I got deferred from my safety school, and it cracked all of my eggshells


Crying! Thumbs up!

I’m not quite sure where to start this one—perhaps the beginning would be best. But, I very frequently write on profile rubrics “don’t be afraid to start in the middle of the story,” and this—this loss, this defeat, this bruise—is the middle. 

Or the end. Or the beginning of the end. Or the start. 

I’m not too sure yet.

The true beginning of this tale, one of broken bones and bruised knees and borrowed oxygen, is so clouded, so foggy that I cannot even make out that road sign anymore. I don’t know how this all started, I don’t know where it all started, but I do know where I am right now. 

And it is deeper than rock bottom. It is defeat, it is bruised pride and shattered hope, it is cracked eggshells from tiptoeing across them for too long. It is the eggs cracking from my weight and me shattering from the world’s weight. 

I know I am six feet below rock bottom—I can see that. But I don’t know how I spiraled this far. I thought I was careful enough, light enough, to keep the eggshells that have been “supporting” me all these years intact, but the University of Oregon’s deferral proved otherwise. 

I opened the decision as my Eugene beanie hugged my curls that I’ll never be able to tame. I bought the hat shortly after I submitted my application all those months ago; I was excited, and I was hopeful, and I was ready—ready for the beginning. 

And now it seems that I’ve reached the end, and I feel stupid for even buying the hat and even worse for still wearing it. Because it was my safety school. My go-to in case nothing else worked out. And now it’s so far out of reach, farther than I ever imagined it to be.

I don’t know anything. I can’t envision a future anymore. I’m not sure if UO’s deferral propelled me to my climax or falling action or rising action, but whatever it is, I don’t think I want to be here. I don’t want to fall farther and farther below rock bottom that the way out is even more clouded than wherever this story takes place. 

I wish my story was a fairytale. I wish there was a happy ending. I wish it was as predictable as all the Disney movies where the Prince falls in love with the Princess. I wish there was a “The End” that tied everything up in a big red bow. 

If this is the end, where do I go after this? If this is the beginning, what else is there to come?

I’m not quite sure where to end this one, either—perhaps the end would be best.  But there is no grand finale, there is no happy ending, there is no “The End.” 

There’s just me, the cracked eggshells, the fog, and the bruises. 

And the deferral.