The College Dropout
My college experience was the stuff of legends. On any given night, you could find me wrapped in a half-assed costume that couldn’t quite be considered clothing, throwing back shots of Cherry Kamchatka (or when times were rough, Grape Kamchatka). My memories of warm weather are dusted with baby pools full of jungle juice, jumbo-sized water slides, frat boys with my sorority’s Greek letters shaved into their chest hair and day drinking. Lots and lots of day drinking.
If you peruse my Facebook photo albums from the years of 2005–2009, it would appear that I was living the high life. Polo shirts with the collar popped, crowds of people in a field decked out in cream and crimson at 6 a.m. on a Saturday, sporting neon-rimmed Wayfarers and sweatbands, beer bongs hanging around their necks. We stood on bars and shouted Journey lyrics at the top of our lungs until our voices gave out, we went on bar crawls where we amassed points for giving strangers lap dances, we stuffed pillows under tank tops to appear pregnant for theme parties where we shotgunned beers and slammed shots. BET vs. CMT. ABC (Anything But Clothes). Rave. ’80s Night. Golf Pros and Tennis Hoes. CEOs and Office Hoes. Something that rhymed with hoes and More Hoes.
I lost my virginity the night of a toga party my sophomore year and skedaddled the fuck out of the fratboy’s house the next morning, before he woke up. (It turned out he had a girlfriend. We never spoke again). I walked home two miles, across the stadium parking lot. The next day, there was a mention of my morning after toga-escapade in the student newspaper. Once, I tried to climb a fence to get into a sporting event because I’d forgotten my ticket and was too drunk to walk all the home and back by myself. I ripped my shorts to shreds, fell over the fence and experienced no shame in cheering from the stands in a pair of tattered shorts that showed you exactly what kind of underwear I preferred. I was blacking out on a regular basis before I even hit 21.
And the truth? I was fucking miserable.
Like many other good girl gone awry stories, I filled my deep crevasse of depression with booze, boys and waking up in strange beds. I didn’t know who I was. I aligned myself with my Greek letters. I found sisterhood in my sorority. I latched onto extracurricular activities. I cried a lot. I avoided admitting my true feelings to anyone as much as humanly possible. Although I had friends, a life that would ignite envy in a certain demographic, an iPhone full of cute, fratty contacts, good grades, a ridiculous good time party girl lifestyle, a scintillating albeit shamble-y surface — I was deeply, deeply unhappy.
My parents began splitting up when I was a senior in high school, but their divorce didn’t finalize until my junior year of college. Those four years were hell for my family, and in a time where most families would be coming together to send their first child off to college, we were falling apart. My mother became a shell of herself. My stepfather slowly but surely began disappearing from our lives. My brothers floundered in their own ways. I grew up, completely, 100% privileged. I had no idea what it took to put a child through college. I didn’t know how student loans worked. I knew nothing. So, when it came time to foot the tuition bill my senior year, after the divorce was finalized, I was so deep in my paralysis, so lost in my depression, that I didn’t do anything at all. I didn’t contact my stepfather to see where we’d left off. I didn’t ask my mom for help. I felt guilty asking for anything at all. So, I did what anyone in complete denial would: I moved back into my sorority house. I went back to my comfort zone. I registered for classes, knowing I no longer had anyone to co-sign my student loans, knowing I didn’t have a plan. But I told myself I would make it happen. I would figure something out.
Spoiler alert: I never did.
I tried making an appointment with one of the school counselors early on — not only to discuss my lack of a financial plan, but to discuss how I felt like I was drowning. How fantastic I’d become at faking it, how I had almost everyone fooled. Sometimes, I could even fool myself. The morning of my appointment, the counselor called and cancelled. I took it as a sign from the universe. A big ol’ middle finger courtesy of some brand of wicked karma that wanted me to be miserable forever. I fell even further. I took the life I had fucked up and I fucked it up even further. Eventually, people began to catch on. While nobody fully realized the magnitude of my demons, people were wise enough to figure out that I was no longer myself. Three of my friends confronted me about it, a few days before finals week. I lied for as long as I could, and after the truth came out, I went home, crawled into bed and slept for as long as I could. My mother and her new beau came to pick me up a day later, rescuing me from the mess I’d created.
For the next three years, I fell into a wicked cycle of shame-induced fuck-ups. I saw a therapist on and off. I waited tables. I attempted to fill my emptiness with material goods, which led me into an even deeper hole. In early 2013, I hit an especially dark time in my life. Since then, I’ve been working tirelessly to get my shit together. I saw a therapist once a week for a year. I practiced honesty. I purged my life of everything that triggered unhappiness. I learned that recovering from monumental fuck-ups is not a one time thing. It is a choice that you have to make, every day. It’s a choice I made this morning. It’s a choice I will make tomorrow morning. To drag my ass out of bed in the morning, and do the things I’m supposed to do. Even the things I don’t want to do. Especially the things you don’t want to do (i.e. paying my taxes on time, paying for a healthcare plan, dressing appropriately for work, going to work, actively participating in Excel spreadsheets that I think might be the death of me, etc.). Being a successful human being means doing the things you’re supposed to do. And let me tell you a secret: When I cross those dreaded things off of my to-do list? I feel like a million dollars.
Want to know what else makes me feel like a million dollars? Making a plan to go back to school and finish my degree. I’ve finally reached a point in my life where I’m ready. I’m ready to return to the place where it all started, to the place that holds so many epic memories, and some really terrible memories too. I’ve let go of the stigma of going back to finish an undergraduate degree at 27 years old. Because going back to finish what I started is important to me. I’ve realized that my friends who are worth their salt will cheer me on when I go back, and not judge me for taking this long to do it. Maybe they’ll even join me in my Biggie inspired mantra I’ve invented for myself: I’m going back, back, to, to, college, college.
After hitting rock bottom more than a few times, I’ve learned that nobody can save you except for yourself. People can pull you out of your hole, they can lend you a hand to pull you from the darkness, but you can’t really stand in the sun until you want to stand in the sun. Resilience is a choice. It’s a choice you wake up and make every day. It is a choice that says, I am more than my past. I am more than the things I have done, and I believe that I have the power to create a better future for myself. I believe that I can bounce back. Today, and every day. Fuck yes, I’m resilient. I’m resilient as hell. And so are you. We all are. Even if it takes some of us a little bit longer to believe it.
