A couple years ago, I met this girl, Buni, and she told me a little about her story.
***
So, I guess this is as good as a time as any to start.
I’m Milli. And I got quite the story for ya.
I’ve been paralyzed from the waist down. For uh let’s see here. 7 years now.
Was pulling some weird Influencer stunt. Had to model a mini skirt. And well, my hips just don’t move like they did when I was 22. At 22, I was not married to someone who disrupted my work. I had various side hustles to manage in the interim.
See, I guess dreaming big can be quite paralyzing kids…. Okay, lame joke. I’m sure some twisted fuck out there laughed. But seriously though. I wanted to do big things. I was passionate about advancing medicine, propelling science forward, clinical care, theorizing next best steps for targeting our inflammatory system…but I also loved writing, mysteries, scary stories, true crime, chilling detective reads…I was 29 years old when I started writing this. Ever been waiting for dinner at a restaurant, only for couples and groups with children, to file ahead? Yeah, kinda feels like that. Quite frankly, I’ve assisted friends and colleagues with their admissions essays, how to frame themselves to admittance committees. But me? I couldn’t get in. And I wasn’t about to suck anyone’s dick for it. Or check an undeserving DEI box. Trust me, after being denied from vet school for 5 years in a row (yeah, holy shit, what dumbass goes that long…)
Like…I could have applied to other professional programs alongside veterinary college. As they say, there’s more than one way to skin a cat (pun definitely intended).
Weird tangent…Kevin Hart’s Tom Brady Roast? It was pretty good. Nikki Glaser fucking killed it. Stole the show. Swept em. That was the funniest shit. “They only time he’s ever made a girl wet is when she had to go roll em back in the ocean!” Dude, on point. This guy…yeah, he has to be like “I look like a creature, so let me make money off it.” That’s respectable. Because goddamn was, she on the money. Funny as hell. Anywho, Kevin announced early on in the set that he would randomly interject with zestful, “Fuck you, Tom!”
And it had a great effect. He’d say something so intricate. Start describing a roast so vicious, so dangerously hot that you were cringing at the panoramic shots of the audience. But you were entrenched. You had to know what was coming next. What the ultimate burn was. And then he’d say it. The audience would roar. Then, a casual, “and yeah! Fuck you, Tom!” Like really, stuck it there.
I need a Tom I can really stick it to. Where I can get real heated, and passionate. Fingers in a fucking frenzy as I type this shit out. And then I have my gnarly scapegoat, Tom. Oh wait…scapegoat. LOL. That’s funny. Okay, yeah, we’re gonna stick with Tom.
Going back to what feels like my entire identity, I face the failure to achieve a respectable degree of acceptance. This challenge is present in both the professional and societal aspects of my existence. I don’t want to live an ordinary life. I never have. I have always wanted to do something fulfilling. I want to be the expert at my craft or in my particular field of study. Word on the street would be to, “ask Buni.” Now, that would be cool. And I’d dedicate everything for it, man. I really would. But yeah, personal fulfillment seems to be just out of reach. Feels like others have it figured out though. You guys know how it feels to be applying to a program alongside your what-is-now sister-in-law? She finished school and was working as a dentist. Then I received my 5th and final denial letter from vet school. That’s fucking rough. Some of you might think, “oh who cares, it’s your own path.” That’s right. You’re absolutely right. It is my own path. But don’t think for a second that being denied an opportunity time and time again feels justified. There’s grieving involved. But not for me. I couldn’t grieve. Cry and scream and yell for a good day or two. Then it had to be figuring out next steps. God…
I feel like telling my story will end up being cathartic for me. But I think I’ll need a cigarette in one hand and tequila in the other. Hell…make it a Midori sour, I’m too much of a bitch.
Yeah, fuck you, Tom!
Okay. I can’t go on. Ever see those true crime interviews where they show candid footage? You know, footage of people sipping water, adjusting, making weird comments, and possibly smelling their farts? Well, yeah. That’s the tone that’s going on right now. I’m having a moment.
I lay here with my head on the pillow, sleeping right next to my husband. He looks so peaceful. Our Main Coon meanwhile is purring furiously, smearing his gums across my laptop. Now, that’s love.
Our Beagle is all nestled next to her Dad. Ugh, such a daddy’s girl.
And the other cat…not sure where he is. But someone just took a shit in the litter robot so that was likely him.
Anywho…
I have always loved writing. But can’t make a living as a straight up author, right? Well – sure you can. But few are able. Or so, that’s what we hear. “Don’t quit your day-job. You won’t be the next Stephen King or James Patterson.”
Crime stories were my jam. Loved that shit. Wrote detective mysteries as a kid. Literally consumed the entire Nancy Drew Series in the 3rd grade. It was my shiiiiiiit. But like, then real life happens and yeah, I was colloquially labeled as “good at writing” (though you’re probably reading this now like, yeah right dude), *then put it down…bet you won’t*
Well, the assumption was always medical.
DOCTOR.
Be a DOCTOR.
Oh. BUNI. Future Dr. Collmann
Oh yeah…my name isn’t Milli. Though that’s pretty cute, right? My best friend’s daughter’s name. And I’m not physically paralyzed. Though, to be fair, I never claimed any specific domain of disability or handicap. I don’t even think that’s a politically correct word anymore. Oh, for Christ sakes.
My whole thing in all this is that I was trying to come up with a story. And I left it. Right there, just like 400 words ago, for you all to read. I wanted to tell my story but through the lens of a fictional character. Like I’m too goddamned ashamed to claim this story as my own.
Well, you know what, fuck it.
I’m laying it out there.
As I lay here with my family (the fuck knows where the other cat is), I have always stated I am unwavering in my values.
I value honesty, integrity, and diligence.
Now these first two may sound redundant and quite honestly, very lame. But if you stand back for a sec and think about what those words actually represent…envision the most honest person you’ve ever met…or that person you had in your last job or team that took accountabilities for all their actions, good and bad, and strived to learn from them. And lastly, think about the individual you have in your life that never gives up. No matter how many times they come running back to the corner of the boxing ring, all bloodied, ready to dismiss your worried expression in exchange for retaping their knuckles.
Those three characteristics, adjectives, if you will, are what I place my highest value in. I don’t want to live an inauthentic life. So, for starters, I gotta be me. And that’s Buni (believe it or not – and yes, we will get to that – obviously – you think I’m gonna let that shit dangle around and not embellish?? Honestly.)
Here is the thing.
My name is Buni. But not really.
I am typing this somewhat emotionally paralyzed.
I have been rejected to graduate school on 17 different occasions.
And I am still kinda doubting whether or not I should do this.
But people want the real shit, right?
Well, what if I put myself out there, and I’ve written all this like traumatic ass shit and you guys are like, “damn…cool story bruh, but like, where’s the happy ending? Where do you find fulfillment? Where do you check off all your boxes of fancy values? Are we ever going to find out?
I don’t know. But if I succeed, you’ll know it. And if I reach the end of telling my story – or where I find a sufficient time to draw a conclusion, you’ll know if I failed.
I can tell you one thing. I’m gonna do my best.
So, no fake shit. Only the real kind.
Okay. I wanted to be a doctor. Or so, that’s what was glamorized before me. I don’t think it was my parents’ fault though (insert shrugging shoulders emoji) – cause I really don’t know! I have tried to give them the benefit of the doubt with this but…if the word DOCTOR could be bolded, italicized, and underlined…oh, and in all caps, it would have been.
Oh wait…it can. And it was.
Who knows, maybe I will still achieve this. It’s not out of the realm of possibilities. I do have a genuine passion for science and medicine. Propelling clinical health forward…research…but like, I never geeked out about it like I did writing. At least, not when I was little.
When I was little, science was intimidating. I was good at it. But for some reason, I remember science and math being such scary classes. My dad was a field service representative for Boeing helicopters for 35 years. He took great pride in this career. And as he should. He made numerous, critical innovations for improving the safety, efficiency, and efficacy of the electrical systems of the military aircraft Boeing supported. The pressure to do well in science and math was as big as any. Because those were dad’s strong subjects. And then you had the artsy fartsy stuff. Like writing and drawing (drawing is actually such a devastation for me…as well as singing and soccer…oh God, I could go on. But no. it is. I drew a cow for my mom once, cause she loves cows, and its knees look busted in. Mind you, the shading alone took 3 hours. Sound like fucking napoleon dynamite and his liger picture with that story but what the fuck ever).
Right, so yeah. Drawing is a definite no. But who was good at that stuff?? Ding ding ding! We have a winner! Mom!
This is great, my parents are super talented people.
They know it. I know it. My brother knows it.
I don’t know about my brother, but I felt like I had to be the best at everything. Everything.
Except drawing. And singing. And soccer. And let’s add cooking to that list. Actually, if I try at cooking, I am good at it. An infinite number of hours in the day couldn’t make me nearly qualified to exist within the realm of a participation trophy at the other things…
I wanted to be good at math, science, reading, writing, (and of course all the other things). Then there is the immeasurable pressure of potential.
Ugh, that word. Fucking sickening. Cause when you think of potential. Wow, parents got a lot of great, bullshitty stuff to say to their kids. Or so I thought. And still think.
And if you read this and think I’m being too pessimistic, think about all the goody-goody gumdrop scenes of what kids want to be when they grow up:
An astronaut
A cowboy
An officer
A doctor
A veterinarian
An engineer
I read over that list, and I love how the two most unlikely things were listed first…can we saying priming??? (it’s a psych term, google it). At any rate, it goes to show that we are just so pressured, even when we are stone cold loser children, to dream big and be anything.
But could there be potentially harm in this? I mean, someone has to do the other jobs. The little jobs. And those jobs have to be done well. Or everything else collapses. Kind of like it is… (that is not actual irony you’re feeling).
Before, I wanted to write this fictional story about a girl named Milli who endured seemingly endless trials and tribulations before reaching her goals. Meeting her values. Feeling fulfilled. Reaching bliss. But that would require a little bit of scheming on my end. See, I can do 1st person fiction…it’s just…I wanted Milli to be me. And while that is totally fine, there shouldn’t be a reason to create any other story, for at least this moment in time. It felt like mine was the most important to tell. I am the one who hasn’t reached my goals. And I am 29. I am behind my professional curve. And I am struggling with it. And while 29 may not seem like a lot to the ‘Nam Vets out there (thank you, by the way), it’s been filled with a lot of rejection, hate, and vile people. I have friends and family that applied to their respective graduate school in the same year as me, already graduated, been working, and some even opening their own practice. And I have been denied 7 years in a row.
Just in case you don’t have a heart and lack empathy and should probably seek counsel because that could be indicative of a bigger problem…IT FUCKING SUCKS.
But I don’t want this book to be a woes me story.
There’s a lot of those. Because the world kinda sucks.
I read a quote the other day “Life can be a dick – it gets hard for no reason” and I nearly screamed. Loved it. The imagery, the symbolism, the Americana…what a line. But it’s true. And that’s why we have these rags to riches stories. I want to tell mine, in real time. I’m in my coping stage. To check off one box, honesty, I was denied from a PhD program as recently as well, today. So, what a nice little sprinkle of fodder the universe did for me, eh? Give me a sad event, I’ll give you a sad story. But no. That’s not it.
However, you wanna phrase this shit, I’m trying to trust the ugly metamorphosis process. That’s why I’m broke, it’s past midnight on a Tuesday night, and my freakin neck hurts. Maybe Milli would have her time someplace else. Hell, she could be a detective one day. Kids do dream big, ya know.
