIGARETTE SMOKE TWIRLED IN SMALL TENDRILS TOWARDS THE SKY as I walked through the campus today. Of course, it’s just my luck to unknowingly pick the smokers section to sit down and rest. I’d only walked fifty yards and yet it’s surprising just how heavy a backpack can seem after having my shoulders be free of it for the last four years. I sighed, picking up my weary body from my bench and plopping down on the grass, far away from those who actively wish for black lungs. Waiting for my class to start, with no materials for entertainment, I began to ponder all that I’d gathered in the past twenty-four hours about higher education.

You know, college had a stigma to me. And that stigma was exactly what you see in movies -  that you walk into a class, get totally and utterly lost in the coursework, pull a few late nighters, wreck your car, get robbed, and then go into class late without your assignment and get ridiculed. I imagined, to my horror, walking into a class full of 300 students and made to sing “I’m a Little Tea Pot” while the teacher wallops me repeatedly in the back of the head with a ruler.

It was nothing like that.

College is…unexplicable. It feels like high school, except nobody cares about status. Of course, there are still the obnoxious jocks, prissy California girls that only talk about the O.C., nerds with perfect glasses and well spoken retorts, surfer bums (in Utah? Oh yes. Wanna be surfers) that have hair longer than me and say “Heeey!” and “What’s UP dude?” like it is some secret surfers code, and then there is me.

Me. The first girl to class, the quiet one that walks with my head down to avoid having to make eye contact with everyone. The preppy that has all the books, and has the whole syllabus read before the teacher utters a single sound. Me, with my pink calculator and black notebooks and brightly colored highlighters.

Me, who all the sudden is realizing that I’m still the same person I used to be in high school. To my pleasant surprise, I can still ask a question, take notes, be on time. I can still memorize and analyze and hypothesize. I can still quote and retort and solve. I still have the potential to be the preppy with a 3.97 GPA. I’m just glad that I didn’t get placed back into Elementary all over again, as I’ve seen in my dreams over and over for the past few months.

The main difference from High School to College is that here I am on my own, 100%. And surprisingly? I’m okay with that.

Oh, and there’s that slight difference of me killing my out-fashioned bangs sometime between then and now. Remind me to show you a photo of them sometime, they are an absolute RIOT.

I PRAYED LAST NIGHT.

Hard.

I prayed for a few things. That college would go well, that I’d know which career route to take, that I’d know if the price is too high to pay, and that my tooth would stop hurting. I prayed for my sisters’ forgiveness for recent disagreements, although I refuse to ask for it. I prayed for confidence, strength, everything I don’t feel worthy of but selfishly ask for anyway.

And I realized.

I am loved.

And I am blessed.

I am blessed to be surrounded by many people who stand by my decision no matter what. I am blessed to have so many people who love me, who are so many shining examples to look up to. I am blessed to live in America, with the ability and means to provide for myself and create the type of person that I want to become.

I’m thankful.

So, so very thankful to each and every single one of you who has mentally, spiritually, emotionally and even physically helped me to pursue my dreams. You know who you are. Thank you from the bottom of my humble little heart. It is because of you that I was able to walk into college today – on D-day, my first day, the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning – with my head held high and a confident bounce in my step.

I’ve survived day one of college, and I’m not turning back.

I WAS SITTING IN SURGERY, electrodes strapped to my chest, listening to my strong steady heartbeat and wondering what would come next. What about this would I remember? The tightening elastic tourniquet on my arm where they placed the IV? The vibrant pink safety glasses the assistant was wearing? Would I know where I was when I woke up?

As I though this, I became aware of a painful prick in my arm where the needle was being placed. They put oxygen over my nose, completely covered my face with warm towels and told me I’d just go to sleep. The next thing I knew, I was awake. Groggy, but aware of what was going on around me. The tools had all been cleaned up and hidden, the doctor was gone and there was only a nurse in the room. I glanced to the corner and found my mother sitting there waiting. I smiled at her, remembering back to the time I had my tonsils out and couldn’t keep myself awake. Not this time, I thought to myself. I started feeling the drugs pull me back under and shook myself awake. “Sorry,” I mumbled to the room in general.

I don’t remember being put in the wheelchair.

I hardly remember climbing into mom’s car for the home. I fell asleep after being dropped off at home, and woke up to her giving me my pills. I had a good cry about nothing and drifted off again.

Now I’m awake, and answering questions.

Dustyn’s Questions:

Did you have any wierd thoughts or hallucinations while go under or coming out of your fun time in the chair?
The only thing I remember is the pain of the IV, and the fact that I was sleepy. There was no countdown to 100, no warning, just a sudden blackout. Thankfully it was peaceful, I didn’t wake up mid surgery and I don’t think I had a weird dream. Everything afterwards was kind of slow motion, like I was watching things through a lens. I could hear what people say, hear what I would respond but I couldn’t change anything. It was like life on Replay. Completely weird.
What was your last dream?
One where I was late for a family function because of my mouth not healing. I have odd dreams that I hardly remember.
Most embarrassing moment?
Ever? I have way too many. Just to name one: It was my first day of high school, and I had elected to take German. The classroom was scary, dingy and dark. The teacher was loud, boisterous, and obviously not the type to just leave a scared freshmen alone. He was teaching us our first word, right off the bat: hell.

You see, hell in German means light. To properly pronounce it, you say Hell-ah. He chose me to say it first, and what did I say? You guessed it. HELL. Not light. Hell.
Whats the best part of your job? and the worst?
I like to put the worst first and save the best for last! The worst part is when I’m frustrated and have a mental block when learning something new. The best part of my job is when I hit a goal, or achieve something.

So there you have it, there is my account of the surgery itself, and what was going through my head. Thanks for the questions Dustyn!